Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Madame Chessy replied. ‘This efficiency.’

  The doctor swirled the contents of his cup. ‘Good, no.’ His eyes were glassy. ‘It was not good. The train was for the English wounded. There was no train that day for the French. They lay as they were left. On the platform. On stairs.’ He looked at her. ‘On the bare ground.’

  Lisette’s translation was slow and halting.

  ‘I can still hear them. The ones suffering from asphyxia, unable to catch their breath, and those who moaned from their wounds, their hands grasping the air as I passed.’ The doctor stared at the wood oven. The cast-iron cooking plate was slightly warped and a thin curl of smoke sneaked up from the firebox.

  ‘My God; we fight on the same side.’ Madame Chessy wiped away a tear with her finger.

  Captain Holt interrupted. ‘I am sure a French hospital train would have arrived the next day, Madame. Unfortunately in war nothing goes to plan.’

  The doctor was readying to speak again.

  ‘Excuse the doctor,’ Captain Holt said lightly. ‘None of us has had much sleep in the past forty-eight hours, have we, Harrison?’

  The doctor ran stubby fingers through his hair. ‘The French officers are aggressive, but they make their men –’ his gaze met hers, ‘brave men, charge at the Germans with their bayonets at the ready. There is no glory in any war, Madame, and there is certainly no honour in this one. The Germans cut their opponents down with their machine guns. They fire at torsos and legs; anything that will fell them.’

  ‘I think that will do, Sam.’ Captain Holt laid a hand on the doctor’s forearm.

  Fat tears slid down Lisette’s cheeks as she translated.

  Madame Chessy cleared her throat. ‘Lisette, go to the cellar and bring up a bottle of wine.’ The young girl appeared stunned. ‘Lisette.’

  Snatching a candle from the shelf above the wood fire, Lisette slipped through the partially ajar door into Madame Chessy’s bedroom. A squeaking hinge was followed by the soft pad of feet on stone.

  Interlacing her fingers, Madame Chessy fixed her thoughts on the image of her countrymen lying in wait for the delayed hospital train. Only a matter of weeks ago she had witnessed first-hand the terrible consequences of what Captain Harrison spoke of. She had been visiting the village market when a crowd had drawn her attention. A list of casualties had been displayed at the post office and the street was awash with villagers and visiting farmers craning to see the names. Much later, when the crowd had dispersed, Madame Chessy had read the names immortalised in black ink – and then checked them again slowly to be sure she did not recognise any. The names that blurred against the cream of the paper symbolised a sacrifice too great to comprehend.

  On the journey home she had passed Father Benet on his bicycle. His white collar contrasted sharply with the blackness of his cassock billowing in the wind. Suddenly superstitious at their chance meeting, she had avoided his eyes and crossed herself as they passed on the road.

  When Lisette returned with the bottle, her eyes were red. Madame Chessy patted her hand as she re-joined them at the table. The wine was poured and they raised their glasses in silence, the doctor closing his eyes as he sipped.

  ‘My cousin is from Bordeaux. They have tended vines for many years.’ Madame Chessy topped up each of their glasses, remembering how not long ago it had been her two beloved boys who sat with her at the table. ‘I think business would be good for their wine now.’

  ‘Very good,’ Captain Holt agreed.

  Madame poured a splash of wine into a cup for Lisette. She was sorry for the girl. Her probing questions had led to a loss of innocence that she would have spared her if she had been able.

  The doctor stared dull-eyed at the bottle of wine. It was as if, with his duties concluded for the night, he had shrunk into himself. Madame Chessy understood that both men probably wanted to retire to the barn, but she couldn’t let them go, not yet. In receipt of only a few letters from her beloved boys since their departure, she was desperate for news, any news – she knew so little. She only had a name. ‘And Verdun?’ Madame Chessy asked. ‘Tell me about Verdun.’

  Captain Holt flattened his palms on the table. ‘Madame, it is one of the greatest continuous battles that has ever been waged. The Germans and the French have been fighting in the area since February.’

  ‘And we will win? Yes? The French would fight to the death for Verdun, it is a matter of national pride.’

