Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  The crack of a rifle sounded, once, twice.

  ‘That’s some young nob shooting kangaroos out of a carriage window. They’re letting him shoot ’cause he’s giving the train guards a shot as well and the men are placing bets, so the sergeant over there tells me. Four from four; a crack shot, he is.’

  Dave had a sudden and unpleasant recollection of being dragged along the board by the ankle and then punched and kicked until his face hit dirt.

  ‘Seems like you got caught ’cause of me.’ The man gave him a guilty look and chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘They wouldn’t have got me except I helped myself to a bit of food from the local store and the owner had the coppers onto me right fast. I never realised you were in the shed. Anyway, next minute the both of us are in the hands of the army. Those soldiers,’ he gestured to the end of the carriage, ‘were out bush following up on a lead from a farmer. Riley and Turtle over there,’ the man pointed to two men seated nearby, ‘joined up a few months back but jumped before they were due to set sail. They’ve been holed up in an empty water tank for weeks, living off the land. Near dry-boiled, they were, in this heat.’

  ‘Why?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Why? ’Cause they changed their mind. They don’t want to go and fight the bloody Hun, especially since the bastards are killing us like we’re the rabbits in a rabbit shoot.’

  Dave looked at Riley and Turtle. Both men sat with their arms locked around their knees. Their faces were red and peeling. ‘So, they were running away?’

  ‘Everyone’s running from something.’ He eyed Dave carefully. ‘Thing is, a few months back you might get a white feather, but a man could live with being a cold-footer, especially if his mates had already been blown to bits back in ’15. But now, what with so many dead and maimed and that bloody Billy Hughes and his referendum on conscription, well the whole country’s arguing. I thought I’d go bush, get meself a job and lie low until the toffs had finished blowing everyone up over there. Turns out the folks out in the scrub want everyone to be a hero as well. Anyway, they bundled us both up and the next thing we’re on the Western Mail heading to Sydney. I got a choice – gaol for stealing or a job with army pay. Them fellas were real convincing.’ He rubbed his jaw, wiggled a tooth. ‘It’s a pity. Normally the women would cross the road for a better look at me, but I ain’t at my finest at the moment.’

  ‘Sydney,’ Dave repeated. He had heard of the city often enough but now that he was travelling towards it, it didn’t sound so appealing.

  One of the soldiers walked the length of the swaying carriage. His hat was propped on the back of his head and an unlit cigarette appeared glued to his lower lip. ‘Name?’

  ‘David Harrow.’

  ‘Stand up when you’re being spoken to.’

  Dave got to his feet unsteadily.

  ‘That’s better. Now, what were you doing with Marty in that wool shed?’

  Dave swallowed. ‘Nothing. I got lost. I was heading to Banyan to find my brothers.’

  ‘Well, the army takes no responsibility for runaways who find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ The sergeant lit the cigarette and peered at Dave through the smoke. ‘You look familiar. What did you say your surname was?’

  ‘Harrow,’ Dave repeated.

  ‘Bugger me.’ The sergeant took a drag of his cigarette and then nodded his head back in the direction he had come from. ‘This way.’

  Dave sidestepped Riley’s and Turtle’s now outstretched limbs as he battled the shuddering train with legs unaccustomed to movement. He squeezed past the horses, and was greeted by a blast of fresh air and harsh daylight as he followed the sergeant from one carriage to the next and then on up a centre aisle lined with bench seats. This carriage was packed with young men of varying ages. Groups were huddled together, laughing and joking, some smoking and playing cards, others betting on a game of two-up. Towards the rear of the carriage, fifteen or so men were gathered in a semi-circle around a carriage window. A rifle shot rang out and a chorus of cheers went up.

  ‘You lot,’ the sergeant called out, addressing the group.

  ‘C’mon, Serg,’ one of the youths commented. ‘We’re only having a bit of fun.’

  ‘You Harrow boys breed like flaming rabbits,’ the sergeant announced to the two occupants kneeling on the bench seat. ‘I’ve found another one.’ He pushed Dave forward, his hand gripping his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be damned, Dave, what are you doing here?’ Thaddeus asked, lowering his rifle.

