Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  A second later the room was empty again, the key turned in the lock. Dave stood in the middle of the room, his heart racing. He had a dreadful feeling that things were going to get a lot worse. Minutes later a door slammed. His father’s voice vibrated through the homestead. Flattening his ear to the bedroom door, he listened to the approaching footsteps and indecipherable voices. At any moment his father could stride down the hallway with his polished leather strap. The footsteps grew louder and Dave glanced at the window. For two days he had been considering the consequences.

  Cook’s voice cut across the footsteps and then, as if by a miracle, they retreated. Dave slouched against the wall, his mouth dry. He devoured the cold cuts of mutton left over from yesterday’s roast and gulped down the glass of fresh water. By midnight he intended to be riding along the river towards Banyan, but first there was someone he needed to say goodbye to.

  Dave spread the five drawings of Miss Waites on the bed. His fingers traced the curve of her neck, lightly brushed the indent above the lips. Each drawing showed a different angle, highlighted some part of her that he had agonised over while trying to do justice to her features. He always began with the eyes before checking the positioning of the nose, lips and ears. The whorls of those delicate ears had transfixed him for days, while the soft down at her hairline took hours to perfect.

  Gathering up the sketches of the governess and most of the secreted drawings − there wasn’t time to retrieve the ones hidden in the ceiling − Dave rolled a clean shirt inside a blanket and, securing it with a leather belt, dropped it through the window. Then he crawled through and slid down the side of the house onto the grass below. The freshness of the air, although still heavy with heat, brought a smile to his lips and he set off with renewed determination, his swag over one shoulder, the roll of sketches tucked under the other arm. He passed the kitchen and Cook’s quarters and crossed the yards of dirt and patchy lawn. Despite the heat, Dave sucked in the scent of dry grasses mixed with the red dirt that layered the air and buildings. He could barely imagine life away from Sunset Ridge, and the inevitability of his actions suddenly struck him as if he had been hit. Across the miles of darkness lay the winding river and the animals that gathered at its banks to drink. He could see the sunlight filtering the trees along the river flats and the surrounding paddocks, which fanned out from her as if in homage. Most of all Dave could smell this land of the Harrows; the thick, gritty scent of the decaying drought years and the lush pungency of the good; the decades-whitened bones of their ancestors watching from their red ridge and the tang of manure dropped by cloud-wispy sheep. Sunset Ridge held a palette of possibilities, yet like any great creation in the making there were still flaws appearing in the work. It was these flaws Dave was beginning to see and understand, for they presented themselves in the form of people. It only took the slightest brushstroke or an error in colour to render a possible masterpiece imperfect.

  He understood how it felt to be a pebble in a slingshot; pulled in one direction, only to be flung in another. He was readying to say goodbye to Miss Waites, yet worry gnawed at him. How on earth would he find his brothers? Running away from home, from Sunset Ridge, with no firm idea of what awaited him suddenly seemed ridiculous, and now another thought struck him: once he left, there would be no need for a governess at Sunset Ridge. Lamplight shone from Cook’s quarters. Dave hitched the swag higher on his shoulder and contemplated the walk back to his room. Was staying worth another flogging? It was harder to leave than he had imagined. A cooling breeze caressed his face. The river beckoned. He was still here, yet the missing had already begun

  A murmur of voices carried on the wind. That was all he needed: to be caught outside by his father. Edging along the rear of the schoolhouse, he readied himself for the sprint across the grass back to his room. As he moved Dave became aware that the voices were less audible and appeared to be coming from behind him. Dave followed the voices back to Miss Waites’ room, where he peered into the open window.

  The soft lamplight made Miss Waites’ skin luminous, and her hair was unpinned and fell loosely about her shoulders. Dave took in the sight of the long curling hair, strands of which were streaked with white-gold; he had never seen such beauty. The governess leaned against a dresser, one arm reaching out as if beckoning someone; the image reminded Dave of a picture, an angel rising from a shell. His governess resembled a Botticelli angel, the material of her dress straining against the taut lines of her arm. Dave formed an artist’s square with his fingers, racing to memorise the soft hollow at the base of her neck, the gentle tilt of her head.

  ‘Don’t do this to me, Catherine.’

  The voice was male and all too familiar. At the sound, Dave squatted in the darkness among clumps of spiky grass. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘If ye won’t marry me now,’ Miss Waites replied, ‘at least leave me with the memory of your touch.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ the man continued, although his tone was hesitant. ‘Oh God, this damn war. I don’t want to leave you a widow.’

  ‘I don’t want to be left at all,’ Miss Waites countered.

  ‘So you’d have me labelled a cold-footer, too afraid to enlist, to do my duty?’

  ‘I just don’t want ye to go.’ The governess began to sob.

  ‘If I’m seen in your quarters you’ll be out of a job.’ The outline of a man filled the window.

  Dave watched as the man wiped a tear from Miss Waites’ cheek.

  A crushing weight descended upon Dave. Scrabbling backwards in the dirt he shrank before the single sheet of glass that separated him from the man within.

  ‘You can’t honestly expect me to stay? Not after Hughes’ referendum on conscription.’

