Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Lily and G.W. didn’t go much on it,’ Corally stated. ‘And he had to run that property of yours.’

  ‘Surely they would have let him paint if he really wanted to,’ Madeleine argued.

  The old woman sighed. ‘Your grandfather was sad after Catherine left. He had painted her likeness and then, much like the soldiers he’d sketched in France, she too was dead to him.’ Corally opened her mouth as if to say more, and hesitated.

  Madeleine leaned forward. ‘What were you going to say?’

  Corally directed her sea-green eyes at the young woman. ‘A few months before my Luther died, your grandfather told him that there wasn’t any beauty left in the world and that he would never paint again.’

  ‘And?’ Madeleine persevered.

  ‘Luther said that one day Dave would wake up on Sunset Ridge and walk to the back gate. He would watch a rising sun and realise that there were still some things left to be grateful for. On that day he would take up his brush and paint once again.’

  Madeleine’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Sunset Ridge saved your grandfather,’ the old woman said simply. ‘He was one of the lucky ones. That land meant so much to him. Out there, he belonged.’

  When she’d composed herself, Madeleine thanked Corally for her time and asked if she could take the box of keepsakes and sketches with her on leaving. ‘I’ll return them to you, I promise.’

  Corally waved Madeleine away. ‘Yes, take it all. I’ve had him for long enough. It’s time you took your grandfather home.’

  ‘Can I come again and talk to you if I think of anything else?’ Madeleine asked.

  Corally considered the question and the young woman standing in front of her. ‘No. No, you can’t. Take the box and don’t come back.’

  They left the house abruptly. Sonia barely gave Madeleine time to set the container on the back seat and retrieve the scrapbook before the sedan accelerated and headed down the rarely travelled road to Banyan. Madeleine sat quietly, the sketchbook secure in her hands. There was almost too much information to absorb. Her head reeled with the stories shared and the old woman they’d left sitting inside the house. In spite of everything Madeleine had just heard, she felt sorry for her.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to have a look inside?’ Sonia asked.

  Madeleine opened the sketchbook, knowing that her grand­father’s work would now be tinged with a new sense of intimacy and sadness.

  ‘Do you have enough to entice someone to stage an exhibition?’ Madeleine was glad Sonia was with her. The housekeeper’s voice was calming. She turned the pages. A very creased picture of an abstract chicken was followed by an elongated woman. Her mouth went dry as she continued to flick through the other pages. ‘I think so. There are another five sketches. This is fantastic, absolutely brilliant. Even if the exhibition doesn’t go ahead we have these, Sonia. I have part of my grandfather’s artistic legacy back. At least something positive has come from the mess of the past.’

  The sedan turned a corner and they drove into the main street of Banyan. ‘You may not agree with your grandfather not wanting to discuss Luther and Corally’s relationship,’ Sonia said carefully, ‘or his keeping your mother in the dark about how, when and where Luther died, however I think it was all too painful for him and we will never know what anxieties Dave suffered thanks to his time at the front.’

  Sonia drove out of Banyan in the direction of Sunset Ridge. ‘In the end, I firmly believe that your grandfather wanted to remember Luther the way he was before the war.’

  ‘I’m trying to understand, Sonia. It’s just difficult to believe the social hierarchy that was in play all those years ago.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s certainly true that the wealthier families expected their offspring to marry well. After all, a good marriage could increase a family’s social standing and wealth. But Luther’s fall from grace went beyond moving into Banyan and marrying beneath himself. Back then there was a real stigma attached to victims of shell-shock. People couldn’t understand a wounding of the mind. It was beyond them.’

  ‘A little like my own father,’ Madeleine replied.

  The housekeeper reached across and patted her hand. ‘What else have you got in that book?’

  ‘Heavens, look at this.’ Excited by her find, Madeleine thrust the scrapbook in front of Sonia, who promptly slammed the brakes. The car skidded off the road to stop unceremoniously in the dirt.

