‘Then Alastair should return and claim her.’
‘Is it possible that my grandson is sitting here arguing with an old woman instead of listening to sense?’ She spoke to the veranda rafters as if conversing with some ancient god.
‘Grams, I –’
‘Let me finish. Your brother is dead. There, I’ve said it. It’s been far too long without word, and most of our boys have already returned home from the war.’ Spindly fingers grasped at his arm. ‘There is honour in doing this and you, Ross, having lost much of yours through circumstance, should be glad of having it restored.’
They stared at each other. ‘You mean I now have to pay for the family’s decision not to send me to war?’ said Ross.
‘Because it’s you that must live with the consequences,’ replied his grandmother. ‘However unfair.’
‘Why is she still here, Grams? Why didn’t you send her back? It’s nearly twelve months since armistice. Why on earth did you let her stay?’
His grandmother took a sip of the water at her side. ‘In the beginning, Miss Thomas refused to go home. Absolutely refused. She remained convinced that the circumstances around Alastair’s disappearance were proof he was still alive. She was adamant he would be found and that eventually he’d return to Adelaide and to her. That’s how much she believed in your brother. In the sanctity of the promise made. I admired her for that and it was I who told your father not to force her to leave. I kept thinking how she’d risked her own life to get here. How certain she was that Alastair would eventually make his way home. God only knows what happened to your brother. War produces a variety of different wounds, Ross, but for some families death is not the very worst that can occur.’
Ross squeezed his grandmother’s hand. Alastair’s shame was a humiliation on a grand scale. Their father, having ensured Alastair’s entry into the war as an officer, was left with the dishonourable legacy of his eldest abandoning his regiment.
‘Were he English, your brother would doubtless have been shot on sight if he’d been found, and if he had returned to Australia he’d have been court-marshalled. Alastair was a public disgrace,’ she finished.
‘And I’m expected to pick up where Alastair left off?’ said Ross. ‘To carry his burdens, ease my family’s embarrassment and marry his fiancée. To sacrifice my own desires to restore the family name. I can’t do it. Don’t you see? It will be like it’s happening all over again. Ross Grant, the poor replacement for another lost brother.’
‘I didnae want to hear you say that, Ross,’ his grandmother said quietly. ‘My sister-in-law Fiona was a woman of strong opinions and she did wrong speaking that way to you all those years ago. It was not your fault. That baby was malformed.’
And the rest of it? Ross wanted to ask. What of the rest of it? It was possible his grandmother wasn’t aware of what transpired in his childhood. The passing of her husband, his grandfather, occurred when he was fourteen. It was a long illness over many years and a slow death. So perhaps his grandmother hadn’t noticed how loveless his life had been.
‘Here.’ She passed him an envelope.
Ross held it briefly, wondering at the contents before breaking the seal. The edges of the photograph were slightly curled, the heart-shaped face faded. To have the woman presented to him by way of a gummy envelope was strange to say the least. ‘This is Miss Thomas?’
‘That photograph warmed Alastair’s pocket. The field hospital forwarded it after he disappeared, along with his last letter to her.’ She looked towards the setting sun as if she could find some answer in the light. ‘If you’d bothered coming home for Christmas that wouldn’t be needed. She’s thirty years of age, Ross, living far from home and she has no one except the family of the fiancé who deserted her, and very little money.’
‘Much to recommend,’ replied Ross. ‘I’m surprised she would even consent to this.’
‘And what should we do? Send her back to the north of England to sit and sew with her father when all the young men from that area are either dead or missing? This family has a responsibility to the girl. And you have a duty to fulfil. The Grants need an heir, Ross, and only you can provide one.’
‘An heir? This is too much,’ said Ross. ‘There is nothing we can do about Alastair now. But we can salvage something from his life.’
Ross left the veranda and walked a few feet away from the homestead. The sun was casting the last of its heat across the plains. His grandmother came to his side, crooking her arm through his.
‘There is some good news. The Commonwealth is compiling a war record. Your brother’s name will be included. Unlike other deserters, he did fight. And I’m pleased to say that the mentions in despatches Alastair received will also be entered in the document.’
‘And?’ said Ross.
‘Many young men have been left mutilated by this damned war, most of them beyond repair. I like to think that you were saved for greater things, Ross. Marooned out here, growing strong, readying yourself for a future you had no knowledge of. Well, this is it, lad. At least come home and meet the girl. One day you’ll be head of this family and a very wealthy man.’
They didn’t understand. None of them did, thought Ross. It wasn’t about the money.
‘You will come home, Ross.’
‘And what will I tell the Toths? They’re like family to me.’
‘Tell them whatever you must.’ She tugged at his shirtsleeve. ‘But don’t forget, they work for us.’
Chapter 7
Ross was in no hurry to leave Gleneagle, electing to wait a few weeks before heading south to the city. He carried little when he set out, except for saddlebags and a rifle. His possessions were rolled inside a blanket and strapped to his horse.
