‘Oh, well, if they’re your father’s . . . You know, George rarely talks about him.’ Rachael surveyed the dusty room with distaste. ‘Not that I blame him. I imagine it’s quite awkward having something like that happen.’
‘Awkward?’ Madeleine flicked angrily at the mouse droppings stuck to her leg. Rachael had made similar comments in the past, and each one had stung Madeleine.
‘Nothing. I didn’t mean to offend.’
‘My father had a mental-health problem, Rachael,’ Madeleine snapped. ‘Untroubled people don’t walk into a dam with a rifle and shoot themselves after they’ve been working in the sheep yards with their kids.’
‘Of course,’ she soothed.
A few seconds later Rachael’s footsteps sounded on the veranda and the gauze door clicked shut. Madeleine tried to remind herself that Rachael couldn’t help her scratchy personality, a trait that may have been less obvious if the woman had something to fill the hours. Overseeing sporadic renovations was hardly a full-time occupation for the former primary-school teacher whose pre-marital life had revolved around a busy calendar thanks to her prominent family. In some respects Madeleine could understand her sister-in-law’s enthusiasm for a David Harrow retrospective. Such an event fitted with Rachael’s idea of acceptable pastimes for a grazier’s wife and, apart from giving her an instant role to play, held the possibility of pushing her into the local limelight if the proposed plans for the district events and Sunset Ridge ever came to fruition.
Alone, Madeleine retrieved the secreted invoice. Some artists had work-in-progress titles that were occasionally changed to suit the commissioner of the work once completed, meaning there was a chance that these two paintings from 1918 were already accounted for. Madeleine sucked in her breath. There was also the chance that they were new, unknown works. Tracking them down would be akin to winning the lottery. It was then that she realised that something wasn’t right. Glancing at the invoices, she closed the lid of the trunk and sat on it. These were the original invoices, not carbon copies. If her grandfather had been owed money for two commissioned works of art, why hadn’t he sent the accounts?
Chessy farmhouse, ten miles from Saint-Omer, northern France
September 1916
Madame Chessy served up eggs, chips and a little cured ham and poured three glasses of wine. Despite her best efforts she was continually drawn to the space beneath the window where the twins’ equipment was stacked. There were forage caps, canteens, steel scabbards with bayonets, knapsacks and, to her surprise, the same make of rifle her beloved Marcel had complained of in one of his letters home. Joining her sons at the table, she pointed to where their rifles leaned against the wall.
‘I am surprised they have issued you with the Lebel,’ she said.
Francois and Antoine paused in their eating. They were stiffly correct in their new pale blue uniforms, as if the donning of them and their subsequent weeks of training had changed them to men overnight. Beneath their feet Roland slept; stretched out, he matched the length of the table.
‘I have already seen one man off to war from this household. Your father said the Lebel was unreliable. It’s old, you know, from the 1880s.’
Francois swallowed his egg. Antoine stopped eating.
‘There is a newer make and model. You should ask for it when you get to . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she reached for her glass. As yet they had no idea where they were to be sent. The wine calmed her and she poured another. ‘At least the uniform has been altered. Sending your father off in those ridiculous bright red trousers and kepi cap.’ She blew through her front teeth. ‘That was the highest form of stupidity.’
Francois and Antoine stared at their plates.
‘Eat, eat,’ their mother cajoled. ‘I’ll not send you off on empty stomachs.’
The twins sipped at their wine, and mopped at their plates with bread. Having arrived home hungry yet excited after weeks of training, they were on their second cooked meal of the day – a luxury in these times.
Madame Chessy kept the sadness from her words. ‘You will write when you know where you are headed?’
‘Of course, Mama,’ Francois promised. ‘We’re not sure but we have heard whispers of new engagements along the Somme River, and the officers we trained with spoke of Verdun.’
The widow stared hard at her eldest. ‘What of Verdun? I thought those rumours were nonsense.’
Francois shrugged. ‘The Germans took one of the forts there earlier in the year. We have been fighting them ever since.’
