Sunset Ridge (31 page)

‘Yes, it did. I've got smarts, Miss Waites, and smarts go beyond a fancy house and a name that means something to others. And I ain't living my life in a fallen-down shack with nothing but a brood of little 'uns to show for my trouble because some hoity-toity parents don't think I'm good enough for their boys.' She swallowed. ‘So, that's why when Harold Lawrence came knocking I said yes.'

‘I see.' Catherine sat back in the armchair. It was nearing the time for supper and although she loathed the cramped communal dining room, her own quarters were bordering on claustrophobic. The young girl, standing so defiantly before her, drew so much energy that Catherine was beginning to feel flushed. ‘Ye don't love him, do ye?' She thought of Corally's eager gaze as each letter was read aloud and the sheer disappointment that had emanated from her slight body upon realising there was nothing from the youngest of the Harrow boys. ‘It is Dave ye care for, isn't it?'

Corally scuffed at the floor as if she were standing in the dirt. Her nose turned pink. ‘You know, sometimes I look at the moon and I think that if I could just grab hold of it, if I could just have all that light shining down on me for just a moment, well, then maybe Dave would see me.'

Catherine lit a candle in the darkening room. ‘All those boys are at war now, Corally.'

The young girl crossed her arms across her chest. ‘So?'

‘Well, ye must write back to each of them.' Catherine rubbed at her temples. ‘Ye must tell Thaddeus and Luther that there can only ever be friendship between ye. Ye have pledged yourself to Harold, after all, and it would be wrong to give the others false hope.'

Corally chewed her bottom lip.

‘Ye have to do the right thing. Ye simply can't lead young men on like this.' For a moment Catherine thought the girl would refuse. She observed the set of Corally's shoulders. ‘Come back tomorrow and I will help ye write the necessary letters.'

The girl reluctantly agreed. ‘Can I have some writing paper to take with me tomorrow so I can practise my letters?'

The request was surprising yet Catherine was pleased. ‘Of course, and there is something else worth considering, Corally. On Harold's return he will have seen things that ye can only imagine; the great cities of England and France, different foods, architecture, clothing, language and women. European women.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, as ye are so determined to marry quickly and, well, don't ye think it is time to start behaving and dressing accordingly? Ye don't want Harold to come back and be . . .' Catherine searched for the right word.

‘Disappointed?' Corally challenged. ‘No, I don't.' The girl studied Catherine's dress and then her hair. ‘I suppose I'll have to learn from you, even though you are still unmarried.' With a curt goodbye she left through the window.

 

Corally edged along the side of the building. Dry grass cushioned her progress and at the end of the boarding house she peered down the ill-lit street. Half a block away a single lamp light opposite the courthouse broke the gathering dark. Large creamy moths flew into and around the light, filling the halo of brightness with movement. At the far end of the street a number of horses were tethered to the hotel hitching rail. The remainder of the street appeared to be deserted. Corally's nose twitched; mutton, potatoes and the fatty scent of dripping made her curse the miles back to her parents' shack by the cemetery. The polite people of the village were sitting down to their supper behind the soft glow of illuminated windows.

With a final glance at the deserted street she began the walk home. There was no real reason why she chose to sneak to and from the boarding house. Mainly it was because Corally didn't want the townsfolk sticky-beaking into her business, or that of Miss Waites. The governess was helping her, after all, and her pa said to be nice in return. It was a pity then that the governess had become like everyone else. Corally was yet to meet anyone who didn't feel obliged to lecture her. With a little skip she left the outskirts of the village and walked into the scrub. Tomorrow she would sit patiently while Miss Waites dictated what she wanted her to send to the Harrow boys, then with the letters safely in her pocket she would take them back to the hut and burn them and then write her own. The only good thing about being offered advice was that you didn't have to take it.

 

Nathanial Taylor wiggled a horse-weary backside against the lumpy mattress cushioning the floorboards and stared at the narrow bed upended against the wall of the governess's room. The novelty of being indoors and having his arse lifted two feet off the ground had not lasted long. Ever since Mrs Harrow requested he be bedded within the confines of the homestead garden some months ago, the walls of this new dwelling had been steadily closing in. Nathanial rolled sideways, pushing his riding boots out of the way. His old faithfuls were nearly past their prime. The leather was beginning to pull away from the sole. Some repair work was in order if they were to see him through another winter, especially as he had never been one for socks. He had run with the blacks up north for the first twenty years of his life and had learned to ride and to work livestock bare-foot. In pursuit of a woman nearly ten years ago he had relented and purchased his first pair of leather boots. The ones smelling up the place next to his head were his second.

Through the open door the bush grew dark as the sun was consumed by the earth's rotation. The scene was accompanied by the tinkle of piano music, a nightly occurrence and one that he enjoyed. Although the tune was unknown it rekindled memories of long nights by lonely camp fires and the odd woman who had passed his way, like diamonds from heaven. Lily Harrow's touch was deft, and the nightly music became a backdrop to his musings and the unfolding nights. Turning on his side he watched a flock of white cockatoos wing their way towards the river. The birds left a gun-metal grey sky smeared at the edges with a purple hue as the bush quietened.