He rode past decaying farmhouses with gaping windows and tumbled roofs fracturing the red dirt. The remnants of lives conquered by weather. The land in the north was no place for the plough. At every mile the dusty road narrowed a bit more, almost as if he were being reeled in, inch by inch. It was a tedious journey made untenable by what lay ahead. His grandmother had been his undoing. If she’d not come, he never would have agreed to meet Darcey Thomas.
At the beginning of the Mallee woodlands that marked the transition into more fertile country Ross took to the scrub, riding at night to avoid the increasing heat. At least that’s how he justified it. The weather was only part of the reason. Closer settlements increased the chance of meeting people and he didn’t want to speak to anyone. It was easier out here. Ross liked the quiet of the brush. The scurry of tiny creatures over and under leaves. The snap of a twig as a kangaroo darted into the trees. Through the branches a sliver of moon hung against a pattern of stars. It trailed Ross through the timber. He took comfort in seeing the distant brightness. In the rhythmic plodding of the horse.
In the darkness he sensed Alastair. Alive somewhere in Europe, running from all those things Ross once thought his brother held dear. He knew it was the last strings of hope that made him imagine that Alastair still lived, that and an anger towards his brother that he couldn’t deny. During the war years he’d received only five letters from him. Two of which spoke fleetingly of Darcey. Their first meeting when his brother was on leave in London was explained simply as being quite unexpected. They’d taken afternoon tea together and quite hit it off, and enjoyed five days together. He described Darcey as being a good sort. Delightful.
Delightful. Alastair could have been talking about a decent meal, a fine day, an afternoon stroll. Which made sense, as the likelihood of his older brother caring for a woman he’d spent less than a week with was absurd. Except that a few months later he’d written, telling Ross that he’d proposed marriage and Darcey had accepted. It made Ross wonder what happened in the intervening months when his older brother was away from this woman. Alastair once wrote of the monotony of war. Of the endless waiting between engagements, of the mind-dulling weeks in the trenches and then the screaming whistle, which hurtled many of his friends up and over sandbags to
their deaths. Either boredom or horror drove him towards her. And so it was equally possible that injury had given him time to rethink his position. Maybe that was why Alastair ran away from the hospital, to be free of Darcey Thomas.
So why then was he, Ross, riding towards her?
In an hour or so it would be broad daylight. Ross needed to find a cool spot to camp. There were the odd outbuildings, derelict dwellings and farmers who occasionally offered shelter if they caught sight of him, however these Ross tended to avoid, choosing instead the multi-stemmed eucalypts in the scrub as cover. To his left there was a road through the trees, surrounded by patches of dirt and the brown-green of leaves gaining colour as the sun rose. Branches and twigs crackled underfoot. Yesterday he’d chewed on the last of Mrs Toth’s tack-hard damper while scratching pictures in the dirt with a stick. There was little food left. Soon he’d exist on water and butchered kangaroo.
His horse whinnied in complaint. Ross patted its warm hair, riding reluctantly towards the road. There was a fence on the other side. A windmill.
‘There you go, old mate,’ he said to the horse. ‘Water.’ The trough was on the fence boundary and there was no gate nearby. Dismounting, Ross cut through the fence’s sagging top wires. The animal drank greedily, pushing against the remaining metal strands as Ross climbed over and cupped the water to his mouth before splashing his face.
He recalled that in their youth Alastair wasn’t one to chase class or money. A pretty face and an eager smile was enough to spur his brother on. By the time Ross had caught him behind the hedge at the back of the garden, rutting like a ram, the age difference between them seemed like a chasm. At sixteen, Alastair was tall and broad. When he’d stood, buttoning his trousers and stroking his neck in satisfaction, the red-haired girl turning away as she tidied herself, Ross understood how much they’d grown apart. He’d lingered until after his brother had departed, Alastair first giving the girl instructions to wait a few minutes before leaving as well.
‘He won’t marry you, you know,’ he’d called out from the foliage.
The girl ran away.
Ross kept a lookout as he filled his waterbag. He returned to his horse, and rested his arms over the saddle. The wind blew whirligigs into the air as the horse continued drinking.
‘Good on yah, cobber.’ A farmer appeared a little way off with an armful of wood.
There was a neat house nearby and, through the trees, Ross caught a glimpse of a washing line full to bursting. Damn. Why hadn’t he seen it?
‘I’m sorry,’ replied Ross. ‘My horse needed a drink and I didn’t see a gate. I’ll fix it for you.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, young fella. Come in and have a cup of tea. The kettle’s on. My boy’s here. Lost most of his mates over there, so he’d be pleased to see a friendly face. You know, someone who’s seen what he’s seen. He won’t talk to me or Mum about it. Won’t talk much at all. Just sits out the back, smoking and playing with the dog. I’d be real obliged.’
‘That would be good. Thanks.’ Ross waved to the man.
‘There’s a gate a quarter mile down the road.’
Ross twisted the wires together and rode on. Most of the serving men who were able had been shipped back from Europe by now. The welcome-home banners strung up in homes and towns had been put away and the returning soldiers were trying to get on with their lives. It was everywhere, the war. The remnants of it. Glory and sacrifice. Death and honour. He steered from the road and back to the cover of the bush. The tea was tempting. The thought of explaining himself was not.
