Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  Harold reappeared from under the water, shaking his head like a dog. ‘You have to give me more than that.’

  Luther flicked the cigarette butt into the air. ‘I m-met a girl in Sydney before w-we sailed.’ The lie slid off his tongue.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Luther pictured Corally the last time they were together, crimson-cheeked and wet-lipped. ‘She’s d-different, I guess. Th-there are no airs and graces with her and she’s p-pretty, p-prettier than any girl I’ve laid eyes on.’

  ‘Like my Corally.’

  Luther told himself that it would be a hard-hearted female who broke a man’s heart in wartime, so it was likely that Corally still wrote to Harold. Luther considered telling Harold the truth about his relationship with Corally, but it was easier to say nothing, especially with another big push in the wind. He could only guess at Harold’s sadness and Thaddeus’s shock if they discovered that the woman they were supposedly fighting over was actually keen on him. No, it was far better to wait for Corally to clear up the mis­understanding. Luther didn’t want to be in the middle of an argument when they next fronted Fritz.

  ‘Engaged, eh? Well, I’m not surprised at anyth-thing a w-woman agrees to during wartime,’ Luther said cautiously. ‘A mate of ours b-blown up at Messines reckoned th-they change their mind like the w-weather. Why, he had a girl and she wr-wrote and t-told Marty they were over the day b-before we left for France. Makes it easy, you know,’ Luther picked at the lice trailing through the hair on his legs, ‘l-letters. You can say one th-thing and mean th-the other.’

  Harold snorted water up his nose. ‘Not my Corally. Anyway, what’s happening at Sunset Ridge?’

  Luther was pleased to change the topic. ‘Mother’s still p-pretty riled and she never m-mentions Father, it’s all about the p-property. Anyone would th-think she was in charge of it now. Shearing is over and they sold two th-thousand ewes at a good p-price.’

  ‘My parents say you have a manager, some bloke called Nathan­ial Taylor, and that your father’s ill.’

  Luther disagreed. ‘If he was th-that sick she w-would have told us, I’m sure.’

  ‘I guess. Anyway, I feel sorry for them. At least I told my parents what I was doing, but you lot just buggered off.’

  ‘And I t-told you why. Anyhow, you w-would th-think Mother would have calmed down a l-little by now. It’s nearly nine months since w-we left, b-but every letter is th-the same. She’s always accusing Th-thaddeus and m-me of dragging Dave t-to war and reminding us th-that his l-life is in our hands.’ Luther sighed. ‘I didn’t w-want him to come.’

  ‘She’s angry,’ Harold agreed.

  Luther listened to the splash of water against the side of the tub.

  ‘Wash my back, Luther.’

  ‘B-bugger off. Come on, hop out b-before th-the w-water turns black.’ Luther stepped out of his long underwear, revealing a muscular, taut physique. They swapped positions.

  Luther settled himself in the tepid water and began to scrub himself. ‘Do you th-think it’s a good thing, this painting of Dave’s?’

  ‘What do you think? Sketching the likenesses of the soon-to-be-murdered.’

  Luther washed his face. ‘Well, remind m-me not to get my p-picture done.’

  ‘The ones of home, of Sunset Ridge and the Banyan River, they’re the ones I like. Now he’s too busy drawing soldiers.’ Harold pulled on his trousers and stretched out on the ground.

  ‘W-well, you’re his b-business manager, Harold; and let’s face it, th-there isn’t too much demand for p-pictures of t-trees.’ Luther scrubbed the nape of his neck; the men never seemed able to rid themselves of lice. Giving his head a final dunk, Luther stepped out of the trough and shook himself dry before dressing.

  ‘Lovely; a man can’t even dry off in peace,’ Harold complained, wiping at the droplets sprayed across his chest.