He had been bashing about the outback for long enough to know when man and beast were in for a cold winter. G.W. Harrow's cattle were already showing signs of healthy hair growth, a sure indication of a lengthy cold spell. At least the feed would hold out till spring now he had finally reached agreement with Mrs Harrow.

They were to start shearing in a couple of days. With Sunset Ridge's normal team unable to accommodate the changed date, Nathanial had called in a couple of favours and wangled a team from down south. Once the clip was sold he then intended to sell two thousand head of Sunset Ridge's breeding ewes. That would ease the pressure on the pasture and allow them to receive the full benefit of the highly anticipated spring rains. While he was loath to overrule G.W. Harrow's management style, he had never been one for overstocking.

Nathanial had expected a battle from the stoic Lily Harrow when it came to bringing the property's shearing date forward, but it seemed the woman's hands were full caring for her ailing husband and running the homestead. A man such as himself couldn't ask for better circumstances; who would have thought he could slip into the role of managing such a property? Yet notwithstanding the fact that he had fallen on his feet, his current accommodation was less than satisfactory and he yearned to be back out in the bush. ‘She's trussed me up like a broiling hen,' Nathanial muttered, scratching at his neck hair. Lily Harrow had promised good food if he shifted camp to the old governess quarters, and he had been led in from the scrub by his stomach. It was soon apparent, however, that everything that lived and breathed was killed three times in that room they called a kitchen, and by the time it reached his plate in the evening Nathanial found himself sizing up his portion as if he were about to do battle. He would put up with the poor food for as long as it stayed chilly and he enjoyed the novelty of keeping the missus happy. That would last till spring, he reckoned.

In spite of Cook's limited ability Nathanial was not immune to the more pleasant side of his employment. The boss was not unattractive, and he admired her tenacity; indeed if the old man kicked the bucket he harboured ideas of cleaning himself up and edging a boot into the homestead. A man could not be blamed for having needs. And there was always the possibility that Lily Harrow would not be averse to a brief undoing. She wouldn't be the first better-bred woman to take a fancy to him, even if such affairs were short-lived. For the moment, however, there was a live if decrepit husband and absent sons for Mrs Harrow to concentrate on. Nathanial wondered if the missus would sleep a little better tonight. Cook informed him at supper that the Harrow boys had finally written to her. This long-awaited information was divulged with folded arms and a tone that suggested he better not get too comfortable as manager. That was one thing about women, Nathanial mused: they courted death by assuming all would be well. He didn't have the heart to wipe the sanctimonious look from Cook's face by telling her that if all three Harrow boys were in France, their parents would be lucky to see two return to Sunset Ridge.

The screech and rustle of flying foxes sounded from the gum trees behind the quarters. For small animals they sure made a ruckus. He had a mind to fire his rifle into the trees, but he knew that the ungainly feet-hangers would regroup within seconds, making any attempt to dislodge them futile. Nathanial sat upright and groped in the darkness for his roll-your-owns. The night was eating away at the station outbuildings. Little by little they disappeared to merge with the gloom of a moonless night.

‘Damn it all,' he muttered when the tobacco pouch remained elusive. Scrabbling to his feet, he ran his hands across the dresser in the dark. A stub of candle and a box of matches were quickly located, but the ensuing light was weak. The candle box was empty and he had neglected to refill the kerosene lamp this morning. With a huff he jerked at the wooden drawers of the dresser, searching for a spare candle that would see him through the evening. With his few belongings thrown over the back of a chair or piled on the floor, there had been no need to rummage through the dresser drawers or narrow wardrobe; it had been a long time since he had hung or folded clothes.

Nathanial ran calloused palms across the base of each empty drawer. About to give up, his search revealed a stack of papers. Lifting them free he flicked through the pages in the wan candlelight. They were a collection of sketches: strangely shaped people and animals and something that looked disturbingly similar to a chair. Nathanial itched at his beard and drew his formidable eyebrows together. Each drawing bore the initials DH in the lower right-hand corner. He guessed that one of the infamous Harrow boys was the artist responsible for the peculiar collection.

Only a couple of the drawings appealed. They reminded him of Miss Waites, the young woman who worked in the village post office. Although a bit on the skinny side for his liking – he preferred a woman with bits he could hang on to – she wasn't a bad sort. The sketches of the woman were pretty good. Nathanial could not recall when he had last seen the curve of a woman's lip or the whorl of an ear close up. In fact, the images were so realistic they were almost indecent.

Sitting the candle on the floor beside the sketches, he rolled a cigarette. The tobacco filled his lungs as he sorted through the drawings. The ones of the woman he left by his swag; the others were less enticing. He began to fold some of the animals and people into foot-long oblong shapes, as smoke trailed across his eyes from the cigarette dangling between his lips. On completion of his task, a pile of folded paper sat before him. Stubbing out the smoke, he flicked the remains out the door and began to line his boots with the paper. He pushed and prodded at the inside of each shoe until the drawings were moulded to the shape of his foot and the worn leather was reinforced by the new inners. He returned the unused sketches in the drawer. When eventually the task was completed Nathanial gave a satisfied nod. He too could appreciate art.