Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  The girl rose and began to pace the oblong room. At the far end she stopped at the washstand. A bottle of lavender water sat next to a face cloth and a cake of Pears soap. Corally ran her finger absently across the soap and sniffed at the faint smell it left on her skin. ‘Haven’t you ever wanted something so bad that you could taste it?’ Turning on her heel, she faced the governess. ‘I have. I’ve wanted lots of things.’ She raised her eyes briefly to the ceiling. ‘A good feed, a mother who wanted better for her daughter, and a good man to take care of me.’

  Catherine interlaced long fingers in her lap. ‘Corally, ye are still very young. There is no rush.’

  ‘I didn’t go looking for them, Miss Waites.’ She jammed her fists in the pockets of her trousers. ‘I just made the best of my situation. I’ve always had a dead-eye dick aim. At least that’s what me pa calls it. Spit clean through the eye of a needle, he reckons, when I was just a wee thing. So, I began playing marbles and I beat every boy I had a mind to beat, and in the beating I realised something.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’d got their attention. Oh, not like a lady in a fancy dress or with a pretty face. It was something else.’ Corally raised her chin. ‘Respect. That ain’t something I ever had until I fleeced every boy in these here parts.’ The girl gave her a challenging stare. ‘Harold told me that there weren’t any other girls around the district like me.’

  ‘He admires ye,’ Catherine told her.

  ‘Yeah, well, admiration sounds real nice but in the end it doesn’t buy you squat.’

  ‘It gave ye Harold.’

  ‘Yes, it did. I’ve got smarts, Miss Waites, and smarts go beyond a fancy house and a name that means something to others. And I ain’t living my life in a fallen-down shack with nothing but a brood of little ’uns to show for my trouble because some hoity-toity parents don’t think I’m good enough for their boys.’ She swallowed. ‘So, that’s why when Harold Lawrence came knocking I said yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Catherine sat back in the armchair. It was nearing the time for supper and although she loathed the cramped communal dining room, her own quarters were bordering on claustrophobic. The young girl, standing so defiantly before her, drew so much energy that Catherine was beginning to feel flushed. ‘Ye don’t love him, do ye?’ She thought of Corally’s eager gaze as each letter was read aloud and the sheer disappointment that had emanated from her slight body upon realising there was nothing from the youngest of the Harrow boys. ‘It is Dave ye care for, isn’t it?’

  Corally scuffed at the floor as if she were standing in the dirt. Her nose turned pink. ‘You know, sometimes I look at the moon and I think that if I could just grab hold of it, if I could just have all that light shining down on me for just a moment, well, then maybe Dave would see me.’

  Catherine lit a candle in the darkening room. ‘All those boys are at war now, Corally.’

  The young girl crossed her arms across her chest. ‘So?’

  ‘Well, ye must write back to each of them.’ Catherine rubbed at her temples. ‘Ye must tell Thaddeus and Luther that there can only ever be friendship between ye. Ye have pledged yourself to Harold, after all, and it would be wrong to give the others false hope.’

  Corally chewed her bottom lip.

  ‘Ye have to do the right thing. Ye simply can’t lead young men on like this.’ For a moment Catherine thought the girl would refuse. She observed the set of Corally’s shoulders. ‘Come back tomorrow and I will help ye write the necessary letters.’

  The girl reluctantly agreed. ‘Can I have some writing paper to take with me tomorrow so I can practise my letters?’

  The request was surprising yet Catherine was pleased. ‘Of course, and there is something else worth considering, Corally. On Harold’s return he will have seen things that ye can only imagine; the great cities of England and France, different foods, architecture, clothing, language and women. European women.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, as ye are so determined to marry quickly and, well, don’t ye think it is time to start behaving and dressing accordingly? Ye don’t want Harold to come back and be . . .’ Catherine searched for the right word.

  ‘Disappointed?’ Corally challenged. ‘No, I don’t.’ The girl studied Catherine’s dress and then her hair. ‘I suppose I’ll have to learn from you, even though you are still unmarried.’ With a curt goodbye she left through the window.

