‘Where have you been?’ Francois scratched the animal’s nose. ‘Chasing rabbits again, eh?’
Roland barked and whined in response and Francois could only imagine the tale that was being told. He patted the bench seat and Roland jumped, sprawling his body up across the cool stone so that his head lay in Francois’ lap. He fingered the dog’s leather collar, touching the smooth discs that had once hung around his brother’s neck. It was a comfort to know that Roland had found Antoine; had perhaps laid a great paw on his chest and rested with him in the detritus of Verdun.
Francois wondered if he should have written sooner to his mother instead of relying on Sister Valois to do it. In her last letter she had sounded very sad, and he wondered if his letter explaining the improvement in the infection had not arrived. Francois wanted to be whole again, to return home the same man as the one who had left the chilly farmhouse last year. Putting pen to paper remained difficult. To try to explain everything that had happened, to write of the dark abyss he had crossed, the loss of his leg and of Antoine’s death . . . Francois stroked Roland’s back absently. It would have made everything too real, too final, and he wasn’t ready for that. Francois had been in a dark place, a place part of him would never return from. He understood this was the way things had to be because his other half, his brother, lay in the muck and he had survived, and he would never understand why fate had chosen Antoine and not him.
Above, birds darted through the foliage. Roland followed the fluttering shapes with interest.
‘Francois?’
A young aide was holding a long envelope. Francois accepted it and thanked the girl as an ambulance motored up the driveway towards the chateau. Roland sat up.
‘And Sister Valois said to tell you –’
Francois waved her away. ‘I know, I know.’ By his side Roland barked.
The door to the American Field Ambulance opened and Captain Harrison emerged. Francois knew he should greet the doctor but instead he watched and waited as the American was directed to where he and Roland sat. The captain was no stranger to the chateau, having taken Sister Valois to tea on a number of occasions in a nearby village a week after his arrival with Roland before completing his leave at Amiens. Now, however, the man was clearly short for time. He crossed the lawn quickly, weaving between wheelchairs and more able-bodied soldiers.
‘How are you feeling?’ the captain asked, although his attention was diverted by Roland’s enthusiastic greeting.
‘Better,’ Francois replied. Although the captain had a long way to go before he could speak French fluently, the American had benefited from his time spent with Sister Valois.
‘So I see. You’ll be going home in a matter of weeks, I hear.’
‘And you to the front,’ Francois answered. ‘How was your leave?’
‘Amiens is not as I remembered it. Parts of the city were shelled.’ Captain Harrison petted Roland and joined Francois on the bench. ‘Sometimes I think I should have stayed here and courted Sister Valois. I’m sure she’s fond of me.’
It took Francois a few seconds to decipher what the captain spoke of, and then he laughed. ‘Only a brave man would attempt such a thing.’
‘Perhaps, but then we are surrounded by bravery these days, I’m hoping some may rub off on me.’ Down the road leading to the chateau, two patients raced their wheelchairs. ‘If there were Australians here they would be betting on that.’ Two aides ran after the men, imploring them to stop before there was an accident.
Francois twitched Roland’s ear. The dog nuzzled his way onto the bench until he had squeezed both men sideways and made a space for himself, his head level with theirs.
‘He doesn’t have to come back with me, you know.’
‘I saw what he did at Verdun.’ Francois’ eyes shone. ‘And you have told me of how he assists you with the wounded.’
Both men were petting Roland and the dog arched his neck under their joint attention.
Captain Harrison nodded. ‘He’s a remarkable animal. He seems to do naturally what other dogs take months to learn. But you of all people know how dangerous it is out there.’
Francois thought of his father and brother and all the others who had given their lives in defence of a land that now seemed unrecognisable.
‘He doesn’t have to die a hero,’ Captain Harrison reminded Francois. ‘And he is your dog. I think Roland has done enough.’
Francois cupped the dog’s head and rubbed his forehead against the soft hair. ‘I don’t think the decision will be ours.’
