Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  September 1917

  Catherine passed the sketch of the dog to Corally. It was truly a remarkable drawing. No one could doubt the artist’s talent. The animal’s eyes appeared to follow Catherine about the room as if the dog could see inside her very soul. He was a large rangy-looking beast, with massive shoulders and a powerful jaw. Hardly well bred, he remained nonetheless an intriguing subject, particularly as Dave’s depiction placed the animal in a trench with a soldier’s identity discs around its neck. Catherine deciphered the name Antoine Chessy and assumed it was a friend, although the image disturbed her. Identity discs were never to leave a soldier’s person, until death. Even then one was meant to remain with the body for identification.

  ‘Well, what do ye think of it?’ Catherine said to Corally. She was of a mind to ask the girl if she could keep the sketch.

  The younger woman brushed a hand across the surface of the drawing. Corally sat stiffly erect in a sage skirt and cream blouse, both of which were spotless. Her long blonde hair was pinned back becomingly and her shoes had been patched and cleaned. Some weeks ago the girl had stopped dressing like a tomboy and was now a familiar sight walking the main street with one of Catherine’s baskets draped over her arm as if she were like any other young woman in the district. Corally was also a regular Sunday worshipper at the Presbyterian Church, her choice of faith apparently decided by an aversion to confession.

  ‘It’s a dog,’ Corally replied dispassionately. ‘What does the letter mean?’ Placing the sketch on Catherine’s bed, she held the teacup to her lips, the saucer poised delicately in her other hand. ‘Surely he can’t be saying that death is a smudge in the sky.’

  Catherine noticed the studied movements. Corally now possessed all the attributes of an educated young woman, and with this new knowledge had blossomed a shrewd mind and a propensity for astute observation. On more than one occasion Catherine’s own gestures and opinions were mimicked by a girl who only a scant nine months ago could barely read or write.

  ‘He is scared, Corally, and he needed to put his feelings down on paper.’ Locating the sentence Corally referred to, Catherine read the section aloud for the second time.

  ‘It’s strange, but I see death as a smudge on the horizon, like a storm hanging out to the west of Sunset Ridge. The smudge grows in size daily like a new world waiting to be discovered yet it remains at bay, waiting, marking time. The words that he uses are really quite marvellous and yet it is so poignant the way he talks of mortality.’

  Corally’s brow creased. ‘Thaddeus, Luther and Harold talk about other things. The farmhouse where they stayed, what the countryside is like. Really, their lives are very interesting. Don’t you think it’s strange? Dave didn’t even start the letter with “Dear Corally”. It’s just a piece of paper signed and dated.’

  Corally was not the regular visitor of old. Quite often she collected her mail from the post office on the day of delivery so that if Mrs Dempsey were present and assisting with the sorting Catherine was not always aware of who wrote to her. Today, however, the young woman was at a loss as to the meaning of Dave’s emotive lines; her appearance at the boarding house at eight in the morning was evidence of this. Catherine, although pleased to be of assistance, knew that Corally took some pleasure in speaking of the content of those letters not shared.

  ‘He is young and far from home and he has the sensibilities of an artist.’ Catherine could not imagine the girl before her ever appealing to David. Aesthetics were one thing, but there was more to a character than handsome looks and a basic education. Corally lacked understanding and life experience, something that Catherine imagined all the young men fighting abroad now had too much of.

  ‘Well, apart from all that I think you’re right. It sounds to me like he’s just scared.’ Corally sat the cup and saucer on the table. ‘Anyway, it’s not even a real letter, it could have been written to anyone.’

  ‘Unlike the letters from Thaddeus and Luther?’ Catherine purposely let the names linger in the cramped room. ‘It’s interesting that they still write to ye as if there was some form of shared attachment.’

  Corally ran a finger along the rim of the teacup. ‘They must be very lonely.’

  Catherine felt an urge to slap the girl. ‘I think we both know why they still write as if they were your beaus.’

  ‘Really?’ Corally held her gaze.

  ‘Ye have been a quick learner, Corally. I hear that ye have applied for a position at the general store.’