  Corally edged along the side of the building. Dry grass cushioned her progress and at the end of the boarding house she peered down the ill-lit street. Half a block away a single lamp light opposite the courthouse broke the gathering dark. Large creamy moths flew into and around the light, filling the halo of brightness with movement. At the far end of the street a number of horses were tethered to the hotel hitching rail. The remainder of the street appeared to be deserted. Corally’s nose twitched; mutton, potatoes and the fatty scent of dripping made her curse the miles back to her parents’ shack by the cemetery. The polite people of the village were sitting down to their supper behind the soft glow of illuminated windows.

  With a final glance at the deserted street she began the walk home. There was no real reason why she chose to sneak to and from the boarding house. Mainly it was because Corally didn’t want the townsfolk sticky-beaking into her business, or that of Miss Waites. The governess was helping her, after all, and her pa said to be nice in return. It was a pity then that the governess had become like everyone else. Corally was yet to meet anyone who didn’t feel obliged to lecture her. With a little skip she left the outskirts of the village and walked into the scrub. Tomorrow she would sit patiently while Miss Waites dictated what she wanted her to send to the Harrow boys, then with the letters safely in her pocket she would take them back to the hut and burn them and then write her own. The only good thing about being offered advice was that you didn’t have to take it.

  Nathanial Taylor wiggled a horse-weary backside against the lumpy mattress cushioning the floorboards and stared at the narrow bed upended against the wall of the governess’s room. The novelty of being indoors and having his arse lifted two feet off the ground had not lasted long. Ever since Mrs Harrow requested he be bedded within the confines of the homestead garden some months ago, the walls of this new dwelling had been steadily closing in. Nathanial rolled sideways, pushing his riding boots out of the way. His old faithfuls were nearly past their prime. The leather was beginning to pull away from the sole. Some repair work was in order if they were to see him through another winter, especially as he had never been one for socks. He had run with the blacks up north for the first twenty years of his life and had learned to ride and to work livestock bare-foot. In pursuit of a woman nearly ten years ago he had relented and purchased his first pair of leather boots. The ones smelling up the place next to his head were his second.

  Through the open door the bush grew dark as the sun was consumed by the earth’s rotation. The scene was accompanied by the tinkle of piano music, a nightly occurrence and one that he enjoyed. Although the tune was unknown it rekindled memories of long nights by lonely camp fires and the odd woman who had passed his way, like diamonds from heaven. Lily Harrow’s touch was deft, and the nightly music became a backdrop to his musings and the unfolding nights. Turning on his side he watched a flock of white cockatoos wing their way towards the river. The birds left a gun-metal grey sky smeared at the edges with a purple hue as the bush quietened.

  He had been bashing about the outback for long enough to know when man and beast were in for a cold winter. G.W. Harrow’s cattle were already showing signs of healthy hair growth, a sure indication of a lengthy cold spell. At least the feed would hold out till spring now he had finally reached agreement with Mrs Harrow.

  They were to start shearing in a couple of days. With Sunset Ridge’s normal team unable to accommodate the changed date, Nathanial had called in a couple of favours and wa
ngled a team from down south. Once the clip was sold he then intended to sell two thousand head of Sunset Ridge’s breeding ewes. That would ease the pressure on the pasture and allow them to receive the full benefit of the highly anticipated spring rains. While he was loath to overrule G.W. Harrow’s management style, he had never been one for overstocking.

  Nathanial had expected a battle from the stoic Lily Harrow when it came to bringing the property’s shearing date forward, but it seemed the woman’s hands were full caring for her ailing husband and running the homestead. A man such as himself couldn’t ask for better circumstances; who would have thought he could slip into the role of managing such a property? Yet notwithstanding the fact that he had fallen on his feet, his current accommodation was less than satisfactory and he yearned to be back out in the bush. ‘She’s trussed me up like a broiling hen,’ Nathanial muttered, scratching at his neck hair. Lily Harrow had promised good food if he shifted camp to the old governess quarters, and he had been led in from the scrub by his stomach. It was soon apparent, however, that everything that lived and breathed was killed three times in that room they called a kitchen, and by the time it reached his plate in the evening Nathanial found himself sizing up his portion as if he were about to do battle. He would put up with the poor food for as long as it stayed chilly and he enjoyed the novelty of keeping the missus happy. That would last till spring, he reckoned.

