‘Ben died in an orphanage; hanged himself from a rafter three months after you reported him to the authorities.’ Cora’s eyes were steely. ‘When he died he was a week away from being sent out to work, but he’d been bullied relentlessly. It took me eight years to discover the truth. Eight years of writing to numerous institutions, pleading for information. How do you feel knowing that you killed Ben? He never did any harm to you.’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Anyway, it was government policy.’ Jane leant on the windowsill. ‘Not much has changed since then.’
Meg was horrified. ‘Mum!’
‘Besides, Father died trying to save you,’ Jane countered.
Cora clutched at the leather pouch. ‘He wasn’t your father.’
Jane took a step towards her and then, as if realising for the first time that her own daughter was present, halted abruptly. Meg’s mouth was hanging open.
‘My father’s death was mapped out from the moment you watched me fall from the dray. Your scheming and your jealousy caused his death.’
Meg squirmed in the tub chair.
Jane opened the casement window a little, tossed the cigarette out and looked over her shoulder. ‘I never realised what a tough little nugget you were. You were everything to Matt, you know. None of us ever got a look in – well, except my mother and Ben. Despite what you think, Abigail was a good person. She didn’t steal that necklace.’
‘She went to gaol for the crime, Jane,’ Cora replied pointedly. ‘Anyway, I guess Abigail had her favourites too. I can’t recall you ever being tired from overwork.’
Jane sniffed. ‘By the time I’d saved enough money out at Wangallon Station to travel to Sydney, my mother was dead. They couldn’t keep her at the Reformatory for long without proof of the theft. Anyway, the streets aren’t kind to single women and my mother was never streetwise.’ Jane looked at Cora. ‘I imagine you would have survived a whole lot better.’
Cora exhaled at the barb in Jane’s words. ‘You know I wanted to see you, to have it out with you. I realise now what a ridiculous idea it was. We have nothing in common, we have no shared values and you never did possess a shred of common decency. Nothing’s changed.’
Jane lifted a thinning eyebrow. ‘You were expecting an apology? In your own way, if only by default, you also ruined my life.’
‘This should be good,’ Cora muttered.
‘I tried locating Beth over the years, but I never could find any records of her adoption. After Meg was born I had this need to share my past with my husband.’ Jane stared at her stepsister. ‘You seem to think you were the only wounded party in all of this. Anyway, the mistake I made was telling Meg’s father of your birth right. He left that night and never came home.’ Jane laughed. ‘Damned by association. I gather he thought I was of a similar –’ she stared down her nose ‘– strain. After that, well, I really did wish you the worst.’
‘You said he’d died in the war,’ Meg disputed.
Cora was speechless. She wanted to say that she was sorry. Sorry for the attitude that some white Australians held towards their Aboriginal counterparts. The problem was, of course, that Jane had fallen foul of her own racism. Like had married like.
‘So the reason I have no relations on my father’s side is because they don’t want to know us?’ Meg faltered. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She left the room with a slam of the door.
‘I doubt she would have stayed on even without this flood debacle.’ Jane’s fingers scrabbled at the neckline of the woollen dress.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Cora reached for the wooden crutches leaning against the wall. They were a bit fancier than the branches she’d used all those years ago. ‘I wanted Meg to know the truth of things. Now she does. More importantly, now she really knows you.’ Cora ignored the hard stare Jane gave her. ‘Well, she’s grown up in your absence. She’s not a wallflower any more. She returns to you minus one husband, thankfully.’
Jane gave a single nod of assent. ‘That’s one thing we do agree on.’
‘Look after those grandchildren of yours. They’re good kids.’
Jane walked slowly to the door. Cora accepted this was a meeting that should never have occurred. Jane Hamilton wasn’t capable of apologising, which was perhaps fortunate since Cora would never have forgiven her. The pity of it was that her stepsister needed forgiveness desperately. Jane’s past acts were eating her alive. ‘Have a good life.’