  ‘Dave?’ Luther was bug-eyed.

  ‘Likely the same as the rest of us,’ the sergeant said, looking at Dave, ‘considering he’s part-way to Sydney.’ He glanced back to Thaddeus and raised an eyebrow. ‘Brother?’

  ‘Yes. What happened?’ Thaddeus asked.

  ‘Holy frost,’ Luther frowned, ‘you’re bl-black and bl-blue.’ He reached for the tomahawk at his side.

  Thaddeus stayed him with a cautionary hand.

  The sergeant looked the three of them up and down like they were week-old bread and bared pointed teeth. ‘The lad here got caught up in a kerfuffle that likely wouldn’t have happened if he’d not been out wandering the bush in the middle of the night, apparently searching for you.’ Finally he let go of Dave’s shoulder. ‘Well, he’s your responsibility now.’ He waved a finger at Luther. ‘And I know who you are. You’re the lad that maimed that boy. So, you behave yourself, Chopper Harrow.’

  Luther grinned.

  ‘What happened?’ Thaddeus asked again when the sergeant left them and the assembled crowd lost interest in the conversation.

  ‘Father belted me and locked me up because I didn’t know where you two had run off to and he thought I was lying. So I ran away.’ He sat heavily on the bench seat. ‘Do you have any water?’ he asked tiredly.

  ‘C-crikey.’ Luther passed Dave his water bag. ‘The old fella’ll h-have our h-hides.’

  Dave drank thirstily. ‘What are you two doing here?’

  Thaddeus scratched a fuzz-covered chin. ‘When I didn’t meet up with Luther I figured I might as well get the train to Sydney. And, bugger me, if he wasn’t sitting up in the first carriage when we stopped at Whitewood.’

  ‘What w-will we d-do with him?’ Luther asked Thaddeus.

  Thaddeus looked out the carriage window. The countryside was a blur. ‘Well, he can’t go back. G.W. will go near to killing him after everything that’s happened. He’ll have to come with us.’

  ‘With us?’ Luther repeated. ‘You’ve g-got to be j-joking.’

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  Luther scowled. ‘T-talk about th-things not going t-to plan.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’ Thaddeus asked.

  Luther ignored the question. ‘He’ll n-never get through. He’s t-too young.’

  Thaddeus studied his younger brother. ‘He’s tall enough, and if he’s with us there’s a good chance they’ll take him as well.’

  ‘For what?’ Dave’s head was pounding.

  ‘The sergeant reckons the British are pushing the government for five-thousand-odd Australian reinforcements a month,’ Thaddeus continued. ‘They’ll take him.’

  Luther shook his head. ‘I d-don’t know, Th-thaddeus.’

  Dave took another slug of water. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Luther turned to his brother. ‘War, D-dave. He’s t-talking about going to war.’

  Banyan, south-west Queensland, Australia

  Late October 1916

  Catherine Waites stared out the window of the Banyan Post Office and thought of the life she had left behind. It had been days since Dave’s disappearance and two days since her position as governess on Sunset Ridge had ceased to exist. Her former employer, G.W. Harrow, had spent every afternoon following his youngest son’s desertion on the homestead veranda. He sat there from midday on, a
lone figure tapping anxious fingers. Around him station life continued. Sheep were rotated into different paddocks and checked for flies, fences were inspected, and repairs made where necessary, and watering points checked. The recently purchased cows now appeared to be G.W.’s primary concern. Rodger revealed to Catherine before he left that an old boundary hut was being rebuilt where the cattle were running, and a man well past his prime had been employed to watch over them. If the stockmen thought anything amiss with the boss’s constant vigilance, they never uttered a word. All living on the property knew that the Harrow boys had run off; they went about their duties with quiet efficiency, arriving at daybreak for their orders and retreating to their quarters at dusk.

  And still G.W. Harrow sat. It was an image Catherine would carry for the rest of her life; a middle-aged man, sitting on his homestead veranda, waiting for his three sons to ride in from the scrub.