  ‘Good God, girl, you’ll have us up a tree if you’re not careful.’ Sonia looked at the mangy animal before her. ‘That’s one grungy-looking dog.’

  ‘That’s not just any dog,’ Madeleine said breathless. ‘Look at the identity discs around his neck.’

  ‘What is he, then?’ Sonia asked. ‘A war dog?’

  Madeleine nodded, too emotional to speak. ‘He could be, Sonia. He very well could be.’

  Chessy farmhouse, ten miles from Saint-Omer, northern France

  June 2000

  Kate Chessy draped a leg over the arm of the ancient chair and flipped the pages of the old newspaper. Through the open door a blank canvas stood empty on an easel in the middle of the grassy clearing. Beyond it the stream beckoned with its clear water and cloistered willow trees. Such an aspect should have been enough for any artist, but with her craft in its infancy even a languid week exploring her great-gran-mama’s home had done little for Kate’s creativity. It was some time since her last trip to the farmhouse. Although the family only used it during the long summer months when Paris became cloaked in a muggy heat that threatened to strangle her inhabitants, Great-Gran-mama Lisette’s death two years ago had kept the family away from the farm.

  Kate found it difficult to reconcile the passing of the family matriarch. Lisette Chessy was mother to five children and grandmother to twelve, and although she had lived in Paris for the last twenty years of her life, her great love was for this plot of land, although such affection was secondary to that she felt for her husband, Francois. Kate, intrigued that the frail woman had been a spy for the French resistance during the Second World War, had often sat long into the night in their Paris apartment listening to her stories. Although Lisette had risked her life during the second German invasion, it was to the Great War that her thoughts always returned. She would speak of soldiers and food shortages and of the great halo of light that blazed across the horizon as the war raged in nearby Flanders.

  Kate had grown used to Lisette’s peculiarities. Although her great-gran-mama was an excellent knitter she also liked to play with balls of wool and there had always been a basket of wool by her chair that she would roll and unroll as deftly as any spinner as she shared her knowledge. Kate had learned how to make a rabbit casserole and cook the plainer dish of steamed courgette with pasta while listening to Lisette, and from an early age her fondness for wine was encouraged by her great-gran-mama whose own palate had been cultivated by Francois’ mother. Of particular interest to Kate was the story of Roland the dog. Named after an ancient French ballad, the animal was said to have saved the lives of many men during the Great War and mention of him was made in French military records of the period.

  Roland had belonged to Francois and his twin brother Antoine, and his story was part of Chessy family lore. The one disappointment was the lack of any photo or drawing of the animal. Lisette and Kate had often discussed the unfortunate timing of having a young Australian soldier billeted at the farmhouse. They both knew he would have been more than capable of sketching the dog, as David Harrow’s drawings of Madame Chessy and the farmhouse hung in the family apartment in Paris. There were other drawings as well – drawings that it was said were left with Madame Chessy by the Australian soldier for safekeeping. Lisette had safe-guarded the drawings for many years in the cupboard of the farmhouse, honouring her mother-in-law’s conviction that the young artist would one day return. He never did and so they too were stored in Paris.


  Kate continued to flip through the newspaper. She was here to paint willows and water, to soak up the ambiance of this beaut­iful place. However, she couldn’t concentrate. Selecting another newspaper from the stack on the table, she considered inspecting the cellar. There were some dusty bottles of wine below and the cheese and fresh bread purchased this morning in Saint-Omer. It was not quite time for lunch but food was a tasty diversion. Flicking the paper’s pages, Kate stopped at the classified section. There, in the middle of a bordered square, was an advertisement asking for information concerning the Australian artist David Harrow. Reference was also made to the sketch of a dog that had been authenticated by the Australian War Memorial and was said to have been drawn on the Western Front during the First World War. The dog wore a set of identity discs around its neck and the name the discs bore belonged to Antoine Chessy.