Jane’s hand paused on the doorknob. For the briefest of seconds Cora was almost positive she mouthed the words and you, but she would never be sure.
Cora was sitting out on the veranda. For some minutes she’d been watching streaky clouds form and reform into varying shapes and sizes. It was a rather cathartic process, and while she yearned to be walking around normally she certainly wasn’t minding the enforced rest. The garden smelt fresh, and the low hedges and flower beds gave her a heightened anticipation for the coming of spring. Cora felt as if she’d been given a second chance. Winter had been gruelling this year – in fact, too much of everything in her life had been hard. Meg and Jane had left a good week earlier for Sydney and although there were promises from Meg of keeping in touch, Cora’s expectations weren’t high. Meg Bell was just starting her life all over again and Cora had reminded her that the past she now knew wasn’t hers. She needed to move on. Through the gauze, Curly and Tripod raced across the winter lawn, snapping and biting intermittently. They were behaving like pups again today and Cora found their enthusiasm infectious.
‘How’s the patient?’ James kissed Cora on the cheek. He held a mug of coffee in each hand and a packet of biscuits under one arm. ‘Talking to yourself again?’ He glanced at the cracked tobacco pouch resting on the wooden ledge.
‘Not today,’ she admitted as James deposited the coffee and biscuits on Eloise Campbell’s morning tea trolley. ‘I keep thinking about Scrubber. That he’s snagged in the creek or caught in a fence line somewhere.’
‘He saved you, Cora. Let him be.’
‘I know he did.’ Cora looked at the pouch. ‘Somehow, remembering those last few days all those years ago, well, he also set me free.’
‘Good.’ James disappeared into the house to return with a mottled green urn. ‘It’s the best I could do at short notice.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ James handed Cora the tobacco pouch and she squeezed the leather into the narrow ceramic neck. ‘Thank you.’
‘You sure you don’t want it buried or something?’ James placed the lid on the urn, sitting it on the trolley.
‘No, at least not for a while. I have a few things I want to talk to Dad about first.’
If James thought Cora a little morbid he was respectful enough to remain quiet. He drew a cane chair next to hers. To the east of Campbell Station lay Absolution Creek; by her side was James. ‘Even if I could go back to Absolution Creek I wouldn’t. Not now.’ Cora pointed to a letter on the cane table. ‘That’s a directive to Grey’s Solicitors stating that I’ve ended the contract of management between myself and the Farley Family Trust. They also get to handle Jarrod’s lawsuit as the accident happened on their land, although obviously there will still be some paperwork to attend to at my end.’
James took her hands between his. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure. Absolution protected me from the world, but it also stopped me from living my life. I just hope you can understand why it was so important to me to ensure everyone think the property belonged to me. It’s all I’ve ever had, James. I was so young when Jack and Father died that I lost sight of reality and I was scared. For ten years I ran Absolution Creek with the help of Captain Bob and four other members of the tribe. By the time I took over the running of the property completely, everyone around here was either afraid of me or wishing me ill.’
‘They respected you.’
‘They put up with me: the girl who possibly murdered a man in Stringybark Point. A part-Aboriginal woman running a property.’ Cora laughe
d. ‘If I’d been you I would have stayed the hell away.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘No, you’re in the dictionary under P for perseverance.’ He kissed her then and as the warmth of James’s arms embraced her Cora finally said goodbye to Jack, at least in this life.
‘Harold rang,’ James informed her. ‘He’s looking for a job.’
‘No, really?’
James nodded. ‘Apparently Ellen won’t budge from the district now she’s a member of the Women’s Club.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I’d think about it. Kendal’s out of hospital too and looking for Sam.’
Cora laughed. ‘He won’t find him. Meg said he was heading north.’
‘Well, good luck to him. I suppose you’ll want to bring that famous ram of yours over here.’
‘Of course, and Scrubber’s horse and ancient dog.’ Cora reached for the crutches.
