Sunset Ridge (36 page)

 

Chessy farmhouse,
ten miles from Saint-Omer,
northern France
August 1917

‘G
'day. I'm looking for the artist.'

Harold stopped dunking his smalls in the water trough and inclined his head to direct the soldier towards the open patch of ground in front of the farmhouse. Dave had the best spot of the billeted diggers: dappled sunlight from nearby trees, the cool stone of the house behind his back, and an admiring Frenchwoman who treated him to titbits from her kitchen. None of them could top Dave's gift of a sketch of the farmhouse with the owner standing in the doorway.

‘Over th-there, next to the b-bloke shaving,' Luther added. This boy appeared younger than the last, a skinny, flea-bitten sort who was likely to get blown back across the Channel to England if a shell landed near him. The young soldier glanced around and then walked through the groups of resting diggers. Some played cards or slept, others cleaned the dishes from the portable field kitchen, while a handful played cricket with a cloth ball and a length of timber.

‘Sixty-six and
still
not out,' Thaddeus yelled as he lobbed the ball into the trees. Trip and Fall rushed after it. Thaddeus sat down in front of the wicket – a broken bird cage – and grinned.

‘Show-off,' Harold mumbled in Thaddeus's direction before turning back to watch the newest subject head off to find Dave. ‘More stray soldiers have been here than I've had cooked breakfasts.' Stripping off, he clambered into the animals' watering trough, his knees close to his chin. ‘We can thank Captain Egan for Dave's new-found celebrity. Not that we're making much out of it. A man can't live on smokes. We'll pass the word along that from now on it's a bottle of plonk or a chicken in return for one of his sketches.'

‘F-fair enough.' Luther hung his shirt to dry over a branch and sat on the ground. The men were lethargic this morning. They had spent the past few days loading cut lengths of timber onto carts to be used to reinforce trenches. The week prior they had been transported on buses from Tatinghem to Saint-Omer and on arrival had helped another work detail load munitions for transportation to the front. It was obvious that the brass had a new push coming. ‘Have you t-talked to Thaddeus yet?'

‘No,' Harold stated.

To be fair, trench life since Harold's arrival had not allowed much time for chinwags. ‘Isn't it t-time you t-two made up?' Luther suggested. ‘What are y-you fighting about, anyway?' He thought back to the day Thaddeus was promoted to sergeant and the antagonistic way in which Harold had sniffed appreciatively at a letter received in that day's mail.

‘It's between us.' Harold's words were clipped. ‘Best you stay out of it.'

Luther wasn't inclined to stay out of it, especially because he couldn't get a word out of Thaddeus either. What he did know was that there had been two fights between the former best mates last year: one at the Banyan Show and another out the back of Lawrence Ironmongers a couple of days before he met up with Thaddeus on the Western Mail.

‘There
is
something I want you to know, though, if you can keep it a secret.'

‘What?' Luther asked.

‘Corally Shaw and I are engaged.' Harold leaned back in the trough. ‘Does that bother you? I know you and she had something going for a while back at the show last year, and she stood up for you in court.'

Luther was slow to respond. There were two letters from Corally secreted in his pocket and neither mentioned anything about Harold. He thought back to the day at the cemetery when Corally first told him that Harold had asked her to wait for him until after the war. It wasn't possible, was it? ‘Really? You kept th-that quiet.'

‘Well, I had to. Actually, if you want to know, that's one of the reasons your brother and I fell out. That and what my mother would call a personality clash.'

‘Are you t-telling me you two were fighting over C-corally Shaw?' Luther could not believe it. First Harold was telling him that he was engaged to Corally and now he was saying that she was one of the reasons Harold and Thaddeus were avoiding each other. ‘Does Th-thaddeus know about you and Corally?'

‘Not that we're engaged.'