‘Verdun.’ Madame Chessy closed her eyes briefly. ‘I don’t believe it. It’s protected by a ring of forts. Even Attila the Hun couldn’t seize it. It has always been –’ she searched for the right word, ‘secure.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Verdun guards the northern entrance to Champagne . . . to Paris.’ Her two boys remained blank-faced. Her fist hit the table. ‘Do you not realise what this could mean?’
The twins were clearly startled by the passion in her voice.
‘I’m sorry.’ She shook away the image in her mind of the Germans marching on Paris. Her boys would leave her in the early hours of the morning. ‘I have bread and cheese for you to take; a little food to keep the hunger at bay while you march. And I have left extra socks on the dresser. Your father always said he needed socks.’ Madame Chessy tried to think of conversation that would steer them away from the subject of war, but always her mind returned to it. ‘You should take your woollen scarfs too. The rains will come, I feel it in my bones, and then it will soon be winter –’
Antoine stilled her nervous chatter, placing his hand over hers. ‘We will be fine, Mama.’
‘Of course you will,’ she answered. Ever since the boys’ return from the village that August afternoon she had dreamed of their leaving, as if in the premeditated grieving she would find the pain dulled when the day of their departure arrived. It had made no difference. If anything, the terrible throbbing in her chest had been partnered with anger. Francois and Antoine had forged her signature of consent when she had refused their request to join the French army, and she truly believed that if she ever met the French officer who allowed her under-age boys to enlist she would kill him with her bare hands. Of course she could have complained and had the enlistment orders rescinded, but she would rather they went into battle with her blessing, than to run away or depart estranged.
‘Lisette will be here tomorrow, Mama,’ Francois reminded his mother. ‘Don’t be too hard on her.’
‘Yes, yes, little Lisette. We shall be good friends, she and I, so you boys need not worry.’
The arrangements had been finalised a fortnight ago, Monsieur Crotet happily agreeing to his daughter’s employment on the Chessy farm as well as acting as a companion to the widow. In return she would sleep and eat at the farmhouse five days a week, returning to her home on weekends.
‘And, of course, you have Roland,’ Antoine added.
At his name the dog stretched out a leg, knocking the kitchen table and clattering plates, cutlery and spilling wine.
‘Yes,’ their mother agreed. ‘I have Roland.’
It was still dark when Francois and Antoine rose from their beds. They dressed by candlelight, gathering their equipment together as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Their mother could only watch. The time had come to stop fussing over them. They were young men going off to war, so despite her desperate need to hug them soundly and beg them to be careful, she made them coffee and fed them warm bread fresh from the oven. Roland observed this unusual night-time activity with obvious unease. He whined and whimpered, stalking the flagstone floor in a continuous circle until the hen in her straw-filled box fluffed her wings at him on passing. He gave a low growl but moved to the farmhouse door and sat directly in front of it.
‘It’s time, Mama.’ Francois kissed both her cheeks, held her shoulders tightly. ‘You will take care of you
rself?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, kissing him back. ‘And you,’ she tugged gently on Antoine’s ear, ‘behave yourself and don’t get your brother into trouble.’
Antoine grinned and hugged his mother fiercely. ‘We will be back.’
The boys patted and hugged Roland, who began to howl uncontrollably.
Their mother knelt by the moaning dog’s side. ‘Go,’ she told her two boys, ‘and shut the door quickly.’ They blew her kisses and were gone.
The moment the farmhouse door slammed shut, Roland again sat directly in front of it, one paw on the timber just beneath the knob. The kitchen grew eerily quiet. Madame Chessy backed away from both dog and door and turned to the stove-plate where the coffee warmed. With shaking hands she poured a cup and then sat heavily at the table. Tears welled quickly and she let them fall unrestrained. It was better to cry the pain out, she decided, gripping the edge of the table. Her knuckles whitened under the pressure and, as her salty tears spread in damp circles on her lap, she tightened her grasp on the ancient wood.