  ‘You’re a good teacher.’

  ‘Ye even style your hair in a similar manner to mine now.’

  Corally narrowed her eyes. ‘And once I have employment I shall eventually be moving into one of the rooms here in the boarding house. Does that bother you?’

  ‘Should it? What will ye do if, as we all hope, the three Harrow boys and Harold Lawrence return home when the war finally ends?’

  Gathering up the letters and the sketch, Corally sat the correspondence in her basket. ‘I guess I will have to choose.’

  ‘I didn’t realise ye were quite so self-centred, Corally. If I had, I may not have chosen to help ye.’

  The younger woman stiffened. ‘And I think you’re angry because you were their governess and all three boys write to me and not you.’ She gave a little sniff and, rising to leave, adjusted the basket over her arm. ‘You haven’t spoken of your Rodger for some time now. Did you have a falling out? Perhaps he tired of you telling him what to do?’

  Catherine blanched. She may have given Corally an education and unwittingly become the girl’s role model in terms of social mores and dress, however it appeared that her tutelage did not extend to common decency. The worst of it was that the girl was right to some extent regarding Rodger. Although she had decided to cease sharing confidences with Corally, Catherine had not spoken of him recently because there was nothing to tell, at least not until a few days ago. Rodger’s letters had stopped appearing over a month ago, and a few days prior she had received a letter from his platoon captain. The news was less than welcome. In fact, Catherine felt ill at the thought of the contents.

  ‘I am grateful for your help, Miss Waites, however I am quite able to read and write now, so I won’t be calling on you again. Besides,’ Corally said a little more gently, ‘you have your fiancé to worry about, so you needn’t be concerning yourself with me.’

  ‘Hearts are difficult things to mend, Corally, remember that,’ Catherine advised. The door clicked shut. ‘Please remember that.’ The words swirled around the empty room.

  Slumping back in the armchair, Catherine looked across at the bare timber wall. It was true. She was disappointed that the Harrow boys had not thought to write to her, especially David. It was clear that she had inadvertently upset him. Why else would he have abandoned his sketches outside her room the night he ran away? And now her good intent regarding Corally had gone awry and three young men were being misled. It was too much, especially on top of the recent mail.

  Her beloved Rodger was missing. Not missing in action, dead or wounded, but missing from duty; missing from the training camp on Salisbury Plain in England. That was why there had been no letters recently, which Catherine had stupidly imagined was due to Rodger having scant time to write because he was surely in the thick of battle. His captain wrote that Rodger had been absent without leave for a number of weeks, having not returned from a week’s furlough in London. His whereabouts were yet to be determined. Quite simply, Catherine had been thwarted, for her fiancé had run away, not just from the army but from her.

  It had been two days since the arrival of the captain’s letter and Catherine’s initial shock and sadness were slowly dissipating to be replaced by raw anger and embarrassment. Nothing was as it had once seemed, and as her anger festered and grew, her thoughts centred on the one thing she could put right.

  Corally Shaw had manipulated her good intent so that Catheri
ne was now party to a deceitful charade. Three young men, perhaps four if David had also been coerced into Corally’s sticky web, believed they were the sweetheart of a young woman. Had Catherine not cautioned Corally that the boys were being misled? Had she not helped Corally construct the appropriate letters and, having witnessed the young girl write them, assumed that they had been mailed? Clearly Corally had written very different letters; letters that would be carried in uniforms in the heat of battle, letters that offered comfort and the possibility of a life beyond the war, letters that, God willing, the boys would carry home. Catherine could not be party to such pretence, not when sibling relationships could be harmed and friendships ruined by a young girl who clearly didn’t know her place in society.

  Selecting a sheet of writing paper, she pressed the nib of the pen against the creamy paper and began her letter to Harold Lawrence. Catherine would tell Harold who Corally really loved. Truth was the only acceptable path to take.

  Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia

  February 2000

  Sheila had kindly left her two paintings at Sunset Ridge for a few days so they could be photographed and studied. They were currently propped against the wall in the lounge room and it was here that George and Madeleine sat staring at the works. Natural light streamed in through the window, causing the gilt frames to shimmer.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t leave yesterday, Maddy.’ George took a sip of coffee.