Captain Harrison’s pale eyebrows drew together. ‘Well, unfortunately I must go.’ He rose and took Francois’ hand. ‘It has been a privilege to meet you and Roland.’
‘Thank you for bringing him back. It has meant a great deal to me.’
Captain Harrison patted Roland. ‘It was something I felt strongly about. There are many stories about this dog and the two brothers he belonged to.’
Francois watched the American as he wound his way back to the ambulance, pausing to chat to two aides before greeting Sister Valois beneath the portico. They talked for long minutes and then Sister Valois held out her hand; the captain ignored this gesture and kissed her on the cheek, his hand lingering on her shoulder. Sister Valois touched her face as the captain walked away.
Roland’s paw was heavy on Francois’ thigh. ‘You want me to give you my blessing,’ Francois said softly, turning to look into the dog’s dark eyes. Roland’s breath was on his cheek. There was a smell of wet grass and freshly turned dirt. Francois’ eyes blurred. ‘You are not mine to own, but I hope you will come back to me.’ Wrapping his arms around the animal, he hugged him fiercely. ‘Go then,’ he cried, ‘go and do your duty.’
Roland leaped from the bench. Outside the chateau the ambulance chugged to life and reversed. Roland ran straight to the moving vehicle, which halted suddenly. The driver’s door opened and the dog jumped inside the cabin. For a brief moment Captain Harrison stared at Francois and then he lifted an arm in salute. Standing unsteadily, with a single crutch propped beneath an armpit, Francois returned the salute.
‘Don’t let him go out into no-man’s land!’ Francois yelled. ‘Promise me?’
Captain Harrison lifted his arm in goodbye. ‘I promise.’
When the ambulance drove away, Roland’s great shaggy head barked at him from the passenger window as Sister Valois walked a few steps after the departing vehicle.
In the ensuing silence Francois placed a palm on the warm stone where Roland had sat and wondered what would become of his life. Half his family were dead, he was maimed and virtually useless, and he doubted that he would ever see his beloved Roland again. As he drew his hand from the now cold stone, his fingers touched the envelope delivered earlier. He opened it quickly. There was a letter from his mother within, along with two sketches. He flattened them on the bench and stared at the finely drawn portrait of his mother and one of the farmhouse. The door was open at a right angle and beyond the figure of his mother the flagstone floor and wooden beams of the kitchen were visible. Tracing a finger across his mother’s features, he was unaware of Sister Valois’s approach until she stood opposite.
‘You were deep in thought,’ she interrupted. ‘What were you thinking of, Francois?’
He looked at her, his cheeks wet with tears. ‘Home.’
Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
August 1917
The chair on the veranda was empty. Placing the morning-tea tray on the side table, Lily noted the missing walking stick and the open gate. The postal rider had come and gone in her absence and the station mail was sitting on the foot stool along with the latest edition of The Illustrated London News, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Black-and-white photographs of the Western Front flickered back and forth. Lily stayed the moving pages, her hand coming to rest on a picture of a duckboard stretching endl
essly through a decimated landscape of splintered trees, cratered earth and a cloud-tumbled sky. Beneath it was another photograph depicting great plumes of earth spiralling skywards; the caption beneath said one word, ‘Messines.’ For a moment Lily felt as if she were staring at a vision of hell. Never had she seen such a soulless place. If this was France, it scared her. The name Messines lingered like an unforgotten nightmare and she slowly realised where she had heard the word before. David, her youngest, had written of it. He had been there. All three of her boys had been there.
Lily lifted white knuckles to her lips. ‘My boys,’ she whispered. ‘What have I done?’ The pages of the magazine continued to flip in the breeze. It was not as if she was unaware of the danger, but seeing the images of the place her boys fought stunned Lily. Sitting heavily on the foot stool, she considered the months leading up to their desertion. In the end, agreeing with G.W.’s overzealous reaction to Luther’s crime had not protected any of them from the war. In fact, it had had the opposite effect, and now the hell to which they had run was presented to her in gritty black and white. Where had her mind been these past months? What had she been thinking? If they wanted so desperately to go to war, surely it would have been better for them to leave with her blessing. Lily thought of the letters written to her beloved boys. In hindsight they were terse and not worthy of her. In fact, if anything happened to Thaddeus, Luther or Dave, Lily would be hard put not to blame herself or her husband.
