Sunset Ridge (27 page)

 

Chessy farmhouse,
ten miles from Saint-Omer,
northern France
November 1916

The cleaver sliced neatly through the rabbit. Wiping the blade on a towel, Madame Chessy turned to the stove and shook the large pan. The frying bacon sizzled and spat, greasing the pan with fat and sending an enticing aroma through the kitchen.

‘Do you think more soldiers will come today, Madame?'

The older woman turned to Lisette and shrugged. ‘I hope not.' The rabbit lying quartered on the table had spent the last week indoors scurrying safely around the farmhouse and out of the hungry reach of billeted troops. It was not that she was averse to sharing food – she hoped some kindly woman was doing the same for her own sons – yet nor did she intend for her and Lisette to starve. This rabbit would last them for four or five meals and the leftover juices would form the basis for a rich potato soup laced with cream if the milking cow obliged. ‘That British officer thought we would continue to see more soldiers until Christmas,' she reminded Lisette. The last troops had left the relative warmth of the barn only days previously. They were heading back to the muddy freeze of the Somme, grumbling about luckier soldiers from other battalions who would probably be granted furlough in London now the festive season was less than six weeks away.

Lisette's fingers nimbly tied string around the bouquet garni of dried thyme, parsley and bay leaves and presented it for inspection.

‘Very good,' Madame Chessy praised, before scraping the cooked bacon out onto a plate and dropping the rabbit into the pan to brown in the leftover fat. Lisette began to chop onions into wedges. ‘Good, if it is too fine the onion will melt away while cooking.' She observed the girl with motherly pride as Lisette flattened two cloves of garlic with the blade of a knife. The girl was proving to be a good companion and, more importantly, had been excited by the opportunity to be taught to read and write. Lisette soaked up their evening lessons gratefully, although she was easily distracted. Every time even a small improvement revealed itself in a thoughtfully read paragraph or a questioning gaze of approval, there would be a knock at the door and Lisette's dreamy gaze would follow a young soldier's meanderings outdoors.

The older woman knew she should not be ungrateful for the men's presence, but they did intrude. One British soldier, who introduced himself as his officer's assistant, requested a visit to the cellar in order to peruse the available contents; Madame Chessy was quick to chase him from the door with a broom. And she was still uncomfortable with the British habit of writing in chalk on the barn door the number of men that the barn would accommodate. It was bad enough to have the Germans edging their way onto French soil – she didn't need the British to exert ownership tendencies as well.

With the rabbit browned, she added a cup of wine and two spoonfuls of flour, followed by the remaining ingredients. The bouquet garni was poked into the liquid and the lid placed on firmly before the pan was slid into the oven.

Lisette's nose twitched. ‘It smells very good.'

Madame Chessy wiped down the table with a dishcloth and washed her hands in a ceramic basin. ‘Two hours and it will be cooked perfectly, I think.'

Outside, the afternoon shadows were creeping across the countryside. Normally the curtains would already be drawn against the cold, but a vision of the twins returning from over the fields haunted her daily and hope kept the curtains open and the view unrestricted. Angling a chair towards the window, she pushed the cork back into the neck of the wine bottle. It was her last. Lisette's father, Monsieur Crotet, had promised to buy wine on her behalf when he next took her produce to the village market. Until then she would measure out the meagre supply by adding a little water to her nightly indulgence.

‘It's a long time since I have eaten rabbit,' Lisette said in her quiet voice. ‘Papa prefers fish and pork.'

The girl no longer retreated to the corner but sat instead in Marcel's chair, winding skeins of wool from a fleece grown by her family. The fleece had been washed and dried in the sun before being combed out, and every Monday morning for the past few weeks Lisette had arrived at the farmhouse with a basket of spun wool under one arm and explicit instructions as to the lengths of wool to be included in each ball. Madame Crotet knitted outerwear, and there was talk that her warm clothing was popular on the black market. Madame Chessy was less concerned with the extra francs her neighbour may make over the winter months than the thought of a cut of the tasty meat hanging in the Crotets' cellar. Yet despite the many kindnesses she had shown towards their daughter, she was yet to benefit in this regard.

‘You are fortunate, Lisette. No doubt you have enjoyed lamb these past weeks on your visits home.'

Lisette nodded. ‘Some,' she admitted. ‘But I like pork.' The rhythm of her fingers barely changed as she looked quickly but shyly at Madame. ‘All my family like pork.'