  ‘But it was defeated, Rodger,’ Miss Waites argued.

  ‘Narrowly. They’re handing out white feathers across the country, Catherine. I’ll not have one handed to me, not after my brother’s death. The paper is full of the Empire’s need for troops. You’ve seen the posters. Anyway, the guilt would kill me if I didn’t do my bit. I’ve decided to head north first to Brisbane. I’ll visit my mother and then I’ll enlist.’

  The curtains on their wooden reels clattered together as they were drawn across the window, a wedge of light slanting through the material. It was a narrow, weak beam, yet it cut through the dark to highlight the window sill before being engulfed by the night. Dave stared at the outbuildings, at the guttering edging the schoolhouse, the meat-house and the squat laundry with its bricked-in copper. The great trees bordering the eastern side of the main homestead rose proudly into the night and beyond them lay the unknown. Dave crumpled dirt in his palm and let it fall through his fingers. When he finally walked away, the roll of sketches remained on the ground.

  Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia

  February 2000

  Madeleine sat in the sitting room, staring at the landscape hanging above the fireplace. The oil painting was cracked and crazed from years of heat and was in need of careful restoration. It was difficult for her to be partial towards the work. Of no particular artistic merit, by an amateur artist, the piece didn’t deserve such a lofty hanging place yet it had been in this spot for as long as she could remember. No one dared relocate it, not even Rachael, it seemed. It was said that the painting had hung in that same spot since G.W. Harrow’s forefathers first arrived in the district and took up the selection that was Sunset Ridge. Apart from her grandfather’s roll-top desk, the painting was the only other relic left in the homestead from a time when transport was by horseback or wagon and women’s dresses swept the ground at their feet.

  ‘George said you were looking for me.’

  Madeleine had been waiting for the housekeeper. She smiled at Sonia in greeting and asked her to have a seat. The older woman hesitated.

  ‘I would be really grateful if you could spare me a few minutes, Sonia.’r />
  Sonia ceased fidgeting and, looking around the room, settled on a high-backed cream chair. ‘I hear that sister-in-law of yours is pushing for some sort of local event to commemorate your grandfather.’

  ‘Well, it was my mother who wanted Grandfather’s work recognised in an exhibition. Rachael’s plans are her own. I get the feeling you don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  Sonia pursed her lips. ‘It’s my understanding that David Harrow wasn’t a showy man. I don’t think he would like something being held in the district.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He just wouldn’t,’ Sonia stated, her hands gripping the sides of the cream chair.

  ‘So, he was a quiet man, then, reserved perhaps?’

  ‘You could say that,’ the housekeeper agreed. ‘Although he was in his early fifties when I first laid eyes on him. My mother said he was a regular lad before the war, but more . . .’

  ‘Sensitive?’ Madeleine suggested. Sonia didn’t answer. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was, considering he was an artist. Sonia, your family has been associated with mine for a very long time. Do you know why there has always been a Jackson working at Sunset Ridge, over the decades? Surely that’s unusual in this day and age.’

  ‘To you, perhaps. Loyalty and tradition mean something out here.’ Sonia settled back in the chair, clearly satisfied with her answer.

  That was similar to Jude’s response when Madeleine had rung her mother earlier to ask the same question. Something in Sonia’s defensive tone suggested that loyalty wasn’t the only reason. ‘Perhaps, but I can’t help but ask if the Harrows owed your family something back then – a favour perhaps?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl. The Harrows don’t owe us anything. We owed them.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘It was a long time ago. Water under the bridge and all that. Suffice to say that my aunt, Julie Jackson, accepted a position here in 1918 and ever since the Jacksons have felt honour-bound to fill any role that’s required of us in this homestead.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  Sonia fiddled with the dust rag. ‘Nancy and I agreed that we’d never discuss it. Some things are best left alone.’

  ‘Sonia, you’ve got me intrigued.’

  ‘I knew this would happen, as soon as George told me you were making this trip.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Digging up the past. Believe me, although most of those involved back then are dead, the older families around the Banyan district have long memories and they won’t like it if you open old wounds. I wouldn’t like it. I’d like to live out my days in the village without the nasty gossip starting up all over again. So, please forget I said anything.’

  Madeleine bit her lip. She was itching to know more. ‘Okay. While I don’t see how telling me whatever it is could cause a problem, I respect the fact that you made a promise to Nancy.’

  ‘Good,’ Sonia replied. ‘What else do you want to ask me?’

  ‘I was wondering if any member of your family may have told you something about my grandfather. You know, a story or anecdote, or their opinion of him? You just said he wasn’t a showy man.’

  ‘He was a very fine man.’ Sonia removed a dust rag from the pocket of her apron and began to polish the top of a small side table. ‘Everyone knows that.’ She inclined her chin. ‘He deserved better than what he got.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, firstly, those two brothers of his, your great-uncles – may they rest in peace –’ Sonia looked to the ceiling briefly, ‘they were always leading him astray. And then there were his parents. Oh, but my grandmother said old G.W. was a hard man, hard as nails. They say he never got over losing that land in a bet over a fence. He had a screw loose, if you ask me. Who in their right mind bets part of a family property? Not that it was unfair; a gentleman’s handshake is just that.’