‘G.W.,’ she called out. The words went unanswered. ‘G.W.?’ The open gate beckoned. Lifting her skirts, Lily ran down the gravel path.
‘Are you all right, missus?’ Cook stood on the veranda, angular elbows stuck out at right angles to her body. ‘I saw Mr Harrow earlier in the library. I did ask him if he wanted a hand with that big book he had, it being so heavy, but he waved me away.’
‘What book?’ Lily asked impatiently.
Cook shunted narrow shoulders towards the sky. ‘It was the bible, the one with the big silver latch on it. I put it away when he’d finished with it.’
At the gateway drag marks were visible. ‘I will have to go and look for him. I can’t understand why he’s gone beyond the back gate.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on the time, missus. If you aren’t back in an hour I’ll come looking.’
‘Very well,’ Lily agreed.
She followed the trail made by her husband, cursing the thin house shoes she wore. The fine leather emphasised every pebble and hole in the uneven ground but she dared not waste time in changing them. Visions of her husband shuffling along and stumbling into a pothole pulled her onwards. Heaven forbid that he should fall and break a bone, or worse. She left the house paddock behind and walked swiftly, following the drag marks in the dirt. If she tried very hard Lily could almost forget the things G.W. had said to her the day he crossed the boys’ names from the family bible, even if she knew that he had meant them.
The bush was quiet. Clumps of trees bordered the track G.W. had followed, the direction taking Lily away from the river and the homestead and into low scrubby bush and belts of trees that towered like guardians. The stables lay through the adjacent house-paddock fence, and beyond that the homestead roof glimmered in the distance. A knot of concern lodged in Lily’s stomach as the vastness of the land bore down upon her. As far as she knew, all the men were out checking the livestock on the western boundary, which left three women and her missing husband the only people in a ten-mile radius. Lifting her skirts in annoyance, Lily swore that it was time to stop playing the lady of the manor. Voluminous skirts and pretty shoes belonged to another life and it was time she embraced her changed circumstances. Ahead lay the track that wound to the station cemetery. Lily pushed on, wondering what to do if she found her husband injured.
The track curled past a stand of spindly needlewood trees. At the next bend she spotted G.W. He was sitting on a log beneath a tree, staring at the rows of headstones through the wooden fence. He looked up on her approach.
‘My dear, what are you doing out here?’ she asked.
He turned back towards the cemetery as if seeking guidance from the relatives buried within.
‘I could have driven you out in the dray if you had told me.’ Lily sat down next to him and lifted a comforting hand, but he shifted away before she could touch him.
‘Walk, needed to walk.’ The words were halting, like a child unused to speech.
‘It was the pictures, wasn’t it? The ones of France? It looks just horrid.’ Lily waited patiently for agreement. When it didn’t come she watched a line of ants traverse the dirt track at her feet. ‘I never would have agreed to your punishment, G.W., had I not thought it might keep them safe, keep them away from the war.’ Kangaroos bounded through the grass. They reached the track and, seeing their path blocked, steered sharply away from the fallen log and its occupants. ‘We made the wrong decision. We were too hard on them. We placed our need for control, our disappointments, above them.’
G.W. remained silent.
‘If anything happens to them I’ll never be able to forgive myself.’
‘They would have gone anyway.’ The words were spoken excruciatingly slowly. G.W. struggled upwards and shuffled to the cemetery fence. ‘I would be there too if I could.’
‘Are you telling me that you are more angry that they disobeyed you than the fact they enlisted? Heaven forbid, G.W., what kind of father are you?’
