Sunset Ridge (19 page)

‘It's a good offer for a girl like me.' She picked leaves from the threadbare shawl. ‘So leave me alone and don't go ruining everything.'

‘H-Harold? But you
can't
marry him.'

Corally snuffled back tears. ‘Why not? My pa reckons that most likely he'll be blown to bits anyway, but if he isn't . . .'

Luther digested these words. The thought of being injured hadn't crossed his mind. Besides, he was younger than Harold, faster and quicker. There was no way Fritz would get him. ‘B-but you spoke for me in th-the c-courthouse.'

‘You're going too, aren't you?' Corally eyes were red.

‘Yes.' Luther nodded. ‘I'm t-taking o-off. I don't go m-much on f-fighting for a l-living, b-but I f-figure I'll see the world at l-least.'

‘And your brothers?' Corally asked hesitantly. ‘I suppose all of you are the same. All you can think about is rushing off and getting yourselves killed.'

‘Dave's t-too young. We didn't t-tell him w-what we were up t-to,' Luther revealed. ‘And Th-Thaddeus th-thinks he and I are going north.' He looked at the girl, her toes curling in the dirt. ‘I figured after th-them b-being p-punished for w-what I did t-to Snob th-that I should go it alone for a-a while.'

Corally eyes grew moist. ‘If I was a man I'd go too instead of being left behind in this place.'

Luther surveyed the rows of headstones fanning out from the lone tree. ‘It's not s-so b-bad.'

‘Really? And what would you know, Luther Harrow? You with your grand home and miles of land.'

‘I b-better g-go.' Corally was getting a crotchety tone to her voice, which reminded Luther of Miss Waites and his mother.

The girl tucked strands of hair behind her ears, wiped roughly at her face and marched past him, her arms swinging fiercely. A jumble of thoughts rushed through Luther's mind. ‘D-don't m-marry Harold.'

The girl pointed to where Scratch was lying across a fresh gravesite. The soil forming the mound was rooted up. The horse rolled over the recently buried and whinnied with delight. ‘See, even your animals ain't got respect for anybody.' Corally climbed through the fence.

‘H-hang on, Corally. Don't go charging off like a b-bull at a g-gate. Won't you write me a-at least? While I'm at th-the w-war?'

Scratch scrambled up onto his feet and neighed loudly.

‘Well d-done,' Luther admonished as Scratch trotted towards him. The last he saw of Corally was a slip of a girl merging with the trees.

 

Dave lay on the floor, staring at the brass knob on the bedroom door. Beads of sweat pooled every few minutes along his hairline to run down the side of his face. Not usually inclined to bathing, he had taken to dreaming of the washstand down the hallway with its cooling water and Pears soap. A suffocating heat had entrenched itself in the room and he was beginning to believe that he would never be cool again. So he remained on the floor, close to the fresh earth below. Occasionally a whisper of air would snake its way through a crack in the boards beneath and Dave would suck in the waft like a cone of flavoured ice.

It had been two days since Luther and Thaddeus's disappearance and still his imprisonment continued. Breakfast and the midday meal had passed; one meal at night was Dave's allocation, that and a jug of water and an old potty in which to do his daily business. He stretched out gingerly, his backside and thighs still stinging from the thrashing given by his father – and G.W. had threatened more if Dave didn't reveal details of where his brothers had run off to. What was he meant to do, he asked himself. Lie? Having never experienced extreme anger before, Dave was at a loss as to how to handle it. He was bored and frustrated, yet his concentration appeared to have been flayed into pieces, much like his wounded skin, and he couldn't draw to fill in the endless hours. In fact, the sketchbook had been dismantled, pages torn out and hidden in case his artwork became another casualty of his father's fury. Chickens now hid in clothes, household furniture in a shoe box, people in an old tin in the manhole in the ceiling, and others in his roll-top desk. Only Miss Waites survived concealment: her images were layered beneath his mattress.

A plan of sorts began to structure itself and as it drew him towards freedom Dave realised that there may well be no turning back if he decided to pursue it. Once he left Sunset Ridge it would be difficult to return and face his father. And then, of course, there was the question of employment. A man had to earn coin to buy food, and what if the worst happened and he couldn't find his brothers? Patches of light angled through the window as evening shadows streaked the garden. Gradually the bedroom grew dark. Rolling onto his side, Dave sat up carefully. Footsteps echoed outside in the long hallway. The doorknob squeaked on turning.

‘It's me.' His mother stepped in quietly, then peered back out into the hallway before closing the door.

Dave moved sideways as a meal tray was placed on the dresser. His stomach gurgled loudly.

‘We think Thaddeus may be going north,' Lily whispered, folding the cloth that had covered the tray and sitting it to one side. ‘He fought with Harold out the back of the ironmonger's store two days ago. The farrier saw the altercation and reported both of them to the constabulary.' Lily lifted the plate of food. ‘Here you go.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

Lily sighed. ‘Suit yourself. Anyway, your brother managed to get away, while Harold spent a night in gaol for disturbing the peace.' Lily fiddled with the cloth, re-covering the food. ‘There's no sign of Luther.' She looked at him hopefully. ‘Do you know where they are, Dave? If you do, you really must tell us. Please tell us.'

‘I know they'd had enough of being locked up here.'

Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘So you told your father. You really don't understand the magnitude of this situation, do you?'

‘Thaddeus and I never did anything wrong.'

‘I know that, but you must understand, your father –'

‘I hate him,' Dave said loudly. ‘Why are you letting him keep me locked up? Why did you let him flog me?'

‘Oh Dave, I'm doing my best. You know how he can be.' Lily gave a sigh. ‘I'm worried about your brothers, Dave, and you. Please tell me what you know. It's the only way I can help you and them.'