  In spite of Cook’s limited ability Nathanial was not immune to the more pleasant side of his employment. The boss was not unattractive, and he admired her tenacity; indeed if the old man kicked the bucket he harboured ideas of cleaning himself up and edging a boot into the homestead. A man could not be blamed for having needs. And there was always the possibility that Lily Harrow would not be averse to a brief undoing. She wouldn’t be the first better-bred woman to take a fancy to him, even if such affairs were short-lived. For the moment, however, there was a live if decrepit husband and absent sons for Mrs Harrow to concentrate on. Nathanial wondered if the missus would sleep a little better tonight. Cook informed him at supper that the Harrow boys had finally written to her. This long-awaited information was divulged with folded arms and a tone that suggested he better not get too comfortable as manager. That was one thing about women, Nathanial mused: they courted death by assuming all would be well. He didn’t have the heart to wipe the sanctimonious look from Cook’s face by telling her that if all three Harrow boys were in France, their parents would be lucky to see two return to Sunset Ridge.

  The screech and rustle of flying foxes sounded from the gum trees behind the quarters. For small animals they sure made a ruckus. He had a mind to fire his rifle into the trees, but he knew that the ungainly feet-hangers would regroup within seconds, making any attempt to dislodge them futile. Nathanial sat upright and groped in the darkness for his roll-your-owns. The night was eating away at the station outbuildings. Little by little they disappeared to merge with the gloom of a moonless night.

  ‘Damn it all,’ he muttered when the tobacco pouch remained elusive. Scrabbling to his feet, he ran his hands across the dresser in the dark. A stub of candle and a box of matches were quickly located, but the ensuing light was weak. The candle box was empty and he had neglected to refill the kerosene lamp this morning. With a huff he jerked at the wooden drawers of the dresser, searching for a spare candle that would see him through the evening. With his few belongings thrown over the back of a chair or piled on the floor, there had been no need to rummage through the dresser drawers or narrow wardrobe; it had been a long time since he had hung or folded clothes.

  Nathanial ran calloused palms across the base of each empty drawer. About to give up, his search revealed a stack of papers. Lifting them free he flicked through the pages in the wan candlelight. They were a collection of sketches: strangely shaped people and animals and something that looked disturbingly similar to a chair. Nathanial itched at his beard and drew his formidable eyebrows together. Each drawing bore the initials DH in the lower right-hand corner. He guessed that one of the infamous Harrow boys was the artist responsible for the peculiar collection.

  Only a couple of the drawings appealed. They reminded him of Miss Waites, the young woman who worked in the village post office. Although a bit on the skinny side for his liking – he preferred a woman with bits he could hang on to – she wasn’t a bad sort. The sketches of the woman were pretty good. Nathanial could not recall when he had last seen the curve of a woman’s lip or the whorl of an ear close up. In fact, the images were so realistic they were almost indecent.

  Sitting the candle on the floor beside the sketches, he rolled a cigarette. The tobacco filled his lungs as he sorted through the drawings. The ones of the woman he left by his swag; the others were less enticing. He began to fold some of the animals and people into foot-long oblong shapes, as smoke trailed across his eyes from the cigarette dangling between his lips. On completion of his task, a pile of folded paper sat before him. Stubbing out the smoke, he flicked the remains out the door and began to line his boots with the paper. He pushed and prodded at the inside of each shoe until the drawings were moulded to the shape of his foot and the worn leather was reinforced by the new inners. He returned the unused sketches in the drawer. When eventually the task was completed Nathanial gave a satisfied nod. He too could appreciate art.

  Lily rode out through the house paddock and followed the track that led to the river. The air was cold. Ice crystals latticed the frost-crisp ground. It was many years since she had ventured out to this part of the property, and a good five years since she had last sat on a horse. In the days when her marriage was still soft and pliable, a weekly ride with G.W. was something of a treat. He was hers then, his attention yet to be stolen by the many responsibilities that gradually had drawn him from her side.