  They shared the plate of biscuits and cheese that Rachael had made for morning tea. With the property’s financial problems now aired, her sister-in-law was gradually coming to terms with George’s ultimatum, although more than once she had wondered aloud how she would ever manage to tend the garden and clean the house.

  ‘Me too, George. Whoever would have thought these beauties would turn up?’

  George’s attention flicked from the paintings to the history book he was leafing through. Occasionally he would read aloud from the pages sharing details of the Allied battles during the First World War, the commanding officers and the astounding casualties.

  ‘You know, it says here that In Memoriam notices first appeared in Australian newspapers during the Great War to try to help families and the nation come to terms with the terrible loss of life.’

  Madeleine reached for a second cheese-and-biscuit. ‘I can’t imagine living through that time, can you?’

  ‘No.’ Closing the book, George pointed at the painting of their grandfather. ‘Why did he paint himself in that great bloody coat? It totally dwarfs him and he looks almost haunted.’

  ‘That’s probably how he felt: engulfed by what he’d witnessed abroad and an alien in his old life once he returned home. The fact that there is a window between him and his governess suggests how isolated and lost he must have felt. The letter in Miss Waites’s lap also interests me. Sheila believed she was engaged to be married at one stage. I wonder if her fiancé died in the war.’

  ‘Possible,’ George agreed, wiping crumbs from his mouth. ‘And the torn bit? Any idea who the woman might be?’

  Madeleine tilted her head to one side. ‘Sheila mentioned that the governess also taught Corally Shaw. It may have been her.’

  ‘So, why rip out her image?’

  ‘Perhaps Catherine and Corally had a falling out,’ Madeleine suggested.

  ‘Over our grandfather?’

  Madeleine turned to her brother. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think Corally and Grandfather had a thing for each other and Miss Waites didn’t approve?’

  George laughed. ‘Now, that’s something we’ll never know. So, what happens now? Are you still driving to Brisbane in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. I promised Jude I’d stay with her for a day or so and go through everything we’ve discovered in detail. Then I’ll fly back to Sydney, write up all my notes properly and start approaching other galleries.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, sis.’

  ‘What about you?’ Madeleine asked.

  ‘Actually, I’m not so stressed out now I’ve told Rachael what’s going on.’

  ‘You should have told her sooner,’ Madeleine counselled. ‘She is your wife.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that she has certain expectations.’

  Madeleine nodded. ‘Don’t we all? The problem is that reality has a tendency to get in the way sometimes.’

  They both looked at their grandfather’s paintings.

  ‘These are damn good, aren’t they?’ George declared.

  ‘Yes,’ Madeleine agreed, ‘they are.’

  Rachael appeared in the doorway, a washing basket in her arms. ‘Maddy, Sonia’s here.’

  ‘Again?’ George stood and helped Madeleine up from the floor. ‘Does she have any more paintings with her?’

  Rachael shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. She wants to take Maddy into Banyan.’ She turned to Madeleine. ‘Apparently there is someone in town Sonia wants to introduce you to. She seems a bit nervous.’

  ‘Nervous?’ George repeated. ‘That would be a first.’

  ‘Well, she’s waiting outside,’ Rachael replied.

  ‘You better go,’ George encouraged. ‘You wouldn’t know what the old girl’s got up her sleeve.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Madeleine agreed.

  Sonia stopped the sedan outside a weatherboard house on the outskirts of Banyan. The square building was bordered by a gauzed-in veranda, with a partially dead lawn comprising the remainder of the half-acre block. A driveway led to an empty garage at the rear of the garden, while two potted geraniums added colour to the cracked cement steps at the front door. The house, although modest, was freshly painted and it enjoyed a pleasant aspect with the western side backing onto a ridge of dense trees. Madeleine, although impatient for the housekeeper to reveal their destination, was aware of the older woman’s discomfort. The sedan’s engine remained running and Sonia’s grip on the steering wheel was turning her knotty knuckles white.