  ‘From what I hear, the Germans feel the same way,’ Captain Holt informed her. ‘But I’m not sure there is much to be gained for the Germans, at least strategically.’

  Madame Chessy lay a hand on the dark cloth of her blouse. ‘In here I believe we will win.’

  ‘But at what cost?’ the doctor queried. ‘At what cost?’

  Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia

  October 1916

  On the opposite side of the music room their mother appeared to be dozing in an armchair. Thaddeus, having moved to sit cross-legged on the floor, was tapping his harmonica in the palm of his hand, while Luther continued to rub his heel into the carpet. Round and round his ankle swivelled, as Thaddeus beat the harmonica. Dave ran his fingers across the ivory keys and tapped out the tune to ‘My Darling Clementine’. It had been weeks since the court case and the family’s disgrace, with the empty days unfolding before them like a dusty road. Each day was marked by silent meals and disapproving glances, and Dave was sure that everything was made worse by the space on the mantelpiece. If their father could only forgive Luther for what happened, if he could only forget the fleece competition and move on as their mother once suggested over dinner. But Luther was right. He couldn’t.

  Dave thought briefly of Harold and of Corally Shaw and of the six months of punishment allotted to Luther, which their father had extended to include all the Harrow boys. Looking back, Dave wished he had told Corally to sneak them a visit that day in the courtroom, and he wished Harold would write and tell them what was happening in town. Spring, having lasted a paltry three weeks, was over and summer had them landlocked in the homestead or restricted to the house paddock. Thaddeus and Luther were sent out with the stockmen and forced to work like dogs from dawn to dusk. G.W. had decided that Luther would work to pay the compensation due to Snob Evans; Luther moaned aloud that he would be working for the term of his natural life.

  How the weeks dragged. Monthly visits to town, fishing trips and swims in the river seemed long ago, and still neither Dave nor Luther knew why Harold and Thaddeus had fought.

  The piano keys were cool to the touch as Dave turned his attention back to the music. He was learning that the composition of sound was similar to drawing, every element belonging in a particular place, and music was something he found easy to recall. Melodies flitted before his eyes in a series of shapes; notes were like conversation – some were impatient and angry like Luther, others comforting like their mother, while frustration lurked within his detached older brother. Dave looked out the window as he played, his fingertips almost mimicking the pecking movement of the hens in the dirt. He thought of the sketchbook tucked under the mattress in his bedroom and itched to feel the charcoal in his hand. His drawing was now mainly done in secret. With their father’s anger simmering like a boiler of Cook’s meat, the slightest broken rule could send him into a fit of rage, and no one in the family could predict what would happen then.

  Outside, the bush was glazed with heat. Hot air seeped through the open window. Dave could smell the warm tang of the earth beckoning him outside. The breeze was thick, dense with the heat of a summer too long in coming. At night he dreamed of the river, of swimming through the brown swirl to the other side, of scrabbling out onto the sandy bank. He thought of the craybobs scuttling from their underwater holes, of the fish meandering along the reedy banks and of the trees layering the water’s surface with their shadows. His fing
ers moved effortlessly over the keys. There was now music to accompany his imaginings, and the sounds he created followed him to his sketchbook after dark. In some ways he had been saved by the piano.

  The grandfather clock on the opposite wall of the music room struck five o’clock. At that moment their father rode past the homestead on a Bay gelding, a stockman by his side. A straggle of dogs brought up the rear. Having rested during the heat of the afternoon, they were riding out to check Sunset Ridge’s newest addition. A mixed mob of two hundred breeding cows had been walked onto the property a week earlier. Purchased for a song from a distressed owner who had lost his sons to the Turks at Gallipoli and his wife to a heart attack, the cattle were currently eating out the paddocks adjoining the western boundary.

  Thaddeus walked to the window and, resting his hands on the sill, pressed his head against the glass. ‘Damn ridiculous. We’re overstocked as it is. Once they’ve dropped their calves and the ewes have lambed and we’re feeding that lot plus the offspring from Father’s hair-brained second lambing, we’ll have a serious fodder problem.’