Alerted by a distraught sow grunting in alarm, Madame Chessy had foiled pilfering soldiers with a piglet under an arm on a number of occasions. Despite her vigilance all but the sow and one, the runt of the litter, were taken. With the distinct possibility of awakening one morning to an empty pigsty, she had slaughtered the remaining piglet last month. Cut and cured, it hung from the wooden beams in the chill of the cellar.

‘Really?' Madame Chessy replied eventually to Lisette's statement. She calculated the cost of obliging such an obvious request. There were six people under the Crotet farmhouse roof and two beneath hers, besides which she was already feeding Lisette. She could do without lamb, she supposed. Besides, Marcel's remaining sow was living on borrowed time; her safety could not be guaranteed and she too would have to be killed and cured before winter's end. Some of the meat could be bartered for produce in the village and would keep well in the cellar for a number of months.

Lisette rolled the wool precisely, her right hand looping the growing ball as the home-spun yarn continued to rise from the basket at her feet. She sat skew-whiff in the chair, one side of her face yellow in the dwindling light, her fingers deftly plying the natural fibre. She had talked recently of joining one of the many textiles factories, as if immersion in such a trade would offer a better life away from the drudgery of farm work. ‘After the war,' Madame Chessy had cautioned, ‘wait until after the war.' Last week's paper talked of strikes in some of the factories, with workers complaining of poor wages and the loss of jobs as owners sought more efficient production through the increased use of machinery.

‘Finished.' Lisette dropped the last ball of wool into the basket and, flicking irritably at a strand of dark hair, rested her leg over the arm of the chair.

Madame Chessy opened her mouth to protest and then thought better of making a comment. Initially she had been perturbed to see the casual way in which Lisette took ownership of her husband's chair. Now she welcomed it. Exhausted by the day's end, Lisette often fell asleep after their evening meal and lesson, her lips slightly apart, softly snoring. Such a scene of youthful domesticity would have pleased Marcel.

‘Madame?'

‘Yes?' Madame Chessy replied.

‘You will write again?' Lisette asked.

The black-and-white photograph of her uniformed sons sat in a wooden frame on top of the dresser. Antoine and Francois appeared suitably serious in the studied pose, and more than once she had caught Lisette running her finger across their faces. The picture had arrived during October and was accompanied by a brief note from Francois. She had been thrilled to have evidence of their good health. Since then, she had been in receipt of only four letters from her boys. Three were heavily censored and, judging by the postmarks, were mailed at village post offices; the fourth, penned en route to Verdun and mailed through the Red Cross, miraculously escaped the censor's pen.

‘Madame?' Lisette queried.

Outside the land darkened. The willow trees began to lose their form as night bore down on the farmhouse. ‘Tomorrow. I shall write again tomorrow.' She shared a smile with Lisette, conscious of a previous sharp edge to her tone. There was no point in burdening the girl with fears that were as yet unfounded.

Lisette hovered her palm above the stove.

‘Yes, another piece of wood, I think,' Madame Chessy agreed. The kitchen was not the warm fug of earlier, and the rabbit required constant heat. Selecting a length of timber from the neatly stacked pile on the floor, Lisette poked it into the firebox. The wood crackled and fizzed and when Lisette took possession of Marcel's chair again Madame could feel the girl's eyes on her. Madame Chessy knew that Lisette wanted to talk about the twins, but she could not bear to. Her previous letters had gone unanswered. Optimism rallied her spirits during the day and chores kept them both busy, but at night it was becoming increasingly difficult not to believe the worst.

‘Madame?'

‘I'm sorry, Lisette, what did you say?'

‘Last Sunday Mama and Papa were talking about Christmas.'

The older woman frowned. Everyone, it seemed, was talking of holidays. ‘We are yet part-way through November.'

‘It's good to have something to look forward to,' Lisette persevered. ‘I was asking if you will be joining us to celebrate Noël? Mama and Papa insist. First we will walk to the village to celebrate midnight mass and then we will have such a celebratory supper. Oh, I love that time of year.'

‘I don't think so. What if Antoine and Francois return home and find the farmhouse empty? What if a thief should steal the last of the chickens or the sow or –' Madame Chessy stopped herself. Lisette was clearly disappointed. ‘You do understand?' she said more gently. ‘Please thank your parents, but I must be here.'

‘But it's a celebration,' Lisette insisted. ‘The little ones place their shoes on the hearth for Father Christmas to fill. Papa has promised escargots and Mama is going to make a little foie gras from wild duck.'

