Sunset Ridge (10 page)

G.W. plucked at a trouser seam. ‘Well, when spring comes we shall see if the young woman is suitable and if so we can make some overtures with regards to joining our two families.' On the far wall, which housed a library of volumes both old and new, the Harrow family bible rested between two brass claw bookends. Carried from London across the sea to the new world of Australia, the bible had been passed down through the male line, with every generation carefully inscribed within its pages. Births, deaths and marriages were scrawled across three pages and stretched back seven generations to a forgotten ancestor who had lived and died in the London slums. It was G.W.'s most precious possession.

‘I shall look forward to inscribing another generation in our bible.'

‘I thought you would, my dear,' Lily agreed.

 

 

 

Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
February 2000

George caught sight of Will Murray at midday on his way back to the homestead. The countryside had stilled in the growing heat and a bluish haze eddied through the air as land and sky merged. Will appeared distorted in the harsh light, a slanting line of man and horse that stretched unnaturally upwards as they moved in and out of trees, over fallen logs and around scrubby masses. George waited beneath the shade of a partially dead tree, his attention flicking between Will's steady progression towards him and a large goanna ambling across the paddock. The lizard was broad and fat, well fed on the carcasses the drought provided. George spat on the ground with distaste and resumed his wait. The earth was stifling him today. He could feel her hard heat rising up in complaint. She shrunk his lungs with her parched breath and stung his eyes with her gritty presence. He desperately wished it would rain.

Focusing on Will required effort. Having misplaced his sunglasses earlier in the day, George felt as if his eyeballs were receding back into his head. If that weren't bad enough, sweat poured out of him, drenching his clothes, pricking sun-tender skin until the telltale heat rash reappeared and his vision blurred. George ached to be anywhere but here on the beloved family property.

Running his tongue across dry lips, he silently abused the beer he had consumed yesterday. They'd had dry seasons for a number of years, however two years ago things had become desperate and ever since he had been thirsty; thirsty for water, thirsty for grog. It was as if the land had seeped into him so that he too suffered from her relentless thirst, incapable of quenching his own needs or of tending hers. It was the uselessness that ate at him; watching as the land dried and shifted and melted away. At night he was sure he could feel her calling him, and at times he cried for the sight of green grass, for the caress of her rain-wet body. ‘Heat stroke,' he muttered. ‘Must be heat stroke.' But he knew better. ‘Come on, Will, hurry up.' It was Sunday, God's day, as good a time as any for a drink. Water and grog: one fed the other and now he couldn't live without either. His horse shifted restlessly, lifting first one leg and then the other. ‘I know, mate, time to head home.' He wasn't one for riding late in the morning, but with four horses to keep active he had to keep his rotation system going. Sometimes he wondered why.

Will dipped his chin in greeting as he joined George under the tree. At twenty-four, he was a lanky-looking lad with an almost perfectly round face. ‘Was there a problem with the trough in the wool-shed holding paddock?' he asked in his usual drawl, the corner of his mouth curling.

Ignoring this latest affectation – last month Will had been partial to rolling over his bottom lip when making a point – George wiped sweat from his eyes. ‘Nope. No problems that I know of. Today's drama was trying to get the pump going to fill the water tank. It beats me why women need so much water when it comes to taking a shower.'

‘Women, eh? Sonia said your sister was visiting. Said she was real pretty, with a brain, and that you should have married someone like that. Well, I mean, not your sister, just someone like that, someone different.' Will's face grew progressively redder. ‘You know someone who –'

‘Will!'

‘Sorry, George. You know me, sometimes my mouth doesn't connect with my head.'

They urged their horses homewards. ‘Now, tell me about the trough,' George asked.

‘The trough, yeah. Well, it's been cleaned out and the arm was twisted. Works fine now, though.' Will dropped the reins, unhooked his water bottle and unscrewed the lid. ‘Bugger.' The inverted container was bone dry.

George squinted as sweat dribbled down the bridge of his nose. ‘Our Good Samaritan?'

‘Weird, ain't it? You got any water?'

‘No, empty. And you're right, Ross
is
a bit weird.' George turned his horse onto the dirt road and together they began to walk back to the house. ‘That's two troughs repaired, the windmill and those three sheep that were pulled free of the dam last year after we got that shower of rain.'

Will scratched his nose. ‘Are you sure it's Ross? I've never been one for ghosts.'

‘I'm sure, Will. Ross Evans is no ghost.'

‘Well, I've got to take your word for it, 'cause I sure haven't seen old Ross out here that much.' Will scratched his neck, rolled his bottom lip and squared his shoulders.

‘Well, I have, on and off over the years. I've asked him why he helps out on Sunset Ridge but no other properties, and all he does is mumble something about it being his business and nobody else's. Whatever his reasons, I'm grateful for his help. I just wish he'd let me pay him, but he won't hear of it.'

‘Maybe he likes you,' Will winked.

George rolled his eyes.

‘Maybe he's bored. He doesn't have a job. I know that much,' Will told him. ‘Well, apart from looking after his cranky old mother.'

George whistled softly through his teeth. ‘She's a tough one all right, that Mrs Evans. She must be nearly a hundred. They sure bred them tough back then.' The wind rose as he spoke, sending a whirl of grit along the track and into their faces. Both men squinted, their lips cracked and dusty. Even the trees they passed looked exhausted by thirst. ‘You know, that old girl would have been around when my grandfather and great-uncles were living here at Sunset Ridge. I went to her house once.'

‘What?' Will exclaimed. ‘You saw the old battleaxe?'