  Luther swapped ankles and began to swivel his other heel into the floor.

  ‘Stop it, Luther,’ their mother snapped. Having spent the better part of the past hour draped across the wing-backed chair, she untucked black patent-leather boots from beneath her skirts and sat upright. ‘There is enough discord in this family without you adding to it. Sit down and stop fidgeting.’

  ‘I’d r-rather s-stand,’ Luther replied.

  Thaddeus continued to stare out of the window. ‘This place is a gaol.’

  ‘Thaddeus, please.’ Their mother fanned herself with a copy of The Bulletin. ‘You are not the only one suffering. Now, please, do play something.’

  In answer Thaddeus tucked the harmonica in his pocket. Dropping the magazine on a chair with a sigh, Lily shooed Dave from the piano and, settling herself on the stool gracefully, lifted her hands to play.

  ‘It’s n-not r-right,’ Luther said. ‘Keeping us l-locked up here. W-we don’t have t-to stay.’

  Lily slammed the lid of the piano. ‘What do you mean you don’t have to stay?’

  Luther opened the music-room door. ‘S-sorry, M-mother,’ he said, walking out.

  ‘Please go and talk some sense into Luther, Thaddeus. I don’t want him doing anything rash.’

  ‘Rash?’ Disappointment layered Thaddeus’s words. ‘It’s too late, Mother, and you can blame Father.’

  ‘But you know why your father is like this: the land he lost and the fleece competition . . . and now our reputation has been damaged thanks to Luther, and there’s the Bantam girl who should have been your wife.’

  Thaddeus frowned. ‘I’m sick of the excuses. And, Mother, when I want a wife I’ll choose her.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Lily quickly softened her tone. ‘I only wanted what was best for you, and to protect you.’

  ‘From what?’

  Lily held his gaze. ‘From life. From the war.’ The six-month punishment meted out to her three sons ensured Thaddeus’s safety, albeit momentarily.

  Thaddeus was halfway across the music room when he stopped. ‘We all know what you did for Luther, Mother,’ he began haltingly. ‘Standing up to Father. I know it’s been hard on you too. But you can’t expect me to stay and put up with this anymore.’

  The colour drained from their mother’s face as Thaddeus closed the door. ‘What is he talking about?’ Lily clutched at the back of the armchair. ‘I want you to go after them, David.’ She dried her tears with a sleeve. ‘Find out what your brothers are up to.’ She rubbed her temple. ‘Well, go on. Don’t stand there gawking. Run.’

  Dave did as he was told. He ran through the homestead, straight down the wide hallway to their bedrooms. Although not surprised to find his brothers’ rooms empty, he was shocked to see their drawers askew. Retracing his steps at speed, he skirted the sitting room and the silver room and continued along the open-sided walkway to the kitchen. At the doorway he slowed. Cook was heaping flour onto the table, her sleeves pushed up to reveal crackly elbow skin. There were pots bubbling on the wood-fire stove and the smell of corned meat cooking in brine. Spying the open bottle of cooking sherry and a glass on the sideboard, he tiptoed carefully behind the older woman. At the rear kitchen door he almost collided with the governess. ‘Sorry, Miss Waites.’ He ducked his head, eager to avoid her.

  ‘Who’s out there?’ Cook called from inside.

  ‘My, ye are in a rush,’ Miss Waites smiled. ‘Where are ye going?’

  Dave could smell something soft and flowery. Despite his best efforts the heat rose steadily in his cheeks. Creaking boards announced Cook’s approach.

  ‘She dinna like me,’ Miss Waites whispered, taking Dave’s arm and leading him away to the front veranda. ‘I heard raised voices inside. Is everything all right?’

  Dave noticed Thaddeus skirting the length of the hedge that bordered the western side of the homestead. The sun speared through the foliage, causing Dave to wince. ‘I have to go.’

  The governess touched his arm. ‘I know things have been difficult, Dave, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t talk.’

  Thaddeus vanished.

  Miss Waites lowered her voice. ‘I realise I’ve not broached the subject of art these past weeks with ye. I do wish your parents would see your talent.’