  Sonia certainly had strong opinions. ‘Please go on.’

  The housekeeper fiddled with the hem of her apron. ‘Well, it was on account of G.W. that his boys went to war. Of course, the old man may have regretted the way he behaved afterwards, but by then it was too late. The worst of it was that they got caught up with that piece of white trash, Corally Shaw.’

  Madeleine had never heard of the woman, and she said so.

  ‘I should think not. Respectable people don’t mix with her sort. But young men get carried away, and back then the pickings were slight. Why, with the way some families intermarried, it wasn’t uncommon for cousins to marry.’ The housekeeper leaned forward. ‘In fact, there are a number of married people around here now who are second cousins, twice removed.’

  Madeleine tried to decipher what Sonia meant. ‘Was there an illegitimate child? Is that what you mean?’ The housekeeper frowned. Madeleine wasn’t sure if Sonia was affronted or merely being evasive but she couldn’t risk irritating the older woman. ‘I do have another couple of questions. Do you know anything about two paintings entitled Then and Now? I found an account for two commissions and they were made out to a Miss C., but never mailed. Do you know who Miss C. was?’

  Sonia resumed her dusting.

  ‘Sonia?’ Madeleine persevered.

  ‘I’m thinking. If it was that Shaw woman I’d be mighty surprised. It’s more likely it was someone else.’ The older woman tapped her chin. ‘It could be a surname or a Christian name. Catherine Waites!’ Sonia’s face lit up like a light bulb. ‘Your grandfather had a governess by the name of Catherine Waites. It’s a long shot, but it could be her. It’s a pity Nancy isn’t still with us. I was scrounging through her things last night and –’

  ‘You still have her things?’ Madeleine tried not to sound too eager.

  ‘Well, of course. Nancy was my cousin, and we lived in the same house on and off for fifty years.’ Sonia smiled as she dusted. ‘The Jackson house in the village has been our sanctuary for a long time – since just after the war. Family members moved in and out depending on their circumstances; no job, between men, before and after children. Now it’s only me rambling about. I don’t know why any of us stayed on, really. I guess it was because we didn’t have anywhere else to go. Plus, in spite of what some people may think in this district, as I said, we always repay our debts.’ Sonia tucked the dust rag back into her apron pocket and stiffened a little. ‘Anyway, it’s hard to look back on your ancestors and wish their lives had been different.’

  Madeleine watched as the housekeeper moved about the sitting room plumping cushions on chairs and straightening already-straight paintings hanging from the picture rail. They were a mismatch of still lifes, flowers and fruit mainly, painted by Jude in the late 1950s. Madeleine had always considered such works as an artist’s training-wheels. ‘I found some show ribbons for the local fleece competition in the schoolroom. My mother said Mr Cummins won it every year.’

  Sonia brought sun-splotched hands to her cheeks. ‘There was such competition between G.W. Harrow and Mr Cummins. Nancy said the district waited every year for the Banyan Show just to see those two men face each other off inside the Wool Pavilion. Cummins had the edge, though. He knew his sheep.’

  ‘And my great-grandfather never won?’

  ‘Never, and Sunset Ridge stopped entering the competition after 1916. That was the year everything went wrong.’ The housekeeper retrieved an envelope from her apron. ‘When George told me you were going to visit I started going through Nancy’s papers. What with talk of an exhibition I figured you’d be needing anything you could get your hands on. I’ve seen those shows on television where they talk about an artist’s life. Here you go.’ She handed Madeleine a manila envelope. ‘Nancy wasn’t much of a hoarder, but I think these belonged to her mother, my aunt Julie.’

  The newspaper articles were from the spring of 1916. The first listed the Banyan Show results from day one of competition. A suited man with
an egg-shaped lump on the side of his head was pictured in front of the winning fleece. ‘Cummins!’ Madeleine exclaimed. There was also a grainy photograph of the Harrow boys standing in front of a dray with a piano roped down on it. ‘This is fantastic. Thank you, Sonia,’ she said, flicking through the numerous articles.

  ‘Don’t thank me until you’ve read them, my dear. Not everyone’s family history is what we would like it to be.’

  The next clipping was of a court case. Luther Harrow was accused of affray and branded a juvenile delinquent for chopping part of Wallace ‘Snob’ Evans’s finger off. Madeleine was goggle-eyed.

  ‘I told you,’ the housekeeper advised. ‘That incident – well, that was the beginning of the end.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sonia appeared surprised. ‘Well, because afterwards your great-grandfather kept them all locked up here on the property as punishment. Eventually all the boys ran away. Didn’t you know?’

  That afternoon Madeleine repeated details of her conversation with Sonia to George and Rachael, which led the three of them into the homestead office, where the station books were kept stored in a metal cupboard; it had been years since anyone had looked at them. Both Madeleine and George were stumped by Sonia’s revelation. George in particular had wondered at the idea of the Jacksons working on the property all these years in order to repay a debt.

  ‘They’ve all been paid good money as far as I know, and we pay Sonia the normal wage. It’s not like they’re working for free,’ George added, as he ran a finger down each page of the ledger he was studying.