‘Yep,' George continued. ‘It was a couple of years ago. I hoped to find Ross and pay him for the odd jobs he'd been doing. Well, she shuffled to the front door all bent over and looking like a relic from the turn of the century in an old-fashioned long skirt and blouse.' George puffed out air at the memory of their meeting. ‘At first she smiled, and I remember thinking that she must have been a fine-looking woman in her younger days. Well, didn't the old girl give me what for when I introduced myself and told her why I wanted to see her son? She straightened her spine and abused me like a trooper. She told me Ross was a good-for-nothing do-gooder who wouldn't know right from wrong if it bit him on the arse. Then she told me to bugger off back to Sunset Ridge.'

Will burst out laughing. ‘What happened?'

‘What do you think? I got the hell out of there.'

‘You know she and Sonia don't get on.' Will spat dirt from his mouth. ‘My ma says Sonia use to pelt stones through Mrs Evans's window when she was young. They haven't spoken for fifty years.'

‘You can bet it'll be over some piddling disagreement.'

‘Talking about piddling,' Will began, ‘you know, a fella was telling me the other day that's it's so dry the trees are following the dogs in the hopes they'll get peed on.'

‘Good one, Will.'

‘Sorry, George,' Will said, showing no sorrow at all. ‘So, are you going to set me up with your sister?' Will smiled hopefully, displaying teeth that resembled chipped tiles. George could smell him from four feet away. Will rubbed his chin. ‘I'd shave.'

‘She's a bit old for you, mate.'

‘Ah, fair enough. My dad always said the older ones were difficult. Get 'em young and train 'em up's always been his advice.'

Will's father was on his fourth marriage and currently living hand-to-mouth on the coast. ‘How's your father going?' George asked.

‘Average. At least I get the run of the place now. It's just me and . . . well, me.'

‘He'll be back,' George placated.

‘When it rains.' Will almost sounded hopeful, but for the knotty sound that caught in his throat.

‘Yeah, when it rains.' George understood the loneliness eating away at his young station hand. Will chose to stay on the family farm as a caretaker after his father walked off the property two years ago, up to his hocks in debt. The poor bugger simply didn't know any other life or have any other place to go. ‘Well, you can have the day off tomorrow and we'll start the circuit again on Tuesday.'

‘Sure. Righto.'

If he had the money George would have kept Will on permanently. They rode on quietly, the creak of leather and the snuffle of the horses breaking the monotonous sweep of the earth.

 

Madeleine sat cross-legged in front of the open trunk in the schoolroom, her mother's rusty key poking from the lock. She was a little annoyed at being delegated the task of going through the last of her father's possessions, and also unsurprised: Jude wasn't the sentimental type where her husband was concerned. Out of politeness Madeleine had been waiting for George to return from his morning ride before opening it, but after a while she decided to begin – if George was involved, Rachael would be too, and Rachael had little tact when it came to Ashley Boyne's death.

A handful of Banyan and District P&A Society show ribbons lay to one side; small holes peppered the red-and-white bands of material where insects had feasted. The pests' trail of destruction through the trunk included an attack on a tweed jacket and a woollen jumper, among other items that had belonged to her father. Beneath the clothing lay a mass of magazines, cheque books and what appeared to be condolence letters written on her father's passing, all clumped together by a yellow stain of past dampness. Madeleine ran her hand across the thick cable-knit of the jumper before sitting it on the pile of ruined ribbons and clothing. Although she was tempted to hang on to something of her father's, there was nothing salvageable here, and in the end Madeleine knew that her precious memories were more important.

Dust careered around the stuffy schoolroom. Madeleine rose to open the single window, but the church-like mosaic of stained glass refused to budge and she contented herself with the meagre airflow through the partially wedged-open door. It was almost too hot to be cooped up inside the near-airless room, and grit cushioned her bare legs, making her sweaty skin itch. Puffing at the hair sticking to her forehead, she scanned a fan of magazines on the floor. So far she had unearthed old copies of
The Illustrated London News
and
The Bulletin.
The handful of art magazines, mainly dating from the 1930s, were an added bonus. Though they were remarkably well preserved despite the water damage, her enthusiasm waned when she realised they were useless. A quick flip through showed no mention of her grandfather's name. Having hoped for a reference to his work, a profile piece on the artist's life or details of a local exhibition, her disappointment was acute.

Tidying the magazines, Madeleine found a mouse-chewed envelope stuck to the back of a copy of
The Bulletin
. She peeled the letter free and carefully opened it. The contents consisted of a handwritten account noting the purchase price for two separate commissions undertaken for a Miss C. in 1918. They were signed by David Harrow. Madeleine hugged the correspondence to her chest before re-reading them. The works mentioned were titled
Now
and
Then
and were unknown to Madeleine. Her breath quickened. Had she discovered two new paintings that could be attributed to her grandfather?

‘There you are. What are you doing?'

Rachael squeezed through the doorway as Madeleine tucked the letter out of sight and began to repack the magazines into the trunk. ‘Jude wanted me to go through these things for her. You know, family stuff.' Her sister-in-law had a particular way of pursing her lips when annoyed. ‘They were Dad's things.'

‘Oh, well, if they're your father's . . . You know, George rarely talks about him.' Rachael surveyed the dusty room with distaste. ‘Not that I blame him. I imagine it's quite awkward having something like that happen.'

‘Awkward?' Madeleine flicked angrily at the mouse droppings stuck to her leg. Rachael had made similar comments in the past, and each one had stung Madeleine.