Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  George’s eyes bulged. ‘How on earth did you get that out of the old fella?’

  ‘It took a bit of prodding. He came around when I called him Mister Evans.’

  ‘I’ll be.’ George looked at his wife.

  ‘Politeness will win every time, George,’ Rachael said with approval.

  ‘What else did he say?’ her brother asked.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t tell me why he was helping out here. He did say that Grandfather took over the property in the mid-1920s when his father died.’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ George agreed. ‘Mum told me that her grandmother, Lily, stayed on after G.W. died. As she got older the heat really bothered her and she moved to Brisbane in the late 1930s and eventually died in the 50s.’

  ‘It’s possible Sonia might know something about Grandfather Harrow, don’t you think, George?’ Rachael asked.

  ‘I doubt it. It’s a bit before her time. Although she’s a Jackson, and therefore she must be related to the Julie Jackson who came to work here after the war. It’s a pity Nancy isn’t still alive.’

  Madeleine agreed. Their former housekeeper had been here on Madeleine’s last visit home three years ago. A modest woman, she reminded Madeleine of an elderly aunt, pottering in the garden, baking butter biscuits and ironing in front of a portable television in the kitchen. The more she thought of Nancy and her many kindnesses – patting her shoulder at breakfast, cooking her fav­ourite meal of lasagne and salad – the worse Madeleine felt about not saying goodbye to her the last time she left the property. ‘You’re right, Rachael, it wouldn’t hurt to sit down and have a chat with Sonia. You never know what she might know.’

  Banyan, south-west Queensland, Australia

  September 1916

  Harold tried not to stare as the Harrows headed out of the village, following the court case. What he wanted to do was turn on his heel and walk away. Instead, he watched the family’s departure, a mixture of anger and relief flooding through him.

  ‘Just as well they never accepted our invitation to tea,’ Mr Lawrence said in a low voice. ‘Otherwise we’d never live the association down.’

  Harold turned and faced his father. Having decided to delay opening the ironmongery until the trial was over, Mr Lawrence was ready for business. ‘Luther isn’t going to gaol, Father.’

  Mr Lawrence ignored his son. ‘Of course we know why they never paid us a visit; too high and mighty, them Harrows; too good to be mixing with townsfolk.’

  Harold knew his mother didn’t feel the same way. Although following Luther’s arrest, his father had forbidden him to attend the court hearing or mix with the Harrow family, his mother had been inclined to see both sides of the court case. Harold’s father on the other hand dredged up four generations of Harrow flaws, both real and imagined, which in his mind had finally culminated in the family’s ultimate fall from grace.

  ‘Well it’s a work day, lad, even if justice hasn’t been done.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Harold watched as his father walked down the street to the store.

  Although Harold had never been one to hold a grudge, the altercation with Thaddeus at the Banyan Show had soured their friendship. He couldn’t understand what had got into his best mate; however, one thing was certain: Harold was not going to put up with it.

  ‘That Harrow boy probably deserved it,’ had been the standard refrain from many townsfolk upon hearing of Harold’s clash with Thaddeus. The fact that some of these well-wishers had never previously spoken to Harold suggested a level of support verging on collusion, however, regardless of motivation, the shared sentiments had buoyed him. Across the road at the courthouse people began to spill out onto the street. The crowd reminded him of meat-ants: a seething mass of occupants scurrying onwards to their next food source.

  Although the street teemed with clusters of people and drays coming and going, when the Harrow wagon finally disappeared down the dusty road, a strange remoteness seeped through Harold. He knew he had to head back to the ironmongery, yet the thought of listening to the idle chatter of customers with only one subject on their minds held little appeal. Even heading to the river and the boat didn’t interest him – where would he travel to now?