The memories flooded in: the twins in their crib; tumbling in the grass; playing hide-and-seek in the barn; Francois’ first fish; Antoine’s fall from the birch tree behind the farmhouse. When the ache in her fingers grew too painful to bear she released her grip. A pale dawn light suffused the farmhouse. Her eyes were dry and the words she wished she had shared with her two boys remained unspoken.
The dog had not moved. The coffee was cold and gritty on her tongue. She thought briefly of the past, five years ago, two years ago, six months, two weeks. So much was altered. She wanted wine and she wanted it to be summer again. She wanted so many things that were impossible to have that her life suddenly felt narrow and empty. But it wasn’t, of course, she told herself. She had a farm to run, a new help-mate arriving this morning and she needed to believe that the war would be over soon and that her boys would return.
Leaving his position by the door, Roland jumped up onto the chair opposite where she sat.
‘And you, Roland, what do you think of this sorry state we find ourselves in?’
The dog swivelled his head towards the door and then fixed his steady gaze on her, his head cocked to one side.
There was something about the way he regarded her, about the way his dark eyes glittered that cleared the remnants of self-pity from her mind. ‘You don’t belong here with me, Roland.’ The words were uttered without thinking yet she knew them to be true.
The dog gave a whimper.
She rose wearily and ran her hand down the length of the dog’s spine, ruffled the lank hair between his ears. Although loath to let him go, intuition told her otherwise. When she opened the farmhouse door Roland bounded from the chair, shaking his rangy body. A clean-dog smell mixed with the fresh morning breeze. He paused to lick her hand before walking outside. She followed him, breathing in her changed circumstances. Everything looked and felt different and now, just when she thought there was nothing else to lose, the stirrings of misery welled up at the thought of Roland leaving.
The dog glanced over his shoulder towards his mistress.
‘Look after them, Roland. Look after my boys.’
The great animal gave a single bark and then ran across the clearing, down the soft slope of the ridge and jumped the stream.
Banyan Show, south-west Queensland, Australia
September 1916
Opening the drawstring pouch, Luther poured the marbles into his palm. A single glass ball stood out amid the imperfect spheres of the clay old timeys. He tossed the ball upwards, catching it with a determined swipe as snippets of laughter floated across the showground.
‘What are you doing with marbles?’ Thaddeus asked. He was due to meet Harold outside the tent of the bearded lady in twenty minutes, but he knew that Luther was up to something – he just hadn’t worked out what. He raised a querying eyebrow as his brother scrutinised the oxblood in his hand, the streaky patch inside it resembling blood as he rolled the marble around his palm with a grubby index finger. ‘Well?’
Slipping the marble into his pocket, Luther turned to the small crowd that had gathered through the showground fence. Beyond the milling kids and teenagers in their short pants and skirts was a circle drawn in the red dust. Thaddeus pictured the girl. She was in there, right in the middle.
‘Shouldn’t you be with Father in th-the sheep p-pavilion, l-looking at th-the other entries?’ Luther reminded him.
Thaddeus scowled. As the eldest, his presence was expected at anything remotely connected to the property. Unfortunately the fleece competition paled into insignificance now his thoughts were centred on the girl at the marbles game, a situation complicated not only by what was undoubtedly another of Luther’s hair-brained schemes, but also by the imminent arrival of Miss Meredith Bantam, who was coming to stay at Sunset Ridge. With his mother talking about the importance of the right connections and a young man’s future, Thaddeus was feeling decidedly like a cull sheep readying to have its throat cut.
Dave appeared around the corner of the pavilion, a sketchbook under one arm. ‘Did you hear the news?’ he panted heavily. ‘They bought the piano.’
‘You’re not meant to be running,’ Thaddeus scolded, ‘or sketching that modern stuff anymore,’ he said pointedly.
‘Mother said that your Miss Bantam would be needing entertainments,’ Dave grinned.
‘She’s not my Miss Bantam,’ Thaddeus argued.