  There was a sense of freedom that came with riding, a sensation that had flooded back as soon as one of the young stockmen saddled up the bay mare. The boy barely spoke and had remained silent when she announced she would not be riding side-saddle. These days Lily had neither the time nor the inclination for a leisurely, ladylike trot around the paddock. She wanted to sit astride like a man, to feel the winter air on her face and to gallop headlong into it as if there were no tomorrow.

  It took time for Lily to settle into the animal’s natural gait. Her body felt cumbersome in the saddle and she was self-conscious about her old riding habit. The white shirt and tailored jacket were paired with riding pants hastily purchased from a catalogue a number of years ago and rarely worn. The mare plodded through the trees. Lily let the horse have its head, her gloved hand caressing the woody plants as they passed. Birds twittered prettily in spite of the frosty morning as they darted through the foliage, and it was with anticipation that Lily clucked the mare onwards.

  She steered the horse between the wide-girthed trees until the gentle slope of the river bank appeared. The mare halted and lowered her head and Lily let the reins slip through her fingers as the horse began to nibble at tufts of grass. She breathed in the tranquil surroundings, her breath white puffs in the cold air. Ahead, the slow chug of brown water wound its way along the waterway to disappear among trees and scrub and lignum.

  The mare walked forward grazing amid fallen timber, the crackling of fragile twigs and grasses disturbing a mob of sheep. The animals were strung out along the edge of the river, their heads dipping into the water as they drank. One or two lifted their heads and sniffed the air, then turned towards Lily, stamping their hoofs in annoyance. The mare swished her tail lazily as the sheep began to move, before they began to run along the bank in the opposite direction. River sand and dirt puffed up in their wake as the mob crossed a grassy verge and disappeared around the next bend in the waterway.

  Lily breathed in the morning scents of earth and animal and thought back to her life twelve months ago. How things had changed. She now knew that her three sons were engulfed in the greatest war mankind had ever seen and her once-r
obust husband was no more. He barely acknowledged the letters their sons wrote when she read them aloud, and if he did care when she tried to convey her concerns for their safety, he never showed it.

  The mare whinnied. Above the tree line the white glow of a winter sun was mottled by a wisp of cloud. Lily clucked her tongue, urging the horse down to the water’s edge. Now the cold of winter was with them G.W. was not so adamant in his need to rise early, which was why Lily had decided to go riding. She’d been housebound for too long. The doctor’s original diagnosis of a gradual deterioration of G.W.’s health was slow to materialise. Her husband remained stubbornly resistant to his predicted downfall. He made a point of walking every day, and his shuffle had improved so much that he could now amble about the homestead with the help of a sturdy silver-knobbed mahogany walking stick. While his speech remained slurred it too showed progress, and quite often he could be found silently forming words. Unable to write, he spent much of his time reading. There was no limit to the man’s willpower and, although Lily said nothing for fear of reproach, she was proud of G.W.’s fierce determination. If only the doctor were not more positive and she more patient. If only her husband still behaved as if he cared.

  Lily was torn between the resolve shown by her husband and the doctor’s prediction of an eventual worsening of his condition. With the prospect of an invalid to care for, she knew her days of freedom could be limited, and therein lay the most immediate problem. Lily needed to ensure that if the worst happened, the property would continue on as always. Sunset Ridge had been her life for so many years she could not foresee a future without the comfortable expanse of dirt swathing her in safety. If she could rely on Nathanial Taylor her reflections would be less worrying, but fate had made her realistic.

  Sunset Ridge’s manager was an unknown quantity, and no amount of searching through the station office had calmed her fears. G.W.’s response to her queries remained unhelpful, although it was clear he was not happy with Taylor’s promotion. There were no written references for Nathanial Taylor and no paperwork noting next of kin; in fact, the ledger entry stating the manager’s starting date and terms of employment was scant on detail, apart from a street address for a residence in the town of Charleville. Lily had penned a letter of enquiry, hopeful of obtaining a list of previous employers. Such lack of formal paperwork was hardly cause for concern, yet now her days had settled into a more regular routine she queried whether Nathanial Taylor was qualified to manage such a large holding.