  A couple of hundred yards away Dave sat cross-legged opposite another young soldier, his stare intent. It was the type of look that took in a man’s face, broke it apart and then reassembled it piece by piece. Such visual interrogation unnerved Luther – it was as if his young brother could see inside a person’s soul. Although he had not voiced an opinion, Luther agreed on the governess Miss Waites being reprimanded for encouraging such feminine inclinations; painting simply wasn’t a good pastime for a man. Yet he had to concede that the sketches gave the men something to talk about, and if Dave’s drawings helped take the men’s minds off where they were and what they had to go back to, well, then that wasn’t such a bad thing, he supposed. Not that Luther would ever have his own portrait done. That was for men like Thaddeus who deserved to be officers.

  His decision had nothing to do with the men Dave sketched who now lay dead.

  At the rickety table where diggers played cards, a fight broke out.

  Harold jumped to his feet. ‘That’ll be Thorny. His blood’s worth bottling, but give him half a mo and he’s backchatting the best of them.’

  Cards were strewn across the ground and the table was upturned. Thorny was backed up against a tree, muttering something unintelligible, a bottle in one hand, his impressive eyebrows an unbroken line.

  ‘He just went off,’ one of the shocked diggers explained as he gathered up the playing cards.

  Thorny took a glug from the bottle. The liquor ran down his chin, leaving splats of darkness on his tunic. Very slowly he slid down the tree trunk.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Harold cajoled. He turned to Luther. ‘I’ve never seen him like this. He’s always been a straight shooter with the bottle.’

  ‘L-let him sleep it off. He’ll b-be right,’ Luther suggested.

  ‘Will he? He’s my number two on the gun, Luther. He’s my responsibility. And he’s a good bloke. He follows instructions, never argues and he’s a brave little bastard.’ Harold prised the bottle from Thorny’s grasp and threw it aside. ‘I’ve lost two number twos and Thorny knows it, so I made a pact with him that I’d watch his back.’

  Luther thought of his own mother’s wishes regarding Dave and stretched out his aching shoulders. War wasn’t the place for expectation.

  An appreciative whistle stirred the billeted soldiers’ interest. A dark-haired young woman was walking up from the stream carrying a bucket of water. A blue headscarf framed her pretty features and matched her long skirt, which swished across the grass. Three soldiers rushed to her aid, one managing to take the bucket. The men shadowed the girl up the slight incline, chatting and joking along the way. A short distance from the farmhouse the girl retrieved the bucket of water and gave a coy thank you.

  ‘Bonjour, Lisette.’ Dave waved as the girl retreated into the farmhouse. He looked at the sketchpad resting across his legs. It was filled with images of his mates. Most of them were pretty life-like, although he knew he had a long way to go before he could be considered a proper artist.

  ‘You w-won’t have any joy there,’ Luther advised, walking towards him with Thaddeus in tow. ‘The m-missus keeps her under l-lock and key.’

  ‘Very funny. Anyway, I’m hungry,’ Dave complained.

  ‘Th-the kid’s got worms,’ Thaddeus replied.

  ‘Well, as long as he doesn’t start dragging himself across the ground in front of Madame Chessy.’ Luther’s nose twitched. The door to the whitewashed farmhouse was ajar. Light struck the flagstone floor of the kitchen, highlighting the low wooden beams within. ‘I smell eggs.’

  The crashing of pans and a male yelp was quickly followed by the appearance of Trip and Fall emerging from the farmhouse with Madame Chessy in pursuit.

  ‘Leave off, missus!’ Fall complained. ‘We was only after a few eggs.’

  ‘No eggs for you. Comprenez!’ Madame Chessy threw a rolling pin at Trip, striking him in the middle of his back; the missile off-balanced him, throwing him sideways so that he veered into his brother. Two sets of arms and l
egs twisted and fell.

  Thaddeus and Dave flinched.

  ‘We should p-put her in the front-line,’ Luther recommended.

  ‘You will eat me out of the ’ouse and the ’ome,’ Madame Chessy responded to Thaddeus’s attempts at placation, her floury finger waggling like a thick worm. ‘If you want extra food you must find it. I have no more to sell.’

  Luther rolled his lips into a smile. ‘There’s a nice little chateau on the edge of T-tatinghem village. Word is a bunch of Scots have set themselves up th-there for a fortnight.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Anyone interested in a l-little reconnaissance mission t-tonight?’