  Dave edged towards the front of the veranda. Red dust layered the boards. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble,’ he mumbled. Or get you into trouble. He recalled the evening in the sitting room when the art magazines were burned, yet the long days in the schoolroom since their gaoling had somehow altered his feelings toward her. Dave felt torn between his liking for the governess and anger at her sudden willingness to placate his parents.

  ‘Ye are still sketching?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m so pleased. The last piece of work I saw was a sketch on the river bank, it was so guid. I should buy ye oils. I could imagine the pinks and smoky greys of dusk, even within the dark of the charcoal.’

  The sensation of having missed her, of having missed their discussions about form and colour and composition grew quickly, yet talking about his art could get them both in trouble and Dave couldn’t risk that, nor being cooped up for another six months with the house-paddock fence the prison boundary.

  ‘Ye forgive me, I hope. I came this close,’ she pinched her fingers together, ‘to being relieved of my position, and I couldn’t risk that. But enough, ye don’t need to hear of my problems.’ She smiled kindly. ‘As long as ye still draw.’ Her forehead glistened with tiny beads of moisture. ‘I would love to see some of your latest work.’

  Dave imagined Miss Waites flicking through the sketchbook . . . some of the pictures were of her. The whinny of a horse disrupted his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  Leaving the governess standing on the veranda, Dave ran swiftly through the back gate, scattering the hens as he high-tailed it from the homestead. He was sure Miss Waites watched as he ran across the ridged ground, and at the thought his leg muscles stretched out as his stride lengthened. His shirt grew clingy with sweat as he spied Thaddeus ducking through the scrub along the house-paddock fence en route to the stables, and Dave followed, zigzagging through the sparse trees until he too was running along the fence-line. Jumping logs and pot holes, he reached the stables as Thaddeus began to saddle his horse. His older brother was in a rush. Blanket and saddle were already on. In the distance a flurry of dust rose into the sky from the direction of the river. Dave checked the stalls. Luther’s horse was gone.

  ‘Where are you going?’ His breath was ragged.

  Thaddeus tightened the girth strap, tied a swag behind the saddle and then threw himself up onto the horse’s back. ‘Do you know where Corally Shaw lives?’

  ‘Corally?’ Dave repeated. Thaddeus wore his good
jacket and his boots were polished. ‘Near the cemetery. Where are you going? And where’s Luther?’

  Thaddeus backed up his horse. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But what do you want with her?’

  ‘It’s best you’re not involved,’ Thaddeus replied. ‘You take care of yourself, Dave. I’ll write.’

  ‘What? But where are you going?’

  Thaddeus’s horse gave an impatient buck; whacking the animal between the ears, he rode off at a gallop. Dave chased his brother to the house-paddock fence and then gave up. The last he saw of Thaddeus was a flapping coat tail and a rifle slung across a shoulder. Exhausted, Dave waited until the thin plume of dust merged with the darkening sky and then he walked back to sit on the step leading into the tack room. A flock of birds flew overhead as the horizon became a blaze of red against a blue-black sky. Soon his father would be home, and Dave could only imagine the anger that would descend upon the remaining occupants of the household. Picking up a stone, he threw it as hard as he could at the stable’s roof. The rock clattered noisily against the corrugated iron.

  Dave doubted that he would ever be free again. He would live his life tied to Sunset Ridge, like an old mare tethered to a railing – fed, watered and exercised just enough to be kept in working order – while his brothers took off on grand adventures, caring little about the consequences. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he began the lonely walk back towards the homestead. He couldn’t believe that Thaddeus and Luther would leave him behind, nor could he understand why Thaddeus would want to see Corally Shaw.

  Luther followed the curve of the river as the breeze lifted and the stars traced a path amid the branches above. Having shaken off the heat of the day, the air was refreshing. Midnight had arrived, bringing with it the hum of cicadas and a silvery path created by a waning moon. His horse picked its way carefully through tree roots and the river banks. Luther kept close to the edge of the river where the moon was at its brightest. Having found himself beyond the house paddock, his flighty inclinations had taken some dampening, although Luther understood Scratch’s excitement. It was a damn fine thing to be free.