  Harold looked back across to the courthouse to see Corally Shaw standing a few feet away from the assembled crowd; just as he had done, she was staring at the empty dirt road. Julie Jackson was talking to her, clearly trying to entice Corally to walk across the road to the general store. In response Corally gave her friend a forced smile and shook her head. Julie walked away, alone. Down the middle of the street a gust of wind lifted spirals of dust, which skittered across the surface to disappear into scrub and red ridges. In its wake, Corally followed. Harold trailed her at a distance, careful to not catch anyone’s attention. As he pursued her, he reflected on the conversation he had shared with Thaddeus at the marbles game. Was his old friend interested in the girl ? Harold considered the idea and quickly disregarded it. If there was any threat to his interest it was Luther, for hadn’t the girl appeared on his behalf in court?

  Corally moved quickly. At this rate she would be at the village limits and cutting cross-country to the ramshackle dwelling she lived in before he had left the last of the village houses in his wake. With a rush of adrenalin Harold ran after her. The unmade road was hard beneath the leather soles of his shoes and although he retained a steady pace, soon Corally disappeared from view. At the bend in the road, where civilisation met scrub, he came to an abrupt stop amid a scatter of dirt. Corally leaned against a tree, her skin layered in speckled sunlight.

  ‘What are you doing following me?’ Wariness looked out through red-rimmed eyes.

  Harold did his best to compose himself. He had intended to wait a month or so before approaching Corally and revealing his intentions – and putting his case forward when he was sweating and out of breath was not the most promising of starts – but seeing her at the courthouse, knowing what she had done for Luther, pulled him from uncertainty to a sense of purpose. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Must be urgent then, is it, Harold Lawrence? You running after me and all.’ She swayed back and forth against the tree.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the future.’ Harold rolled his lips together, the action refocusing his thoughts. Corally had always been quick with her tongue. He had seen boys with less experience slink away from her in silence. ‘I’ve decided I should make myself plain so there’s no mistake.’

  ‘About what?’

  A slight puckering appeared around her eyes. He had her interest. ‘About you and me.’

  ‘You and me?’ Corally nibbled intently at a fingernail before wiping the unruly nail against her skirt. ‘Why, you’ve hardly given me the time of day, Harold Lawrence, lording it around the place as if you was landed, mixing with them snooty-nosed Harrow boys.’

  Harold frowned. ‘You stood up for Luther in court.’

  Corally crossed her arms. ‘He stood up for me. I’d do the same for a dog.’

  Harold was not so sure about that. ‘So, there ain’t nothing in it, then?’

  ‘In what?’ Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘In you speaking for Luther Harrow. You’re not outing with him?’

  ‘Luther?’ For a moment Corally looked confused. ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘not Luther.’

  ‘Anybody?’

  A shadow turned the sea-green brightness of her eyes dark. ‘Why? You interested?’ She manoeuvred against the bark of the tree, crossing slim legs at her ankles.

  ‘Maybe.’ Harold expected Corally to say something, and when she remained silent he realised he was quite pleased with her response. ‘So, you reckon you’d out with me?’

  Corally’s mouth gaped. Harold didn’t know if she was weighing up the merits of his question or preparing to bolt into the scrub.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’
m thinking.’

  Harold shoved his hands in his pockets. He had not imagined things would go this way. In fact, he had expected the girl to jump at the chance. ‘Well, hurry up. A man hasn’t got all day.’

  Corally stepped out from beneath the shade of the tree. It was past noon and with spring’s arrival a haze hovered above the scrub. ‘If there weren’t no funny business.’

  A red stain seeped up Harold’s neck. ‘On my honour.’

  ‘Your mother and father won’t like it,’ Corally said, defiantly.

  ‘I reckon they won’t have much say in it. Besides, I haven’t ever set eyes on someone like you, not ever.’ The words escaped before Harold gained control of his mouth. For a second he worried that he had scared the girl off. Corally had an uncertain look about her, like a person hoping for good but not quite trusting to believe in the possibility of it. Wide, unblinking eyes greeted his thoughts. Treating this as a good sign, he persevered. ‘I’ve been watching you for a while and I figured that you and me, well, that we’d make a good pair.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Corally conceded. ‘Although I ain’t nothing to anyone around here.’