‘Isn’t it about time you took my hand?’ James asked.
‘Yes,’ Cora agreed, balancing carefully as James drew her into his arms. ‘It probably is.’
Read on for an extract of
Sunset Ridge
Available September 2013
Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
February 2000
Madeleine swore under her breath as she swerved and skidded in the red dirt to avoid hitting a sheep. She had forgotten the distances involved when it came to travelling in outback Queensland – the last road trip she had undertaken had been a relatively easy three-hour drive from Sydney to an emerging artist’s exhibition in the Hunter Valley. In contrast, seven hours in a car heading south-west, after flying into Brisbane from Sydney the night before, was akin to a marathon. Her eyes felt as if they were receding into her brain, a sensation not helped by a night on the chardonnay with her mother, Jude.
At seventy, Jude Harrow-Boyne was the poster child for most women her age. Athletic and youthful, she was intelligent if somewhat scatty at times. Known equally for her fierce temper and artistic ability, Jude had an almost complete disregard for other people’s opinions, a personality flaw that was difficult to take at times. With this knowledge in mind, Madeleine knew that her brief stay with her mother in Brisbane would not go well, which was why she had arrived at the ground-floor apartment the previous day with two bottles of white wine and a bunch of flowers. Neither gift made a dent in Jude’s attitude; if anything, the peace offerings were treated with suspicion. Her mother was expecting positive news and Madeleine had none to give.
The rental car charged up each rolling ridge, a hazy mirage of dirt and sky enticing Madeleine onwards. Nondescript trees blurred the edges of the road as a trickle of sweat rolled down her back. She could feel the sun burning her face and arms through the window and her eyes were smeary from the glare. About an hour earlier she had considered pulling up under a tree to try to sleep. However, the temptation to rest had been tempered by the heat. Madeleine scrabbled on the passenger seat for the last water bottle. She shook it for any remaining drops, then tossed it over her shoulder onto the back seat and fiddled with the airconditioning in an attempt to force air into the vehicle. The more kilometres travelled the less enthusiastic she became. This journey had come at the instigation of her mother some months ago, and in spite of the lecture received last night Madeleine felt instinctively that this visit to the Harrow family property would be a waste of time. By agreeing to undertake the trip, an olive branch had been extended, though a few of the leaves were already bruised.
Eighteen months ago her mother had approached Madeleine with the suggestion of staging a retrospective of her late grandfather’s work. An artist of renown, David Harrow had died well before Madeleine and her older brother George were born, and even Jude admitted that between boarding school and art college she had barely known her widowed father. It was with a great degree of reluctance that Madeleine, in her role as personal assistant to the director of the Stepworth Gallery, agreed to investigate the feasibility of the project. There were professional reasons for her hesitancy as well as a number of personal ones.
David Harrow had died in the early 1950s, bequeathing to his only daughter a debt-ridden rural property that had been in the family for generations – absurdly named Sunset Ridge – and forty landscape paintings. The paintings were found stored within the Sunset Ridge homestead, and when auctioned at an estate sale they had created quite a buzz in the art world. The hitherto unknown artist had emerged posthumously to acclaim, and his collective works were touted as one of the great finds in Australian art history.
From Madeleine’s perspective, however, his legacy had been lost, sold by her parents more than forty-five years ago to restore the Harrow family property to viability. To Madeleine, such an action made Jude’s ongoing devotional attitude towards her father almost hypocritical. And Madeleine couldn’t help but feel both annoyed by and disinclined to support Jude’s idea of a retrospective. If her mother cared so much about her father and his art, why sell it all? The closest Madeleine ever got to her grandfather was through the study of his painting techniques as part of the university syllabus while completing her Fine Arts degree or when Jude paraded the original 1950s art catalogue on each anniversary of his death. Meanwhile Madeleine’s brother George lived out here in the back of beyond on the family farm, which she and her mother rarely visited.