  Catherine remembered once again the last conversation she’d had with Rodger.

  ‘What will you do?’ Rodger’s hand was warm on hers the morning he came to say goodbye.

  ‘Try and find employment in the village,’ she replied. ‘I just feel the boys will be back.’

  Rodger pinched her cheek lightly. ‘I’ll write you care of the Banyan Post Office.’

  ‘Cook’s taken to the bottle,’ Catherine revealed as her arm looped through his. ‘Dave was her favourite. She told me she thinks he fell to harm in the scrub.’ Her lips puckered. ‘Injured and eaten by wild pigs, she says. Och, no wonder she screams in her sleep.’

  Rodger pressed his lips to her brow. ‘Don’t think the worst.’

  Catherine wasn’t convinced. ‘Ye will be careful?’ Her cheek was against his, the scent of him filling her so completely that Catherine wondered once again how she could ever let him go to the other side of the world.

  ‘I thought we weren’t to speak of war?’

  ‘You’re right, we weren’t.’ She brushed her lips against his. ‘Just the same,’ she said softly, ‘be careful and . . . come back to me.’

  Outside, a dray trundled slowly past the ironmongery, waves of gritty dirt blowing the length of the unmade road. The dust swirled in through the window, and as Catherine slammed it shut, perspiration trickled the length of her spine. The post office – now her place of employment – was an uninspiring edifice of timber, with a narrow veranda and four constricting wooden pillars. It was deceptively bright inside the square building and unceasingly bland. A long counter cut the room in half; a row of chairs lined the customer side, while behind Catherine were the wooden mail pigeonholes and behind that desks and postal bags. Were it not for recent events, Catherine never would have accepted the position advertised in the local newspaper by the postmistress, Mrs Dempsey. Her options, however, were limited if she wanted to stay in the district. The local school had no vacancies and the larger outlying stations either already employed governesses or sent their sons away to board at city schools.

  Catherine blew her nose on a linen handkerchief. An eerie noise was keeping her sleepless at night in the boarding house, and if she had not known better she could have sworn it was the sound of someone wailing. She was so tired and worried. She couldn’t stop revisiting the night Dave ran away. It was Rodger who had found Dave’s sketches lying outside on the grass and, try as she may, Catherine couldn’t help but blame herself. Somehow, perhaps quite unwittingly, she had played a part in the boy’s decision to leave and guilt gnawed at her.

  ‘You all right then, Miss?’

  Catherine stepped behind the wooden counter and pasted a smile on her face. ‘Guid morning.’

  ‘One stamp, please.’ The man wore a white apron; flour speckled his clothing. ‘I know you. You’re the governess from out at the Harrows’ place,’ he said, sliding a coin across the counter.

  ‘Was,’ Catherine admitted, picking up the coin and putting it in the tin change box. The man was stringy looking with a knob of crow-black hair on the crown of his head. She selected a stamp from the stamp book in the counter drawer and stuck it on the letter.

  ‘Well, never mind. Probably just as well to be out of the place. Mob of hoodlums, those boys. Cut my lad’s finger clean off, that Luther did. Bugger of a boy, excusing my language, Miss.’

  Catherine bristled. Flipping the lid on the stamp pad, she inked the round postage stamp and bashed it on the letter. ‘Well, Mr Evans, as I believe ye have just purchased a share in the funeral parlour with the compensation due your son, it certainly wasn’t all bad, was it?’

  Evans’s bottom lip flapped open, revealing three spaces where teeth should have been. Dropping the letter into one of the gaping postal bags slung over a wooden frame, Catherine watched him leave the post office.

  Across the street the Imperial Café opened its door, followed by the general store. The village came alive gradually, although the clanging of metal from the blacksmith and the distant sound of the steam-driven saw at the lumberyard had been disturbing the otherwise sleeping village since daylight. Catherine wondered again at Dave’s disappearance. The entire station knew that the youngest of the Harrow boys had been soundly whipped and locked in his room and yet somehow his sketches had ended up abandoned in the dirt outside her quarters. She thought back to the early hours of that morning, when Rodger stepped outside and found Dave’s sketches lying in the dirt.