  Kate sat the paper carefully on the wooden table and looked around the tired farmhouse with its twin bunks in the alcove and the wood-burning stove. There were wooden crosses above the doorways and on the cupboard stood a faded picture of the Chessy brothers. Beside the picture was a cloth ball ragged and aged and in that instant she imagined Roland bounding across the grassy clearing to the farmhouse. There were telephone calls to make and time zones to wait for and, amid the buzz of excitement, Kate knew that Roland was finally coming home.

  Chessy farmhouse, ten miles from Saint-Omer, northern France

  July 1919

  Francois sat on the grass beyond the farmhouse. Inside Lisette and his mother were cooking and laughing. Having promised eggs and chips for lunch, they were busy frying the perch Francois had caught that morning, glad of the change in their post-war diet that spring brought. Francois planned on a busy year. They needed to replenish their stocks of wheat and potatoes and try to barter for a pig to fatten for the coming winter. Having managed to hang onto the milking cow, they only needed a few more hens to add to his mother’s best layer and the scraggly rooster and then, he hoped, the farm would slowly return to normal. Francois needed to concentrate on these simple tasks. There were two women dependent on him now and although his mama and Lisette appeared capable of managing without him, Francois needed to prove that he could not only cope with his new life but assume the mantle of responsibility easily.

  So, Francois kept a ready smile on his lips and the images of Verdun locked away in his mind. At times the memories would escape to wander beyond his carefully constructed wall, and during those moments he would hobble through the fields crying in remembered pain. He loved his homeland, he loved France, but in the end he had only kept going over the top of the sandbags for the men beside him, for his brother, and now all of them were gone. When he was on his knees, gagging in the dirt, it was then that Antoine would come to him, easing his thoughts away from the dead and the ravaged, enticing him back into the light and life.

  Francois ran a finger between the leather strapping of the wooden leg and his thigh. The device bit into the flesh above his knee and he remained positive that the wooden length did not match his good leg, although both his mother and Lisette had measured it more than twice. The crutch remained Francois’ preferred method of getting about the farm, particularly because he could move freely with it and was not haunted by the other device becoming unattached. Walking down the aisle of a church was a different matter, however. Francois did not want to be on crutches when he took Lisette’s hand, and so he persevered with both the wooden leg and his fear of it.

  Across the wheat field, beyond the stream, two figures approached. Francois didn’t recognise them and he hoped it was not more men looking for work. Some became quite pushy when they saw his injury, convinced he was not capable of running the farm, and Francois needed to be adamant to send such strangers away. On one occasion his mama came to his aid, adding her voice to his and together, mother and son, they had forced the three men on their way. Francois looked across the field, remembering another time when he and Antoine made a pact to go to war. The figures grew closer, and then a third.

  Balancing on his hands, Francois rose, reaching for his crutch. He could feel him. He could feel the great heart of the animal close by. ‘Mama,’ he cried. ‘Mama!’

  Madame Chessy and Lisette rushed from the farmhouse as the two people jumped the stream.

  Francois watched as the couple laughed and waved, their hands linked together. There was an animal with them, a big mongrel-looking dog, wolf-like in appearance.

  ‘It’s Roland,’ Madame Chessy cried. ‘Roland has come home!’

  The great animal lumbered forward on three legs and then, with a bark, jumped into Francois’ outstretched arms.

  ‘My Roland, my Roland!’ Francois wept. ‘Thank you, Captain. Thank you, Sister.’

  Captain Harrison and Sister Valois took Madame Chessy’s warm hands in theirs, then the older woman knelt on the ground. Drawing Roland close, she noticed the identity discs around the great animal’s neck and read the name.

  ‘Thank you, Roland,’ Madame Chessy whispered. ‘You have brought my other son home.’

  © Natalia Fogarty

  In the course of her career, Nicole Alexander has worked both in Australia and Singapore in financial services, fashion, corporate publishing and agriculture. A fourth-generation grazier, Nicole returned to her family’s property in the early 1990s. She is currently the business manager there and has a hands-on role in the running of the property.