‘Well, I think a piano is a good thing,’ Dave continued. ‘Anyway, Harold said he would meet you at the marbles, Thaddeus.’ As he spoke, a chorus of yells carried from the direction of the marbles game.
‘Great.’ Thaddeus scrunched the bearded-lady flyer into a ball. Every year at the show it was the same: he and Harold could stay away for a little while, however eventually they found themselves back at the marbles ring. Although they had never discussed the reason for their semi-avoidance of the marbles championship, Thaddeus knew that it went beyond being beaten by a slip of a girl some years ago.
The three of them walked across the dusty ground to where Harold stood on the periphery of the marbles game. Twenty children were gathered in a tight circle. Some of the older boys were taking bets. Two children visiting relatives in the district made the mistake of wagering their marbles against the reigning champion.
‘Of course you won’t lose,’ a red-headed boy argued, pocketing hard candy. ‘She’s a girl.’
The girl in question emerged from a cluster of admirers and looked with bemusement at the crowd. Short and slight, her long hair was a glossy blonde accentuating berry-brown skin and snow-white teeth. Hitching up a ragged pair of overalls, she spat on the ground for luck. A murmur rose through the crowd as Corally Shaw lay flat in the dirt and rested her filthy knuckles on the ground. During a split second of silence she flicked at her marble with a steady thumb. The ball hit the glass swirly dead on. Her opponent stamped his foot. The two visiting kids were quickly relieved of their candy.
‘Killed!’ Corally yelled in a clear, bright voice, pumping her fist skywards.
Harold punched Thaddeus lightly on the shoulder on arrival. ‘Isn’t she something? She’s fourteen now and nearly grown.’
Thaddeus watched as Corally plaited her long hair into a single braid that fell over a shoulder. His breath caught. ‘She’s a baby,’ he answered casually.
Harold hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s different for you.’
‘Different? What are you talking about?’ Thaddeus could tell when something was eating at his mate.
‘Well, your parents have that Miss Bantam from a good landed family in mind for you. Me, I don’t have a lot to choose from.’
Thaddeus felt a streak of something akin to nervousness rush through him. ‘I’ve got no interest in Miss Bantam.’
Harold clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Mate, it’s not up to you. If your parents
and her parents reckon you two are a good match, that’ll be it. And you never know, she could be a looker.’
‘I doubt it.’ Across the milling spectators Corally was polishing a marble. Thaddeus didn’t want to ask the question but he couldn’t help himself. ‘So, so you like her?’
‘Well, I ain’t coming back for the marbles.’
Thaddeus fiddled with the top button on his collar, longing to undo it. He had known this was coming; two mates could only skirt around the marble-playing technique of a girl for so long before the real reason for their interest arose. The marbles competition at the Banyan Show had begun a few years back when Corally arrived in the district with a bag of glass marbles she had won from a kid down south. Thaddeus never did get the full story of how the daughter of a rabbit-trapper learned to play marbles like a demon, but having paraded around the showground in 1912 as if she carried the crown jewels, Corally discreetly chose an area outside the showground and, with her shiny marbles as bait, promptly began to fleece every opponent.
‘In a couple of years she’ll be sixteen. If I put in a word now, she’ll know my intentions.’ Harold cleared his throat. ‘So will everyone else.’
‘Really? I guess Corally will have something to say about it.’ Thaddeus tried to sound casual, as if they were discussing the size of a sinker on a fishing line. He searched out Corally’s dark-haired friend. ‘What about Julie Jackson? She’s a better catch and her parents aren’t dirt poor.’
‘I don’t go much on her,’ Harold sniffed. ‘All that dark hair and pale skin and . . . well, my father says that a woman has to have a bit of go about her, you know, a bit of ability.’
‘How do you know she doesn’t?’
Harold ignored him. Although Corally and Julie were the same height, Julie was twice her friend’s size. Which didn’t exactly make her fat, but it certainly lessened her appeal, despite a pretty face made unusual by thick lips.
Sunset Ridge Page 10