A few miles on, Ross set up a rough camp under a straggly clump of trees. He lay down in the shadows as his horse grazed. There was flour and a twist of sugar sitting in a saddlebag, but the effort of mixing up a lumpy dough and making a fire didn’t appeal. He wasn’t that hungry. Shuffling onto his side, he wedged a hip in the dirt and rested his hat over his eyes.
Sleep was limited to periods of exhaustion, for Ross preferred being awake. With sleep, his mind wandered. From the teasing black mass that stalked him, across distant battlefields in an unknown country, to a twin brother never known. The dream always ended the same way, with Alastair walking away.
On the city’s outskirts, Ross halted. He watered his horse and turned to stare along the road travelled. Turning back was an option. There was nothing to stop him from pulling the reins in a different direction and watching the miles unfurl. Nothing, except for the simple fact that he loved and respected his grandmother and, with Alastair’s disappearance, Ross was effectively an only child. The phrase carried a hollowness to it. A certainty of loneliness. Church bells were ringing out across the city, he could smell freshly baked bread and roasting meat. Until now he’d not thought what day it was. Across the street two men were fighting. Legs staggering, the opponents lurched at each other. Some punches found their marks, others hit air.
‘Those two have been brawling ever since they got back.’
Ross turned to find a man leaning on the railing outside the smithy.
‘Didn’t know each other until they got home,’ the man continued. ‘And I bet they hadn’t touched a drink up till when they went over there. Bad business that, unless you own a hotel, of course. The publicans are making a fortune.’
One of the combatants staggered, falling to the ground.
‘You from Adelaide then?’ the man asked.
‘Yes. A long time ago,’ replied Ross.
‘That’s what all you young fellas say. Things haven’t changed that much, but on the other hand, everything has. Well, good luck.’ He gave a salute. ‘And thanks.’
Ross rode on. After this visit he did not expect to return to Adelaide for a very long time.
Chapter 8
Adelaide
Trees ran along the perimeter of the boundary fence enclosing the six acres in which Ross’s childhood home was nestled. Although Ross remembered every space inside and outside the brick and limestone building, he felt no attachment to the house or grounds.
Connor greeted him at the stables. ‘So you’ve come. They were starting to worry. Herself was convinced that you’d show, but your parents, well, it’s been a good place to keep clear of the last few weeks.’ He nodded towards the rear of the two-storey house. ‘Any day now I’ve been expecting to be sent to fetch you. Willing or not. As it is, you look like you’ve been dragged by the ankle the whole way back to Adelaide.’
Once dismounted, he shook Connor’s hand. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
‘Maybe not here. The city, though.’ Connor grimaced. ‘Cars and electric trams and outspoken women.’ A church bell chimed. ‘You look like you’ve had a hard ride.’ He sniffed. ‘And a bath wouldn’t hurt you.’
Ross patted his shirtsleeves and clouds of dust rose in the air.
‘It was no easy decision then?’ asked Connor.
‘Would it be for any man?’
‘I dinnae rightly know. I’ve not been presented with a perfumed peach for the taking. Usually,’ Connor winked, ‘they’ve been unripe pears and quite expensive ones for the quality of the fruit.’ He led Ross’s horse into the stables.
‘Have you ever thought of marrying, Connor?’
Connor undid the surcingle, lifted the saddle clear of the horse, and set it down. ‘I have. Once. She was a wee lass from the village where I grew up. I was seventeen years of age. Her father said no the day I asked him for her hand. She was already promised to another.’ He removed the saddle blanket and began to brush the animal’s sweaty hide. ‘I should have seen it coming. A few years later I placed a stone on one of the cairns on a hill near our farm. It was a crumbling pile not used as a landmark for anything that I knew of. Some said there was an old chieftain buried there. Others reckoned it was a lookout for when the English attacked. All I knew was that moorlands and mountaintops lay beyond it and that on a clear day when there was only a middling fog in the valley you could see another cairn in the distance. That’s when I wondered what was on the other side.
I left a few years later. It was hard to say goodbye to my father, but harder still to stay and see that girl every day for the rest of my life.’ Connor patted the horse, tweaking the animal’s ears. ‘What I’m trying to say, Ross, is that you have to get married at some stage and it’s better this way. To have the thing done for you. It’s the hope that wears away at a man. Waiting for the right one to appear is like expecting a star to fall from the heavens. I don’t think it happens.’
‘What if it does?’ asked Ross.
‘Ah, then, that’s another matter. Not that you need to worry about that. Your life’s been mapped out,’ he told him.
‘I said I’d meet the girl, nothing else,’ insisted Ross.
‘Aye, right. You’ve ridden all this way to say hello. I’ve not heard anything so daft.’
‘It’s not daft.’
‘Just go and get it over with, Ross.’
Ross kicked at a rake leaning on the wall. It fell, knocking down a makeshift shelf holding tins of nails and other bits and pieces.
‘Steady on,’ said Connor.
Stone Country Page 6