Dave looked at the floor. His brothers didn't need any help − they were free.

‘You can stop this immediately by telling your father what you know.'

‘But I know nothing.' He gritted his teeth.

‘Please; you boys have always banded together. You do realise that if you continue to refuse what your father asks I will not be responsible for what happens?'

‘Fine, keep me in here, then. In the years to come they'll find my bones, like an old cow left to die in the paddock. What will you say then? Then you'll be sorry.'

‘If you want to blame someone, Dave, blame Luther. This whole mess started with him, him and that Corally Shaw.' Lily sniffed. ‘How ludicrous, trying to protect
her
honour and thinking that maiming the baker's boy was the only way to do it. I'm beginning to think I should have let Luther be sent away to reform school.' Beads of sweat sprinkled his mother's top lip. ‘I see you've picked up your brother's tendencies towards insolence, and I must tell you, my lad, it is a most unattractive trait.'

A second later the room was empty again, the key turned in the lock. Dave stood in the middle of the room, his heart racing. He had a dreadful feeling that things were going to get a lot worse. Minutes later a door slammed. His father's voice vibrated through the homestead. Flattening his ear to the bedroom door, he listened to the approaching footsteps and indecipherable voices. At any moment his father could stride down the hallway with his polished leather strap. The footsteps grew louder and Dave glanced at the window. For two days he had been considering the consequences.

Cook's voice cut across the footsteps and then, as if by a miracle, they retreated. Dave slouched against the wall, his mouth dry. He devoured the cold cuts of mutton left over from yesterday's roast and gulped down the glass of fresh water. By midnight he intended to be riding along the river towards Banyan, but first there was someone he needed to say goodbye to.

Dave spread the five drawings of Miss Waites on the bed. His fingers traced the curve of her neck, lightly brushed the indent above the lips. Each drawing showed a different angle, highlighted some part of her that he had agonised over while trying to do justice to her features. He always began with the eyes before checking the positioning of the nose, lips and ears. The whorls of those delicate ears had transfixed him for days, while the soft down at her hairline took hours to perfect.

Gathering up the sketches of the governess and most of the secreted drawings − there wasn't time to retrieve the ones hidden in the ceiling − Dave rolled a clean shirt inside a blanket and, securing it with a leather belt, dropped it through the window. Then he crawled through and slid down the side of the house onto the grass below. The freshness of the air, although still heavy with heat, brought a smile to his lips and he set off with renewed determination, his swag over one shoulder, the roll of sketches tucked under the other arm. He passed the kitchen and Cook's quarters and crossed the yards of dirt and patchy lawn. Despite the heat, Dave sucked in the scent of dry grasses mixed with the red dirt that layered the air and buildings. He could barely imagine life away from Sunset Ridge, and the inevitability of his actions suddenly struck him as if he had been hit. Across the miles of darkness lay the winding river and the animals that gathered at its banks to drink. He could see the sunlight filtering the trees along the river flats and the surrounding paddocks, which fanned out from her as if in homage. Most of all Dave could smell this land of the Harrows; the thick, gritty scent of the decaying drought years and the lush pungency of the good; the decades-whitened bones of their ancestors watching from their red ridge and the tang of manure dropped by cloud-wispy sheep. Sunset Ridge held a palette of possibilities, yet like any great creation in the making there were still flaws appearing in the work. It was these flaws Dave was beginning to see and understand, for they presented themselves in the form of people. It only took the slightest brushstroke or an error in colour to render a possible masterpiece imperfect.

He understood how it felt to be a pebble in a slingshot; pulled in one direction, only to be flung in another. He was readying to say goodbye to Miss Waites, yet worry gnawed at him. How on earth would he find his brothers? Running away from home, from Sunset Ridge, with no firm idea of what awaited him suddenly seemed ridiculous, and now another thought struck him: once he left, there would be no need for a governess at Sunset Ridge. Lamplight shone from Cook's quarters. Dave hitched the swag higher on his shoulder and contemplated the walk back to his room. Was staying worth another flogging? It was harder to leave than he had imagined. A cooling breeze caressed his face. The river beckoned. He was still here, yet the missing had already begun

A murmur of voices carried on the wind. That was all he needed: to be caught outside by his father. Edging along the rear of the schoolhouse, he readied himself for the sprint across the grass back to his room. As he moved Dave became aware that the voices were less audible and appeared to be coming from behind him. Dave followed the voices back to Miss Waites' room, where he peered into the open window.

The soft lamplight made Miss Waites' skin luminous, and her hair was unpinned and fell loosely about her shoulders. Dave took in the sight of the long curling hair, strands of which were streaked with white-gold; he had never seen such beauty. The governess leaned against a dresser, one arm reaching out as if beckoning someone; the image reminded Dave of a picture, an angel rising from a shell. His governess resembled a Botticelli angel, the material of her dress straining against the taut lines of her arm. Dave formed an artist's square with his fingers, racing to memorise the soft hollow at the base of her neck, the gentle tilt of her head.

‘Don't do this to me, Catherine.'

The voice was male and all too familiar. At the sound, Dave squatted in the darkness among clumps of spiky grass. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

‘If ye won't marry me now,' Miss Waites replied, ‘at least leave me with the memory of your touch.'

‘It's not that I don't want to,' the man continued, although his tone was hesitant. ‘Oh God, this damn war. I don't want to leave you a widow.'

‘I don't want to be left at all,' Miss Waites countered.

‘So you'd have me labelled a cold-footer, too afraid to enlist, to do my duty?'

‘I just don't want ye to go.' The governess began to sob.

‘If I'm seen in your quarters you'll be out of a job.' The outline of a man filled the window.