  ‘He’s in love with you,’ Rodger announced. Having gathered the sketches up in the dark of pre-dawn, he had delivered them back to her room, and they had studied them side by side.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous; he’s a child.’

  The sketches said otherwise. Rodger gazed at the portraits of Catherine. ‘These are,’ he looked at her, ‘beautiful.’

  She knew that the images were indeed masterful, yet were they her? No, every detail, every attribute had been heightened, refined, rendered beautiful. Catherine knew she may have been the subject but she doubted that anyone could ever guess the sketches were of her. With a twinge of delight she realised she had inspired him. She was the artist’s muse.

  ‘Perhaps he saw us through the window,’ Rodger suggested, turning a sheet of paper upside down, absorbed by a sketch of a dismembered chicken.

  ‘I dinna understand. What would he have seen?’ she asked. ‘The curtain was drawn.’

  ‘Enough?’ Rodger replied. ‘Was it drawn enough?’ He gathered the sketches together. ‘You keep them,’ he suggested. ‘If he comes back –’

  ‘When he comes back,’ she corrected, ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’ In the end, she had not taken the precious sketches. She had left them behind.

  ‘Miss Waites,’ Mrs Dempsey said unnecessarily loudly. ‘Nothing to do, is there? Time to daydream out the window, have you?’ The postmistress jangled a brass ring of keys in Catherine’s face and then slid them across the counter. ‘Second cupboard. Two parcels for Mrs Marchant, thank you; she has just arrived in the village.’

  Catherine retrieved the parcels and sat them on the counter as three gentlemen walked past to line up for the services of the telegraph office.

  Mrs Dempsey observed the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter. ‘Well, get ready, girl. We are approaching rush hour. Remember?’

  Catherine checked the penny stamps and the day’s postmark and rearranged the selection of writing paper and matching envel­opes displayed on the polished counter.

  ‘And?’ Mrs Dempsey asked.

  Catherine double-checked the counter’s contents once again. ‘Och, I’m sorry I don’t –’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Stuck out there in that big fancy house oblivious to what’s going on in the world.’

  ‘I’m not oblivious to anything, Mrs Dempsey.’ Catherine’s nostrils flared.

  The three older gentlemen lined up at the far end of the room turned in their direction.

  ‘No, of course you’re not,’ Mrs Dempsey replied t
artly, greeting the waiting men with a polite nod. ‘The scales? Don’t you think there will be mothers sending comfort parcels to their boys at the front? Once a month I sent something to my lad. Soap, a book, socks or a flask of brandy – anything to get him through the worst of it.’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Och, yes. Sorry.’ Retrieving the scales from the cupboard, Catherine sat them on the counter.

  ‘Now, the Cobb & Co. coach comes through Banyan once a week at noon and there’s a mighty amount of mail to be sorted and dispatched onwards, the majority of which is then delivered to the outlying stations. I’ll be depending on you to handle this quickly and efficiently.’ She looked Catherine up and down again, as if suspecting she had missed something on first inspection. ‘This isn’t some soft job, if that’s what you were expecting. This isn’t some squatter’s homestead with a cook and maids to be at your beck and call.’

  ‘I do realise that, Mrs Dempsey.’

  ‘Do you? Well, I don’t expect to come in here and find you staring out the window.’ The older woman balanced a pair of spectacles on the bridge of her nose. ‘Now, I’ve some errands to run.’

  The customers arrived soon after Mrs Dempsey’s departure. ‘Neatly timed,’ Catherine muttered as the queue reached fifteen. She sold twenty one-penny stamps to a red-eyed woman with a pile of black-rimmed funeral cards.

  ‘Her husband, dead at forty,’ the next customer explained. ‘Never should have been accepted. He had a gammy leg.’

  After that, the morning became a blur. One strange face was replaced by another and then another. The majority of the customers introduced themselves, eyeing her with interest. She was learning that word spread quickly in the village. All the women knew who Catherine was and where she came from and most had comments to make.