Madame tried to smile. ‘I am past broaching the cold at mid­night, Lisette.'

‘But, Madame, it's a celebration,' Lisette repeated dejectedly.

Above the stove Christ on his fractured wooden cross stared vacantly into space. ‘Not for everyone,' Madame Chessy replied.

A knock on the farmhouse door stilled further argument.

Madame Chessy lifted her palms upwards in annoyance. ‘So, once again the cow, hens and my little pig will have to share their space with soldiers. This time we must tell them that the barn must be cleaned out and the hay burned before they leave.'

Lisette nodded intently, causing her hair to come loose from its ribbon. ‘Yes, Madame. Last time it was terrible. The fleas were so bad all the animals suffered.' Her fingers scratched her arm automatically.

‘And only eggs and potatoes are for sale, no other produce,' the older woman waggled a finger, ‘alive or dead.' Lisette had fancied a young British private billeted with them last month and came close to being coerced into parting with a round of their precious cheese before Madame Chessy intervened.

‘Yes, Madame.'

The rap of knuckles on wood sounded again. Madame Chessy looked out the window. ‘Coming, coming,' she replied sternly. ‘It's nearly dark,' she called out, crossing the short distance. Sliding the bolt on the door, she opened it just a little. A blast of cold air swept into the cramped room.

‘Who's there?' Lisette asked, walking forward.

Madame Chessy staggered backwards, her progress halted by the kitchen table.

Father Benet dipped his chin apologetically, stepped inside and closed the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
November 1916

The front door slammed. Lily rose from her mending as G.W. strode through the homestead, leaving a trail of mud in his wake. Flinging open the door of the sitting room, he marched to the shelving that housed their library, his filthy hands coming to rest on the Harrow family bible.

Lily followed her husband into the room. ‘My dear, your boots.'

Unhearing, he selected the large leather-bound book and thumped it down on the oval table in the middle of the room. The vibration rattled the porcelain knick-knacks and tipped over the crystal specimen vase with its single native flower within. Water seeped across the table.

‘Eight hours we have been out in the paddock. Eight hours in this abominable heat.' Dragging a chair to the table, he sat heavily.

‘Please, my dear, don't distress yourself so.'

‘We are stretched beyond capacity. There are sheep bogged in dams, sheep that need to be mustered in and checked for flystrike.'

Lily lifted her skirts above the dirt on the floor. ‘Let me get you some water.' Mud reached to G.W.'s thighs and splattered his torso and arms. As the heat slowly crusted it, tiny pieces flaked from the clothing onto the floor and table.

‘I have the books to balance and accounts that require payment. And what am I doing? Wading in mud and filth while your sons gallivant about the countryside, shirking their duty to the family business.' Pointing a mud-caked finger, G.W. snarled at her. ‘This is
your
fault. I never should have allowed you to sway my decision regarding Luther.' He slammed a fist on the table. ‘He should have gone to reform school, and the others with him.' He unlatched the silver hinge and opened the bible. ‘Instead I allowed you and your mollycoddling ways to interfere.'

Lily grew alarmed. The man before her was turning purple and a large vein on the side of his neck was pulsating and increasing in size.

‘Painting and pianos indeed, woman. You birthed boys, not the weaker sex. Mark my words, Lily: it will be the first and the last time you meddle in family business. Do you hear me?'

Lily backed away from the harsh tone. ‘I understand that you are upset, my dear, but please remember that our sons cannot be blamed for the season or for our lack of staff. The war has brought many changes and –'

‘Don't interrupt me!' G.W. shouted. ‘Those boys ran away with scant regard for anybody except their own misplaced sense of injustice. Who did they think was going to work this place in their absence –
you
?' Reaching inside his jacket, G.W. withdrew a notepad, which he threw on the floor before locating a stubby pencil.

‘What are you doing, G.W.?' Lily took a step closer to the table. The bible was open on the first page of the substantial Harrow family tree. Dirty fingerprints smeared the page.

‘Seven generations,' he muttered. ‘Seven generations and we've come to this.' He met Lily's horrified stare. ‘I should have chosen more carefully,' he announced. ‘Clearly our blood was not meant to mix.' Turning to the last page of entries, G.W. lifted the pencil and drew a thick black line through each of his sons' names.

Lily mouthed a silent
o
.

With the obliteration complete, he closed the bible, snapped shut the finely etched silver latch and pushed the book aside.

Seconds later he fell to the floor.