There were eight Harrows interred within the fence G.W. leaned upon. Men, women and children had lain together undisturbed since the last burial some twenty years ago. He pointed at the gravesite marking his own father’s resting place. ‘I am my father’s son.’
A shiny black crow flew from a tree and settled on a crumbling headstone. Lily shivered. ‘We should start back if you have rested enough.’
With him shaking off her offer of assistance, they began the long walk home. G.W. refused to rest, punishing his body into keeping up a steady pace and telling Lily to walk on ahead and leave him be. She was tempted to do just that.
‘Manager?’ G.W. puffed.
‘Mr Taylor?’ Lily reached for her husband as he stumbled and then regained his footing. He waved away her outstretched hands. ‘He’s doing a reasonable job, I think, but I wasn’t sure if he was experienced enough. I couldn’t find any references. I did mention that to you?’ A blank stare suggested no memory of the event. ‘I wrote care of the address in the ledger and I’m hoping I’ll be able to find a previous employer who can vouch for Mr Taylor’s suitability. If not, I think I will advertise for someone more suitable.’
G.W. struggled with a single word. ‘Good.’
‘Perhaps I should ask Mr Taylor to speak with you now you are feeling a little better? Certainly your strength has improved. It’s quite a walk you led me on this morning, my dear.’
G.W. tapped a finger against his throat.
‘Well, I quite understand if you want to wait until your speech improves, but it really is coming along extremely well.’
With the walking stick in one hand, G.W. persevered on the rutted track for ten more minutes before begrudgingly taking Lily’s arm. They met Cook at the house-paddock gate, the whinging housemaid Henrietta by her side.
‘We just went for a walk,’ Lily said a little too brightly in response to their questioning stares.
‘We aren’t prepared for calamities, you know, missus, not when there aren’t any menfolk about to help,’ Cook stated.
G.W. grunted and briefly lifted the walking stick, waving it through the air in annoyance.
‘Well, everything is fine,’ Lily reassured. Cook and Henrietta were useless beyond their paid professions, and even their work attitude was questionable. Lily knew that if a tragedy did ever befall them it would be she who would have to saddle a horse and ride into the village for assistance. ‘Let’s not stand here talking,’ Lily told them. ‘You two go on ahead befo
re we all expire in this heat. Mr Harrow and I will be fine.’ The two women walked back towards the homestead, obviously pleased that nothing more was expected of them.
What a fool she was, Lily thought sadly, casting a glance at the man who now leaned so reluctantly on her arm. Her boys were at war and her marriage was deteriorating. Everything was far from fine.
Flanders, Belgium
August 1917
The Menin Road led out from the ruins of Ypres. Constant shelling by both sides had turned the area into a wilderness of decimated trees, craters, churned-up earth and piles of rubble where villages once were. The concussion was shocking. The screaming of shells, the banging and crashing of the big guns and the great spurts of flame were beyond imagining. Dave waited with the rest of the men for the order to be given to make the dash along Hellfire Corner. By the side of the road facing the Germans, great lengths of hessian had been erected in an effort to camouflage the movement of troops, supplies and munitions. It made little difference. The enemy’s guns battered the road continually. Dave wet his lips. Ahead, horse-drawn artillery wagons raced towards them as shells spiralled overhead.
‘Come on, come on.’ Thaddeus willed the approaching wagon to safety. The low chant was taken up by the men around them.
The first empty wagon passed them at a gallop in a rattle of squeaking timber and leather. The driver urged the team onwards, his slouch hat pulled down over his brow, his body bent low over the reins. The horse’s ears were flattened, the look of terror unmistakeable in the whites of the animal’s eyes.
‘Jesus,’ Luther muttered.
Another wagon sped by.
Dave swallowed. The men were restless. Once the artillery wagons were through, they were next. His legs felt like jelly. ‘I can’t do it, Luther.’
‘Sure you can. You just put your head down, Dave, and run. Run l-like the w-wind.’
‘Besides,’ Harold said laconically, ‘there are thousands of blokes behind us who will run over you if you don’t.’
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