  Harold took a step towards her. ‘You’re something to me.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me, Harold Lawrence. Me and mine, well, we’re sure not like you and yours.’

  ‘And do you think the world will be the same place after the war, Corally? ’Cause I sure don’t.’

  Corally tilted her head to one side. ‘My pa always said that it never hurt a person to hope.’

  ‘So, I’ll see you then? Next Saturday, noon, at the river behind the ironmongery?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be there, Harold Lawrence.’

  Walking away, Harold wondered why he didn’t feel more pleased; his eye had been on the girl for quite some time, and they would soon begin outing together. Yet, right now men were dying in defence of the Empire, and here he was working in his father’s ironmongery, listening to gossip and chasing the girl he hoped to marry one day. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right. And Harold knew that the hollowness bashing at his innards would not be satisfied by Corally Shaw. There were great battles being waged at this very moment, and he was thousands of miles away.

  Chessy farmhouse, ten miles from Saint-Omer, northern France

  September 1916

  The British soldier lay on a stretcher on the kitchen’s flagstone floor. His face was pale in the lamplight. The doctor, a sandy-haired captain, was leaning over him injecting tetanus anti-toxin. With each jab of the needle the man squirmed and frowned wordlessly. The injuries to the man’s body were incomprehensible to Madame Chessy. Dirt-grey bandages ringed his thighs and torso and a facial bandage was soaked with blood.

  ‘Morphine?’ she asked hopefully.

  Captain Harrison looked up, his face taut. ‘We’re out of it, and even if I did have it, there is always someone who needs it more,’ the American replied, peering between the other men, before turning his attention back to his patient.

  Madame Chessy waited for Lisette to translate. While the older woman was capable of grasping the basics, the dark-haired youngster was reasonably adept with English, having learned the language from an English cousin prior to the outbreak of war. Lisette translated the captain’s words quickly and then squared her shoulders against the farmhouse door. She knew a scolding was waiting for her once she and Madame Chessy were alone. She was the one who had taken the lantern outside to guide her way to the toilet, and it was the lantern that had alerted the men to the farm’s existence. When Lisette’s wary voice had sounded outside the farmhouse walls, accompanied by those of strangers, Madame Chessy knew that duty called yet again.

  Sitting on the floor beneath the window were two more wounded British soldiers, dark stains of blood tracing bandages on their thighs. The small farmhouse was heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and the meaty stink of wounded flesh. Madame Chessy rubbed agitatedly at the neckline of her dress and poked another length of wood into the firebox. She felt both invaded and inadequate and, had she not been cursed with pride, an escape outside, even if it meant standing in the rain, would have been tempting.

  The doctor rested his hand on the soldier’s brow. ‘There’s nothing more I can do. He may survive.’ The three ambulance drivers and soldier surrounding him took a step back so he could stand. Madame Chessy sat a pot of coffee and some cups on the table, a semblance of control returning. ‘S’il vous plaît,’ she gestured at the chairs. ‘Oui?’

  The doctor accepted readily and was joined by an Englishman of equal rank. Apologies were given for the intrusion. Madame Chessy inclined her head in acknowledgement although refrained from smiling. The other officer, Captain Holt, was older than the doctor. The puffy bags ringing his eyes and the thinning hair over his temples were matched by a watchful demeanour. The three drivers, men of lesser rank, drank their coffee standing and accepted slices of freshly baked bread with grateful smiles and nods of appreciation. All the while Madame Chessy observed Lisette. Rarely talkative, the girl had been forced to overcome her shyness over the past few weeks. A constant stream of men arrived for billeting or appeared in the field beyond the creek, cautiously crossing the stream and enquiring if they could stay in the barn. Madame Chessy had learned not to ask many questions, for there was talk of the odd soldier simply walking away from the front-line and it was said the British would shoot any of their men who did such a thing.