  Madeleine sat quietly. The strange road trip appeared to have something to do with their conversation in her bedroom yesterday prior to Sheila Marchant’s appearance. The housekeeper had referred to it twice during the drive into Banyan, as if Madeleine’s passionate reasoning for wanting to hold a retrospective was the motivation for this particular journey.

  Finally Sonia turned the key off in the ignition and wound down the driver’s-side window. Clearly they were not going anywhere yet, so Madeleine did the same. The house was situated at the end of a side road and, although the distant roofs of village houses were visible, it was an isolated spot. Saltbush and clumpy burr stretched out across the paddock opposite the house while thick scrub encroached along the narrow road leading from the village. There was little breeze and the sedan soon warmed under the late-morning sun. Perspiration trickled down Madeleine’s spine and she began to wonder if she was an unknowing accessory to a surveillance operation.

  ‘Sonia, I –’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough. First, we must wait.’

  Madeleine settled back in the burgundy upholstery, not altogether unhappy to be sitting in the hot car. It gave her time to process George’s financial woes, which appeared to have been made worse by a lack of communication within his marriage. It was as if the past were playing out all over again with the property’s salvation tied to her grandfather’s legacy. This time, however, there wasn’t a stack of masterpieces that could be sold. Commonsense and careful planning were the answers to the property’s viability.

  Five minutes later a utility drove down the lonely road and parked beside them. The man who emerged was instantly recognisable: Ross Evans. Madeleine said hello and received a nod in response; Sonia’s presence was barely acknowledged before they were led down the dirt driveway to the rear of the house.

  ‘Sue-Ellen will be back soon. In the meantime, can I ask you not to get Mum too upset?’

&nb
sp; Sonia gave an offhand acknowledgement as the man swung the veranda door open and stepped inside, and then once again they were left waiting. There was little shade behind the house. A square cement slab was home to a foldable camping chair while a few feet away an empty hills hoist tilted alarmingly to the left in an otherwise bare backyard.

  Madeleine slapped at the black flies that were keen to investigate her face and arms. ‘Are you going to tell me why we’re here?’

  ‘Once we’re inside you’ll understand more.’ The older woman walked down to the rear fence. Constructed of sheets of corrugated iron hammered onto wooden posts, it stood ten feet high, blocking any view. ‘We used to come here as kids. Me and my cousins would sneak out of the house at night and throw stones at the windows. Whoever broke one got extra points.’

  ‘Nice,’ Madeleine said under her breath.

  ‘I heard that.’ Sonia turned towards her. ‘There’s one thing you should know about the bush, Madeleine, about small villages, especially out here where it’s remote and folks only have each other to rely on: people always remember the past, and those who are wronged are the last to forget.’

  The back door creaked open. ‘She’ll see you now, but I can’t make any promises,’ Ross Evans cautioned. ‘Her memory is near gone. She should be in a home but, well, who can afford it?’ He held the battered screen door open for them.

  ‘Thank you,’ Madeleine said softly.

  Sonia muttered a comment about how the mighty had fallen.

  Ross flicked a suspicious look at Sonia before nodding in response to Madeleine. ‘As I said, Sue-Ellen will be home soon.’ The man lingered on the cement slab. ‘You’ll do right by her?’

  Sonia’s lips were starting to curl inwards they were pressed together so hard. Bustling past Ross, she beckoned Madeleine to follow. ‘I’m only doing this because of your grandfather,’ the housekeeper whispered as they entered a dimly lit kitchen.

  Timber shelving held old-fashioned screw-top jars and round biscuit tins, while a grimy window above the sink looked out onto a side veranda and the ridge of trees. The room was constructed of simple unlined timber boards with every available piece of wall space plastered with pictures. There were posters of saints and images of the Virgin Mary and Jesus as well as photographs of cathedrals and stained-glass windows. Strewn amid this obsessive devotion were numerous crosses and religious icons, while the linoleum floor and part of the kitchen table were covered in piles of old magazines and books. There was a fridge and gas stove along one wall, and an ancient creamy-yellow Aga was another spot for a collection of records.