Luther's head spun. Something was very wrong. Corally was writing to
him
, and as for Thaddeus . . . Luther was sure that Harold had his wires crossed. Everyone expected Thaddeus to marry well, and if he was promoted in the field again, he would return to Australia with the pick of the graziers' daughters to choose from. Hell's bells, Luther would bet his rum ration on Miss Bantam resurfacing. Lighting a cigarette, he concentrated on controlling the trembling in his left hand. It was as if his stutter had taken up residence in this new yet unscathed part of his body, for his speech was much improved.

Harold splashed water on his face. ‘Are you going to tell me who you've been writing to?'

Luther drew on the cigarette. ‘A friend.' As he blew out a ring of smoke his thoughts turned to Corally's last letter.

I shuld ave written soonir, Lu, but Im not real good at putting pen to paper. I just want you to no that you were rite that day in the cematary. We are like peas in pods and I liked your kiss. Weve got somthing speshal. I hope you come home soon.

Whenever he thought of Corally's words Luther felt stronger, taller. He was cloaked in the bond they shared, and that letter, tucked protectively against his chest, carried him safely through the worst of the skirmishes they endured. When he hopped the bags, snipped at barbed wire or led night raiding parties into German trenches to discover which divisions were against them, Corally was there, her words reminding him of another, better life.

‘A friend, eh?' Harold soaped his hair and disappeared underwater.

Obviously Corally and Harold did step out together before the war, Luther decided. After all, he and his brothers had been confined to Sunset Ridge for weeks, leaving Harold at a loose end. But an engagement? Luther remembered clearly the day in the courthouse when Dave had repeated Corally's wish to visit them at Sunset Ridge. That didn't sound like a girl who wanted to out with Harold.

Harold reappeared from under the water, shaking his head like a dog. ‘You have to give me more than that.'

Luther flicked the cigarette butt into the air. ‘I m-met a girl in Sydney before w-we sailed.' The lie slid off his tongue.

‘What's she like?'

Luther pictured Corally the last time they were together, crimson-cheeked and wet-lipped. ‘She's d-different, I guess. Th-there are no airs and graces with her and she's p-pretty, p-prettier than any girl I've laid eyes on.'

‘Like my Corally.'

Luther told himself that it would be a hard-hearted female who broke a man's heart in wartime, so it was likely that Corally still wrote to Harold. Luther considered telling Harold the truth about his relationship with Corally, but it was easier to say nothing, especially with another big push in the wind. He could only guess at Harold's sadness and Thaddeus's shock if they discovered that the woman they were supposedly fighting over was actually keen on him. No, it was far better to wait for Corally to clear up the mis­understanding. Luther didn't want to be in the middle of an argument when they next fronted Fritz.

‘Engaged, eh? Well, I'm not surprised at anyth-thing a w-woman agrees to during wartime,' Luther said cautiously. ‘A mate of ours b-blown up at Messines reckoned th-they change their mind like the w-weather. Why, he had a girl and she wr-wrote and t-told Marty they were over the day b-before we left for France. Makes it easy, you know,' Luther picked at the lice trailing through the hair on his legs, ‘l-letters. You can say one th-thing and mean th-the other.'

Harold snorted water up his nose. ‘Not my Corally. Anyway, what's happening at Sunset Ridge?'

Luther was pleased to change the topic. ‘Mother's still p-pretty riled and she never m-mentions Father, it's all about the p-property. Anyone would th-think she was in charge of it now. Shearing is over and they sold two th-thousand ewes at a good p-price.'

‘My parents say you have a manager, some bloke called Nathan­ial Taylor, and that your father's ill.'

Luther disagreed. ‘If he was th-that sick she w-would have told us, I'm sure.'

‘I guess. Anyway, I feel sorry for them. At least I told my parents what I was doing, but you lot just buggered off.'

‘And I t-told you why. Anyhow, you w-would th-think Mother would have calmed down a l-little by now. It's nearly nine months since w-we left, b-but every letter is th-the same. She's always accusing Th-thaddeus and m-me of dragging Dave t-to war and reminding us th-that his l-life is in our hands.' Luther sighed. ‘I didn't w-want him to come.'

