Luther gave him a lopsided smile as his mother hugged him a second time. Then they were shepherded quickly from the courthouse by their red-faced father. No one stopped them, but many stared. Dave had the impression that most of the townsfolk and landholders were disappointed it was all over.
‘There’s Harold.’ Luther pointed to where their old friend loitered on the opposite side of the street.
‘Are you going to say hello to him, Thaddeus?’ Dave asked as they crossed the street.
‘No, he is not.’ Their father directed them to the dray parked outside the Banyan General Store. Reluctantly Lily accepted her husband’s arm and stepped up into the front seat. Dave joined his brothers in the rear and was barely settled when the wagon jolted forward. On the outskirts of the village they passed the Cobb & Co. coach heading to the post office. Here the team of four Clydesdales would be changed, and both mail and passengers unloaded and collected. The coach showered them with grit in spite of the horses slowing to a trot at the town limits.
‘Well, that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about,’ Thaddeus muttered, against a backdrop of creaking wheels and the jingle of harnesses. ‘So long to Miss Bantam.’
Dave nudged Luther. ‘Bet you’re pleased to be going home.’
Luther shrugged. ‘Not really. Old G.W. will never speak to me again.’
‘Sure he will, won’t he, Thaddeus?’
His older brother didn’t answer.
‘He would have sent me away if it wasn’t for Mother.’ Luther gripped the timber sides of the dray. ‘Nothing is ever going to be the same again, Dave.’
Gravel and dirt spat out across the road as the dray’s wheels gathered momentum. Dave wiggled his backside across the splintery seat and hoped his brother was wrong.
Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
February 2000
Aswathe of heat enveloped Madeleine as she stepped outside. It was only 7 am yet the light was harsh, as if the sun were closer to the earth out here in the bush. With vague thoughts of returning to the cool of the homestead she turned her shirt collar up and pulled the cap low over her face. The walk would do her good before the engulfing heat forced her indoors for the remainder of the day. The road from the homestead led past the work shed and the clump of trees where Sonia had pulled up in the sedan to talk to the rider yesterday. The ground was cracked, the soil loose beneath her boots. She envisaged the ground shrinking as each gust of wind lifted the topsoil and carried it away.
Sleep had come intermittently during the night. The excitement of finding the account for her grandfather’s two commissioned works had kept her awake: were these works part of the forty landscapes the family knew about, or were they undiscovered paintings or sketches? Madeleine mulled over the cryptic name written on the unsent account: Miss C. The initial meant nothing to her, but she was determined to find out all she could. She finally felt that she might begin to form a real picture of the man her grandfather had been. When sleep did come she spent the night dreaming of the Great War, of scarred earth and mangled bodies and of young men facing oblivion. The images came to her like fractured sketches, and she began to wonder at the strength required to survive such horrors, not only on the battlefield, but after the war. How could a man return to normal life having witnessed such atrocities?
Jude had shared her memories of her father rising at dawn every day to rake the dirt outside the homestead fence. Jude’s mother had never queried or disturbed this routine, explaining to Jude that the task soothed him. It was as if by raking the dirt and leaves and twigs, by smoothing the land beyond his home, by tidying it, David Harrow felt equipped to begin his day. David’s wife, who had died in 1942 when Jude was twelve following a horse-riding accident, told her daughter that the years on the Western Front staring at the wreckage of no-man’s land was the reason David craved such orderly surroundings.
Madeleine pictured again the portrait of Matty Cartwright held by the Australian War Memorial. The young man – a boy, really – was killed a week after her grandfather sketched him; this knowledge led Madeleine to envisage a returned soldier perhaps subconsciously seeking solace from his art. If that were the case then the selection of landscapes as his preferred subject was understandable, except that he appeared not to resume his art until the first landscape was completed in 1935. And why not continue the portrait work, for which he showed such talent?