After seven hours in the car she was starting to remember why.
Madeleine missed the turn-off to Sunset Ridge by a good two kilometres. On retracing her route she saw that the signpost had been removed from the opposite side of the road and that the battered ramp and the old fridge once used as the mailbox had been replaced with a white boundary gate and matching mailbox upon which ‘Sunset Ridge’ was painted in black. It was a much-needed improvement, she thought as she accelerated through the open gate. She guessed that the temperature outside had hit forty degrees. What constituted a heatwave across much of Australia was merely another day in this part of the world. The thought of spending two weeks lying awake night after night with the sweat streaming from her body was disheartening. Changing down through the gears to drive over a stock grid, Madeleine relived last night’s fractious discussion with her mother.
‘You’re the assistant to the gallery director, Madeleine, and your grandfather was a brilliant artist – and you’re telling me it hasn’t even been discussed yet? You said you would table it at the board meeting months ago.’ Jude slid a menthol cigarette out of its soft packet, dried paint rimming her fingernails.
‘Well, I did say it would be difficult, Mum,’ Madeleine argued. ‘I have to present a clear and compelling case to show why Grandfather deserves a retrospective, without opening myself up to accusations of bias. Remember, Mum, I’m championing a man I never knew, and I have limited archival material to work with.’
‘But we have the forty paintings!’ Jude retorted. ‘Most of the owners have said they will lend their works, haven’t they? And we have a couple of his early sketches.’
‘Yes, Mum, but a good retrospective should include details of the artist’s life, early drawings, personal correspondence: a timeline of his life and the influences on his work.’
Jude looked away dismissively and tapped ash into a garish pink-and-red ceramic dish. ‘Father’s work is good enough without having all that extra information.’ She returned her gaze to her daughter. ‘And if you really think you need all that other material to make the exhibition more interesting, then why haven’t you been more proactive? Why haven’t you found it?’ Jude picked up her wine glass and studied the watercolour of frangipanis sitting on the easel in the middle of the cluttered living room. Her current work-in-progress was a commission of eight paintings for a riverside restaurant.
‘The gallery is a business, Mum. It’s all about the bottom line. Besides, Australiana isn’t the in thing at the moment; everyone is more interested in contemporary and indigenous
art.’
‘Don’t sit there and give me your economic arguments, Madeleine Harrow. I wasn’t the one who changed my name by deed poll. Your father, bless him, graced us with the surname of Boyne. You didn’t mind using your connection to your grandfather to wangle yourself into a gallery career. The least you can do is honour the name and the man. David Harrow deserves an exhibition, and you know it.’
Madeleine fidgeted with the silk sari covering the armchair. ‘But I don’t know enough. I didn’t know him. Did he paint his lovers like Picasso did? Did he have a muse? Why did he become so reclusive after returning from the First World War?’
Jude took a sip of wine before sitting the glass on the messy coffee table. ‘And,’ she said defiantly as she flipped open a large sketchpad and removed a sheet of paper, ‘why did he not accept his platoon captain’s recommendation to be put forward as an official war artist?’ She thrust the letter towards Madeleine. ‘It’s from the Australian War Memorial. Captain Egan thought your grandfather was talented enough to sketch on behalf of us all.’
Madeleine scanned the contents, speechless.
‘Well, you said you needed archival material.’ Jude passed her daughter a photocopy of a sketch. ‘The young man in this portrait is Private Matty Cartwright. Your grandfather sketched this a week before Cartwright was killed by a shell in Belgium in 1917. The original was returned to the Cartwright family with the rest of his personal effects, and it was eventually bequeathed to the War Memorial.’
Madeleine stared at the drawing of the young man.
‘There are three more similar sketches,’ Jude continued. ‘Only one bears my father’s initials; however, the art historian attached to the War Memorial seemed convinced that the works could be attributed to your grandfather.’ Jude gave a satisfied smile. ‘You can close your mouth, dear.’
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