‘She's angry,' Harold agreed.

Luther listened to the splash of water against the side of the tub.

‘Wash my back, Luther.'

‘B-bugger off. Come on, hop out b-before th-the w-water turns black.' Luther stepped out of his long underwear, revealing a muscular, taut physique. They swapped positions.

Luther settled himself in the tepid water and began to scrub himself. ‘Do you th-think it's a good thing, this painting of Dave's?'

‘What do you think? Sketching the likenesses of the soon-to-be-murdered.'

Luther washed his face. ‘Well, remind m-me not to get
my
p-picture done.'

‘The ones of home, of Sunset Ridge and the Banyan River, they're the ones I like. Now he's too busy drawing soldiers.' Harold pulled on his trousers and stretched out on the ground.

‘W-well,
you're
his b-business manager, Harold; and let's face it, th-there isn't too much demand for p-pictures of t-trees.' Luther scrubbed the nape of his neck; the men never seemed able to rid themselves of lice. Giving his head a final dunk, Luther stepped out of the trough and shook himself dry before dressing.

‘Lovely; a man can't even dry off in peace,' Harold complained, wiping at the droplets sprayed across his chest.

A couple of hundred yards away Dave sat cross-legged opposite another young soldier, his stare intent. It was the type of look that took in a man's face, broke it apart and then reassembled it piece by piece. Such visual interrogation unnerved Luther – it was as if his young brother could see inside a person's soul. Although he had not voiced an opinion, Luther agreed on the governess Miss Waites being reprimanded for encouraging such feminine inclinations; painting simply wasn't a good pastime for a man. Yet he had to concede that the sketches gave the men something to talk about, and if Dave's drawings helped take the men's minds off where they were and what they had to go back to, well, then that wasn't such a bad thing, he supposed. Not that Luther would ever have his own portrait done. That was for men like Thaddeus who deserved to be officers.

His decision had nothing to do with the men Dave sketched who now lay dead.

At the rickety table where diggers played cards, a fight broke out.

Harold jumped to his feet. ‘That'll be Thorny. His blood's worth bottling, but give him half a mo and he's backchatting the best of them.'

Cards were strewn across the ground and the table was upturned. Thorny was backed up against a tree, muttering something unintelligible, a bottle in one hand, his impressive eyebrows an unbroken line.

‘He just went off,' one of the shocked diggers explained as he gathered up the playing cards.

Thorny took a glug from the bottle. The liquor ran down his chin, leaving splats of darkness on his tunic. Very slowly he slid down the tree trunk.

‘Come on, mate,' Harold cajoled. He turned to Luther. ‘I've never seen him like this. He's always been a straight shooter with the bottle.'

‘L-let him sleep it off. He'll b-be right,' Luther suggested.

‘Will he? He's my number two on the gun, Luther. He's my responsibility. And he's a good bloke. He follows instructions, never argues and he's a brave little bastard.' Harold prised the bottle from Thorny's grasp and threw it aside. ‘I've lost two number twos and Thorny knows it, so I made a pact with him that I'd watch his back.'

Luther thought of his own mother's wishes regarding Dave and stretched out his aching shoulders. War wasn't the place for expectation.

An appreciative whistle stirred the billeted soldiers' interest. A dark-haired young woman was walking up from the stream carrying a bucket of water. A blue headscarf framed her pretty features and matched her long skirt, which swished across the grass. Three soldiers rushed to her aid, one managing to take the bucket. The men shadowed the girl up the slight incline, chatting and joking along the way. A short distance from the farmhouse the girl retrieved the bucket of water and gave a coy thank you.

‘
Bonjour,
Lisette.' Dave waved as the girl retreated into the farmhouse. He looked at the sketchpad resting across his legs. It was filled with images of his mates. Most of them were pretty life-like, although he knew he had a long way to go before he could be considered a proper artist.