From memory it was at least four kilometres to the river. As youngsters she and George had spent many weekends fishing its deep waterhole, arguing and laughing in equal measure. A short cut through the house-paddock fence and a tear to her t-shirt from the barbed wire led her to rest under a pepper tree in the middle of the sheep yards. The leaves were pungent between the warmth of her palms and Madeleine breathed in the scent before pocketing the crushed foliage. The wooden yards fanned out from the great tree in a series of squares, before leading to the twin penning-up yards, which fed into a long, narrow drafting race. She recalled running up and down the race when she was twelve years old as she, George and two of the stockmen helped their father draft the rams. Later their mother had told them both that the breeding program had been going exceptionally well that year. They had purchased some stud rams from the Gordons at Wangallon Station in the mid-1960s and the visible improvement in each successive year’s lamb drop was marked. Their father had even joked about entering the Champion Fleece competition at the Banyan Show. It never happened.
Blocking out the image from that day in 1980, Madeleine crossed through the wool-shed yards. Skirting the old plunge sheep-dip, the dirt track led south-east and it was in this direction she walked. Once she was on the road, a soft breeze caressed her face, softening the bite of the sun as a scatter of sheep lifted their heads in interest. The paddock was timbered. For years it had been used as a holding paddock during shearing when large mobs were brought to and from the yards. During the remainder of the year it was lightly stocked. The regular short-term over-stocking had kept the native grasses lush and unwanted scrub low, and in a good year the wool-shed paddock appeared park-like. In a good year. Thanks to the drought it currently consisted of sun-baked dirt and dry-leafed trees.
In the distance a line of timber stretched across the horizon, marking the path of the twisting waterway. The ground rose to merge with the atmosphere, the two meeting in a shimmer of heat-held air and trees and shrubs flickering in the harsh light. Madeleine blinked at the bleakness of the landscape. Rivulets of perspiration were already sliding down her back and stomach, and her mouth felt dry. Next time she would take one of George’s quad bikes out. Hot, droughty days didn’t lend themselves to morning walks, and her idea of walking to the river now seemed foolhardy. A mob of sheep walked off to stand beneath the shade of a tree, while another mob a little further away crowded around a trough. It was difficult to imagine how her grandfather ever became an artist. Sunset Ridge had certainly never inspired her. Even in a good season there was something unruly and wild about the property, which didn’t lend itself to the pretty landscapes he later became so well known for. These days Madeleine thought the best thing about the property was its name. Her mother had told the story of the Harrows arriving on the property at dusk when they first settled the land, hence Sunset Ridge.
A large meat-ants nest was nearby and Madeleine felt the nipping insects crawling over her feet. Brushing the ants away, she threw a stick at the mound and watched as hundreds of black-and-red bodies rushed from their home, readying for defence. The sheep scattered at the movement and Madeleine walked towards the deserted trough with thoughts of splashing water on the bites. As she leaned over the trough a hot wind arrived, showering her with grit. The water was cool on her legs and she scooped up a handful, splashing her face, aware of the sheep watching her from the shade. She could almost sense them swallowing in anticipation as the water dripped down her face and neck. On turning to leave, Madeleine noticed a wrench shining in
the sun. The metal burned her fingers as she picked it up and slipped the tool into a back pocket.
‘That would be mine.’
Madeleine took a step back in fright, tripped and fell on her bottom. Directly above, a man on horseback loomed over her. Scrambling from beneath his shadow, and the horse’s inquisitive sniffing of her leg, she stood. ‘You gave me a fright. Who are you?’ The sun was directly over his shoulder, making his features difficult to see. ‘Are you Ross?’ She lifted her hand in an attempt to block the sun. ‘Ross Evans?’
‘I should be asking who you are.’ The voice was gruff. He held out his hand and Madeleine passed him the wrench.
‘I’m Madeleine, George’s sister.’
‘You look like him.’
‘Who? George?’
‘No, your grandfather, girlie. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’ He extended an arm the colour of mahogany.
‘I can walk.’ Light continued to block the rider’s features.
‘In about ten minutes your arms and legs will be red-raw from the sun. And it doesn’t look like they’ve seen much sun lately.’