  Nicole has a Master of Letters in creative writing and her novels, poetry, travel and genealogy articles have been published in Australia, Germany, America and Singapore. She is also the author of The Bark Cutters, A Changing Land, Absolution Creek and The Great Plains.

  Also by Nicole Alexander

  The Bark Cutters

  A Changing Land

  Absolution Creek

  The Great Plains

  Divertissements: Love, War, Society – Selected Poems

  If you enjoyed Sunset Ridge, look out for Nicole’s stunning new novel

  The Great Plains

  It is Dallas, 1886, and the Wade Family is going from strength to strength: from a thriving newspaper and retail business in Texas to a sprawling sheep station half a world away in Queensland.

  Yet money and power cannot compensate for the tragedy that struck twenty-three years ago, when Joseph Wade was slaughtered and his seven-year-old daughter, Philomena, was abducted by Apache Indians.

  Only her uncle, Aloysius, remains convinced that one day Philomena will return. So when news reaches him that the legendary Geronimo has been captured, and a beautiful white woman discovered with him, he believes his prayers have been answered.

  Little does he know that the seeds of disaster have just been sown.

  Over the coming years three generations of Wade men will succumb to an obsession with three generations of mixed-blood Wade women: the courageous Philomena, her hot-headed granddaughter Serena, and her gutsy great-granddaughter Abelena – a young woman destined for freedom in a distant red land. But at what price … ?

  From the American Wild West to the wilds of outback Queensland, from the Civil War to the Depression of the 1930s, The Great Plains is an epic story about two conflicting cultures and one divided family.

  Read on for a taster…

  Prologue

  May, 1925 – Condamine Station, Southern Queensland

  Wes Kirkland found the manager of Condamine Station sitting in the dirt under a tree. The bullet had punctured the fifty-four-year-old in the shoulder. Not a fatal wound, unless he’d been tethered to the tree’s wide trunk with rope and left there for four days without water. Wes kicked the man’s leg. Meat-ants had found a welcome food source and were clambering over the body.

  ‘I’m still alive, you bastard!’ Hugh Hocking gasped. His skin was burnt red from the sun, his lips a line of blisters.

  Wes squatted by the man, leaning across to flick an ant from Hocking’s thigh. ‘T
ough old bugger, aren’t you?’

  Hocking gave a raspy cough. ‘Not as tough as you,’ he replied sarcastically. Overhead, the sun shone hard and hot. A grassy plain extended out from the shade of the tree; air and sky merged in a haze of heat. A few miles behind them lay the Condamine River, water and shade out of the wounded man’s reach.

  ‘The thing I don’t understand, mate’ – Wes’s American accent had a harder edge to it compared to Hocking’s – ‘is why you’d keep stealing Mr Wade’s livestock when you knew I was about to arrive?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ At forty years of age, Wes was large framed with red hair and freckles and a temper easily roused. He retrieved a water bottle from his horse and returned to dribble the warm liquid into Hocking’s mouth. ‘You’ve made yourself a tidy pile in his absence all these years, so why let yourself get caught? You were a month away from heading home.’

  Hocking licked his ruined lips. ‘Because I don’t care anymore, about the money or the Wades.’

  ‘And by my reckoning you’ve no family left in Oklahoma,’ Wes added.

  ‘I thought the bastard would show himself one of these days, but I guess he’s too busy chasing those Injun relatives of his.’ Hocking tried to raise enough saliva to spit in the dirt.

  ‘He’s not as soft-hearted as his father, Aloysius, was and you seem to be forgetting that this property forms only a fraction of Edmund’s combined business interests.’

  ‘Rubbish, that’s why he hasn’t come to look at this great pile of land he purchased,’ Hocking puffed. ‘You forget, Kirkland, I was the one Edmund Wade came to for advice when he decided to purchase a property here in Australia. And why did he buy down here? So he could run away with that Indian squaw of his.’ Hocking’s head fell back against the tree, his chest heaved. ‘Edmund may not be as soft as his father but the Wade men were obsessed with that woman.’