  ‘Count me in,’ Thaddeus answered. ‘We’ll dine on meat and plonk tomorrow.’

  ‘Plonk?’ Madame Chessy repeated with interest, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Yeah, plonk: wine, th-the grape, vin blanc,’ Luther enthused.

  Madame Chessy smacked a kiss on Luther’s cheeks.

  ‘I think she understands what you mean, Luther,’ Thaddeus told his brother. ‘But in the meantime we’re going to need something to eat. It’s nearly midday.’

  Luther winked at his brother. ‘L-let’s go fishing.’

  Temporary field hospital, France

  August 1917

  Francois sat on the edge of the bed massaging the thigh muscle above his amputated leg. At times he wondered what cruel tricks the saints played on him, for at night the phantom foot ached and his toes cramped horribly. At least today he could sit upright for more than the usual hour and his overworked lung was steadier, making his breathing more consistent. The improvements in his general health were excruciatingly slow yet they were visible and progressing. Three operations and a further six inches taken from the stump and the doctor seemed certain that the bone infection had been eradicated. For the past few weeks Francois had con­centrated on strengthening his remaining whole leg. The exertion he experienced initially from even the most basic exercises, such as pushing down on the floor while seated, was evidence of the long months spent inactive as he had lain caught between life and death. However, there was much to spur him onwards, for Sister Valois had agreed to his transfer to a ward for the living, once space could be found.

  The cot next to his was vacant again; at least seven soldiers had come and gone from the bed to be interred in the cemetery at the edge of the woodland – and they were the ones Francois could remember. Yet he still remained struggling back towards life. He could taste his growing survival in the bread and soft cheese that liquefied softly in a grateful belly. A soldier’s rations – biscuits and coffee tainted by the petrol cans the water was carried in – were gone forever. He had lost a leg, but his injury had set him free and he was far from being ashamed at his good fortune. As he plied the weakened tissue of his thigh, two young nurses moved around him checking on the day’s arrivals. The empty cots that had given up their occupants so easily to the soil beyond the chateau now contained a new batch of maimed who were undergoing the usual routine of sharply folded sheets and the taking of weakening pulses. Francois wasn’t sure who benefited the most from these simple tasks, but these procedures and the daily rounds undertaken by Sister Valois and the doctor broke the monotony of the long days. Watching the men and women work also took his impatient thoughts away from the set of crutches that leaned against the wall next to him. He had asked for the crutches and determined that very soon he would stand again, walk again. In defying the odds he grew more resolute.

  The large double doors to the ward opened and Sister Valois arrived. She clapped her hands. ‘Out, if you please,’ she said to the nurses.

  They stopped their tasks immediately and filed down the middle of the ward, their intrigue evident. Once alone, Sister Valois stood at the foot of Francois’ cot. ‘How are you feeling today, Francois?’

  Surrounded by prone bodies, Francois felt little excuse to be miserable. ‘Better.’

  ‘Good. I don’t wish to get you excited, Francois, however –’ Her words were lost amid shouts of confusion and the sound of running feet.

  Francois looked towards the door. An American captain strode towards him, weary delight evident on his features. Francois didn’t recognise the man, indeed he was slightly alarmed by such a visitation. ‘Le Capitaine,’ he said, snapping off a salute, the first in many months. The action off-balanced him and Francois struggled to remain upright, at pains to ensure both respect for his superior and his own dignity.

  ‘Relax, son, I’ve brought a friend,’ the captain said in stilted French.

  Gripping the sides of the cot, Francois waited. There were any number of soldiers who might appear, yet uppermost in his mind was the possibility of Antoine walking through the door. ‘Have you found him? Have you found my brother?’

  The American captain and Sister Valois exchanged a brief glance.

  ‘He is missing in action, Francois, presumed dead, and with the time that has passed . . .’ She placed a hand on Francois’ shoulder. ‘We’ve talked of this. Your mother received notification of your brother’s death last year. She has spoken of this in the letters she writes to you.’

  Francois’ eyes glittered. ‘You think me wrong to hope?’

  ‘Only when desire clouds reality,’ she replied softly.