‘Too much sun exposure is bad for you.’ Madeleine felt foolish. She knew the rules: a shady hat and a long-sleeved shirt were vital in the bush if you didn’t want to get heat-stressed and burned.
‘Bad for everything, too much sun; bad for man and beast, and the land, and you. Get up.’
It wasn’t so much a request as a command. ‘I haven’t ridden for –’
‘Don’t worry, Ned here can smell a newbie for miles.’
Madeleine put a foot in the freed stirrup and was roughly flung up onto the horse’s back. She grabbed hold of her shoulder and rubbed it. ‘You nearly pulled my arm out of its socket.’
‘Well, you looked like you had more spring than that. Hang on.’
She did her best to follow the man’s advice, her bare thighs rubbing against coarse horse hair, and perspiration pooling at the waistband of her shorts. By the bony shape of his shoulders and the grey hairs on his neck, Ross Evans was an older man. ‘Why do you help us out here on Sunset Ridge?’
‘That’s my business. Grip with your legs and hang onto me.’
‘So you are Ross Evans?’ Tentatively taking hold of his shirt tail, Madeleine bobbed up and down as Ned trotted towards the wool shed. ‘Did you know my grandfather? You must have. You said I looked like him.’
Ned plodded along the road.
‘What can you tell me about him?’ Madeleine persisted.
They rode on quietly as the bush settled under a mantel of heat.
‘Why don’t you want to talk about him?’
Ned’s pace slowed. ‘I got no reason to.’
‘What if I told you I was hoping to organise an exhibition of my grandfather’s work and that I’m looking for anything that can help me understand his life better and therefore the choices he made regarding his painting?’
Ahead the iron roof of the wool shed appeared between the trees. Gradually the cavernous building and adjoining yards grew bigger as Ross and Madeleine approached.
Ned stopped abruptly at the wool shed.
‘Do I get off here?’ Madeleine asked. When no answer came Madeleine ignored his offered arm and slid awkwardly to the ground. ‘What was my grandfather like, Mr Evans?’ She caught a glimpse of a jutting chin. ‘What was he like after the war?’
‘Ain’t nobody called me mister in a long time.’ The horse lowered his head and closed his eyes. The old man crossed one wrist over the other and stared across the paddock, then he pushed his wide-brimmed hat slowly back off his forehead.
His face was wrinkled and sun-brown and the lines at the corner of his thin lips drooped downwards as if he had lived his entire life dissatisfied. In contrast, his blue eyes were still bright. ‘He spent most of his time here on the property after the war,’ Ross began haltingly. ‘When your great-grandfather died in the mid-1920s, Dave took over the running of the place from his mother. I never laid eyes on him until the 40s. Saw him in Banyan one day with your mother. She must have been twelve or thirteen, younger than I was.’
‘And?’ Madeleine encouraged.
‘He sent her away to a fancy school.’ The words lingered. ‘I saw her once or twice before she married.’
Madeleine sensed loss and longing in the silence that followed until he suddenly spoke again. ‘One more thing. Your great-grandparents hated your grandfather painting.’
‘How do you know that?’
A glossy rump was the last she saw of horse and rider as they headed back in the direction of the Banyan River. Madeleine gingerly rotated her shoulder and headed home.
That night, dinner was late. Although the airconditioning did its best it was battling the residual heat of a forty-four-degree day and at 8 pm the temperature was still in the mid-thirties. With the house in darkness to avoid using unnecessary heat-emitting appliances, Madeleine joined Rachael in the kitchen, where they shut the doors to contain the cooler air and set up an electric fan on the sink. Madeleine sat at the table probing the sunburned skin on her arms, silently promising herself to never again complain about a stifling night in her studio apartment, with its piles of art books and view of the city skyline. Rachael cracked a tray of ice cubes into a jug of water. The fan whirred noisily, its ancient head clacking ominously as it rotated from left to right.