  The doctor smiled tiredly at Lisette, who backed away to stand in the shadows of the kitchen. ‘I cannot move him.’ He nodded at the man lying on the floor. ‘If we’d not been delayed . . .’ His voice trailed off. He was a freckled-skinned man with the type of long, thick lashes a woman could crave. His attention was drawn to the rain pelting against the kitchen window. ‘Could you please ask Madame if the men could stay in her barn tonight? It’s cold and wet and –’

  ‘Oui, bien sûr,’ Madame Chessy agreed. Some things did not require translation. She pointed at the two wounded British soldiers sitting beneath the window and then at the bunks belonging to Francois and Antoine.

  Lisette translated. Captain Harrison understood, gave his thanks and issued instructions. The soldiers consumed their coffee and bread and then helped the two wounded soldiers into the bunks.

  Madame Chessy settled the wounded men. ‘Oui, bon?’ she fussed, tucking blankets in and drawing the curtain so the alcove darkened. Taking a second lantern from the dresser, she lit it and handed it to one of the drivers. Lisette gave directions to the barn. The men trooped outside leaving muddy boot prints on the flagstone and a brief silence punctuated by the crackling fire and the wheezing man on the floor.

  ‘How long do you think the rain will last?’ the doctor asked.

  The older woman grasped the word rain and shrugged habitually. Captain Harrison gave a nod of understanding. He had already explained, via Lisette’s translation, that he was part of the American Ambulance Field Service and that his three vehicles had only recently been repaired after being damaged by German artillery fire. They were en route from Ypres to part of the Somme battleground when they had come across a village struck by a stray German shell. The rain had already begun to make roads impassable, and with the delay at the village and subsequent detours they were far from their original route. A severely injured villager had died on the way and lay in the rear of one of the three ambulances bogged on the road leading to Tatinghem. The other wounded – the men currently within the farmhouse – had been on leave in the village when the shell struck.

  ‘You have been here since the start of the war?’ Madame Chessy asked the doctor. Lisette was now sitting at the table with instructions to translate their conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor told her. ‘I was at Dunkirk and Ypres last year.’

  ‘You were there? At Ypres in 1915?’ Madame Chessy scalded her tongue on the hot coffee. ‘My husband died there.’
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  ‘I’m sorry. Many have died.’

  ‘Yes, a great many. Ypres,’ she said, leaning towards him, ‘what is it like?’

  ‘Terrible,’ Captain Holt answered. ‘All war is terrible,’ he quickly added as the doctor glared at him.

  ‘I would like to know the truth. Please? Tell me about it.’

  The men remained silent.

  ‘We cannot believe the newspapers, the stories, the flyers – nothing. If I couldn’t hear the dull thud of the bombs going off at night when I lie in my bed I would be oblivious to the war.’ She extended her hands in a supplicating gesture.

  The doctor tilted his coffee cup and Madame Chessy poured more of the steaming drink as Lisette did her best to translate. ‘You will not like what I tell you, Madame. War is not pretty.’

  ‘Ah, but then life is not always pretty.’

  ‘At Poperinge,’ the doctor said slowly, ‘there is a railhead.’

  ‘Yes, go on.’ Madame Chessy folded her hands in her lap. ‘I have heard of the village. Many civilians were evacuated there from Ypres.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘I have been practising medicine for five years, but never did I believe men could commit such atrocities on their fellow man.’

  ‘It’s very bad?’

  ‘Yes, very bad. It was at Poperinge that I finally understood the great machine that is war.’ He swallowed. ‘The troop trains would come in and the war fodder would be unloaded and begin their walk to the front.’

  Lisette’s cheeks paled as she translated.

  ‘Yes,’ Madame Chessy encouraged, although her chest tightened.

  ‘One day I remember a hospital train arrived.’ The doctor took another sip of coffee, his words stilted at the memory. ‘It was a great gleaming machine with hundreds of beds and white linen. The field ambulances moved back and forth to the front-line, collecting the wounded and depositing them at the railhead. I did my best for the worst of them while they waited to be transported. They lay on the ground, hundreds of them, until it was their turn to be loaded onto the train.’