  Francois fingered the edge of the blanket beneath him.

  ‘We have your brother’s identity discs,’ Captain Harrison explained, waiting for Sister Valois to translate.

  ‘So then, he is gone.’ Francois looked at the empty cot next to him. ‘I knew it, Sister.’ He wiped a tear from his eye. ‘I just didn’t want to believe.’

  ‘There’s more.’ The captain’s voice brightened. ‘As I said, I’ve brought someone to visit you.’

  It was then that Francois heard the noise. The sound of running, the sound of an animal, the sound of –

  Roland tore through the ward door and slid across the parquet floor, slamming into a soldier’s cot. The wounded man moaned as the dog regained his footing and in great lumbering strides headed for Captain Harrison.

  ‘Roland!’ Francois called, his voice muffled by emotion.

  A few yards from the American, Roland slid to a halt and began to keen softly, his shaggy head lolling from side to side as he realised who sat before him. Moving tentatively towards his wounded master, Roland jumped on the bed beside Francois, shaking the cot so violently that Francois fell sideways onto the blanket. The dog barked excitedly and covered Francois with noisy saliva-filled licks. Those among the seriously ill who could, looked across to see what the commotion was about.

  ‘I told you,’ Francois said breathlessly to Sister Valois. ‘I told you. It’s Roland, he’s come back.’

  The captain wiped a hand across his nose. ‘Highly irregular, eh, Sister?’

  Sister Valois stared at the scruffy animal, recalling what this ugly dog had done. ‘If Roland is to visit with the patients,’ she cleared her throat, ‘then he will have to have a bath.’

  From a cot in the ward came the soft sound of a breathless whistle. Roland pricked up his ears.

  Captain Harrison smiled at the sister. ‘Well, I think Francois will have some competition for Roland’s attention.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain, thank you.’ Francois buried his face in Roland’s shaggy coat.

  ‘After what this dog has done,’ Captain Harrison said, ‘well, I can honestly say it’s my pleasure.’ He watched as Sister Valois patted Roland, speaking to the animal in French.

  ‘I remember you, Roland,’ Sister Valois said. ‘I remember you from Verdun.’

  The dog gave a single bark and then cradled his head beneath Francois’ arm, his body quivering in excitement.

  Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia

  February 2000

  ‘You made quite an impression at the museum the other day.’

  Madeleine stopped tapping at
the laptop keys. She had been so engrossed in her work that Sonia’s entrance had come unannounced. The older woman carried an empty string bag in one hand and a collapsed removalist’s cardboard carton in the other. Saving her work, Madeleine swivelled in the rickety wooden chair and greeted Sonia, a little embarrassed at the messy state of the room. After yesterday’s negative response from the gallery and the resulting argument between husband and wife, Madeleine had elected to spend the remainder of her time on the property secluded in the bedroom. There was a half-empty bottle of chardonnay on the roll-top desk, along with the partially eaten remains of last night’s dinner. The rest of the space on the desk was covered with paperwork while a fan of material formed a circle at her feet.

  ‘Well, I thought a visit to town might help with the research into Grandfather’s life, which it did, especially when added to what Ross Evans told my brother yesterday.’

  Sonia raised a wiry eyebrow. ‘Ross Evans spoke to George?’

  ‘There’s far too much cloak-and-dagger stuff going on, Sonia. George and I know that your aunt, Julie Jackson, as well as old Mrs Evans, benefited from my grandfather’s compassion, and it would appear that that kindness came in the form of money. How the Cummins family got caught up in all of this is beyond us, and whether or not this turn-of-the-century drama involved Germans in some way is unclear. What I can’t understand is why in this day and age you all still feel so compelled to hide the truth.’

  Sonia twisted the string bag. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out about your father the way you did, Madeleine. That was wrong.’

  Powering off the laptop, Madeleine felt inclined to tell the housekeeper to mind her own business. ‘Well, now I know,’ she replied tersely, ‘although you can imagine how I feel learning that the district knew about my father’s drinking problem and I didn’t. Anyway, are you going to answer my question?’