‘Ordinary evening,’ George commented on arrival. He was red-eyed and his speech was a little slurred. Madeleine knew that her brother had been cooped up in the station office since returning for a late lunch. However, she didn’t think he had been doing the bookwork.
‘We should have dinner,’ Madeleine suggested as George drained one beer and reached for another.
‘I’m not hungry,’ George mumbled, opening the bottle and pouring it into a glass.
Madeleine put a hand on his. ‘Sure you are; you’ve just been out in the heat too long today.’ She poured some water for him and at her insistence he took a tentative sip.
‘I tell him all the time to drink more water,’ Rachael began, dishing up Sonia’s slow-cooked stew, ‘but he always tells me that beer’s more refreshing.’
The fan gave a screech, vibrated loudly and then resumed its task. Rachael sat the plates on the table, buttered bread and handed out cutlery. Madeleine began to eat and immediately felt better. Now she knew why the fridge was stacked with leftovers. ‘It’s tasty,’ she encouraged. Although the food was heavy in her stomach, she knew that in a few days she too would be picking at her meals, so it was best to eat up before the heat sapped her appetite. ‘Sonia’s a good cook.’
‘Well, it’s taken her a while,’ Rachael replied between small mouthfuls. ‘I even sent her to a cooking school one weekend. For the first two months she was here I thought she was trying to kill us. It was meat-and-three-veg every night, wasn’t it, George? And either mutton or corn-meat sandwiches for lunch.’
George wiped at the gravy with some buttered bread. ‘Oh, it wasn’t too bad.’
‘That’s not what you said at the time,’ Rachael argued.
‘The thing is, Maddy,’ George began, ‘we didn’t have a choice when she applied for the job after Nancy retired.’
‘Why? It’s only the two of you here. You don’t really need a cook-cum-housekeeper.’
Rachael’s fork tapped the edge of her plate sharply. ‘There have always been staff at Sunset Ridge. And, Sonia being a Jackson,’ she continued, ‘well, we had to take her on.’
‘Why’s that?’ Madeleine’s appetite was diminishing. The hot meal wasn’t agreeing with her.
‘Because she’s a Jackson, and Jacksons have always worked here.’ George ran a finger across the gravy-smeared plate and licked it. ‘You know that.’
Actually Madeleine had never given the subject much thought. Jude had had help, however that was only after the decis
ion was made for her to work side-by-side with their father on the property, as well as handling the bookwork. Back then they were financially better off employing a housekeeper who could also care for the kids, especially as over the years her father’s mood swings worsened and station hands became difficult to find.
George sipped at the water. ‘The first Jackson arrived here sometime after the Great War. Julie, I think the girl’s name was. Most of them have been cooks or housekeepers and I think there was a maid once.’
Madeleine thought of the account she discovered yesterday in the schoolroom. ‘What about a Miss C.?’
‘The name isn’t familiar. Anyway, after Sonia goes I’m pretty sure that’ll be the last of the line, which is a pity,’ George conceded. ‘The family’s been in the district for over a hundred years.’
‘What about Nancy, is she still about?’ Madeleine had a vision of sitting down to tea with their elderly former housekeeper to discuss family history and perhaps the unknown Miss C. and the missing paintings; it was a thrilling thought.
‘Dead.’ Rachael placed her knife and fork together, most of the stew untouched. ‘Sonia found her in bed and apparently spent a good few minutes trying to wake her up before realising that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.’
‘Oh.’ Madeleine brushed away the beads of sweat peppering her forehead and began to clear their plates. Although discovering anything about her grandfather – apart from trying to view the landscape with an artist’s eye – had been far from Madeleine’s thoughts when she decided to make the trip home, she was now cautiously optimistic. The discovery of the account for the unknown commissioned works was intriguing, and Ross Evans was an unexpected bonus. Madeleine pushed the plug into the sink and rinsed the plates. ‘I met Ross Evans this morning. He said he recalled seeing Grandfather and Jude in Banyan in the 1940s. That must have been just after Granny Harrow was killed and before Jude was sent away to boarding school.’
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