Sunset Ridge (39 page)

‘Good.' Lisette cupped the water glass between her palms.

Dave was no tactician, however it seemed silly to him that Messines hadn't been followed up immediately with another major strike. Instead here they were, weeks later, twiddling their thumbs as their gunners bombarded the Germans. Luther furiously argued with anyone within earshot that Haig's noisy calling card was allowing Fritz to muster their forces in anticipation of this next push. None could say he was wrong. While the usual brave faces were evident around the farmhouse, a sense of foreboding was building among the men. Fierce fighting had broken out again at Ypres and battles continued to be waged through an area collectively known as the Somme.

Madame Chessy clucked her tongue. ‘The rains will be heavy this year, I think.'

‘How do you know?' Dave drained the tumbler of wine.

The woman rose. Only after she had rinsed their dishes in the simmering water and sat them in a plate rack to dry near the fire did she reply. ‘I know this land. It is a feeling I have.' Navigating the cramped room, she rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. ‘You come back?
Oui
?'

It wasn't like him to tear up. Dave blinked away the moisture and began to rip finished sketches from his pad. ‘Will you look after these for me?' he asked. ‘If you are right and there is a lot of rain they will be ruined if they get wet.' He would be sorry to leave them behind. The drawings spoke of better times and it was becoming increasingly difficult to draw beauty from memory.

Madame Chessy studied the collection. Among the drawings were Thaddeus playing cricket, Fall and Trip laughing at a shared joke, Captain Egan giving a VD lecture, Harold playing cards with Thorny, and Luther sharpening his tomahawk. ‘They are family,' she stated.

‘Yes, family,' he agreed.

‘It would be an honour,' Madame Chessy placed a hand to her bosom, ‘and you come back and collect?
Oui
?'

He nodded. One sketch remained: that of the mangy dog who wore Antoine Chessy's identity discs about his neck like a trophy. The ungainly animal was depicted sitting alone in the trench, the dead owner's discs clearly visible. Dave shut the book quickly, loath to distress his hostess.

Madame Chessy examined the drawings. At the bottom of the pile was a geometric sketch of lines and boxes. She tilted the drawing left and right, held it to the light and then rotated it. Finally the older woman placed it back in the pile and pointed to her recent portrait. ‘
Mieux
,' she said simply.

‘Yes,' Dave agreed, ‘it's better.' His interest in that particular style, borne out of his hallucinations last year, had waned with the increasing time spent at the front. He was looking at fractured lives and landscapes every day; there was little appeal left in dis­assembling objects when life was as disjointed as the pictures he once toyed with.

When a knock sounded on the door, the last person Dave expected to see was Captain Egan. ‘Sir?'

‘A word, Dave.'

Madame Chessy raised her chin. ‘We will never forget
Australie
. You tell your mama, we never forget.'

‘I'll tell her.'

‘You've made a friend,' the captain noted once they were outside the farmhouse.

‘She's a good woman, sir.'

They walked to the edge of the farmhouse clearing. Beyond the willow trees and stream the blaze from the bombardment haloed the horizon in green and yellow light. ‘It will take much for the French to recover,' Captain Egan shared as the bomb flashes reflected off thickening clouds.

‘Madame Chessy says it will rain, sir.'

‘I hope not, Dave,' Captain Egan said stiffly. ‘Unfortunately the topsoils in this part of France are quite shallow and the water table very close to the surface. Our advisers tell us that the rain percolates through the chalk bed and underneath that is gluey clay. Well, you're a farmer, Harrow, you can imagine what our artillery is doing to the countryside and what it will be like out there if we do get substantial rain.'

Dave was flummoxed. ‘Sir, I've got no idea. I only know about sheep.'

The captain snorted. ‘Sheep? I can't imagine you Harrow boys being content with sheep.'

‘It's the land, sir, as wide and as red and as quiet a place as you could ever imagine, and the sheep dust the countryside like clouds.'

For a moment they both stared out at the trees blistered white by streaky jolts of light.

‘Well, you remember that when you get to the front, son. That's what you're fighting for.'

Their conversation conjured visions of red ridges and the lanolin-smooth boards of the wool shed, fishing trips and the hint of green after rain. Dave yearned to be back at Sunset Ridge, cosseted by the great sweeping bulk of country that had always protected him in the past.

‘Anyway, Harrow, I have a request and it's a simple one. In May this year Will Dyson was appointed the AIF's first official war artist. It's taken some time for agreement to be reached regarding the way in which the war should be documented but it seems General Birdwood is happy enough for a record of sorts to be made. Now, it's not in my power to give you some sort of special commission at the moment. However, you should be aware that I have sent word higher up with regards to your abilities. In the near future I hope you'll be documenting the war, not fighting in it.'

Surprise was quickly overtaken by anger. ‘I suppose you talked to Thaddeus about this and he was keen for me to do it?'

‘Of course,' Captain Egan agreed. ‘Very keen.'

‘Well, it certainly gets him and Luther out of a tight spot, sir.'

Captain Egan raised an eyebrow. ‘I don't understand. You're extremely talented, Dave. I'd liked to see those talents made use of for the benefit of the war effort and the nation.'

Dave focused on the words that closed every letter they received from their mother.

Look after your young brother, Thaddeus and Luther. He is your responsibility now.

‘If it's all the same to you, sir, I signed up as a soldier and I'd rather stay as that.'

Captain Egan turned to him. ‘You'd still be in the thick of things, son. You can't document the war from the rear.'

Dave hesitated. He wanted to draw and the chance of being a commissioned war artist was more than he could have hoped for, yet the need to prove he was just as capable as his brothers was more important. ‘It wouldn't be the same, sir.'

‘It would be pretty close.'

Dave shook his head. ‘No, sir. No, it wouldn't. They'd be charging across no-man's land and I'd be watching from the trench. It wouldn't be the same at all, sir.'

‘You're a bloody stubborn lot, you lads from Banyan,' Captain Egan chastised.

‘Yes, sir,' Dave agreed.

‘Well, if that's how you feel. But I hope you change your mind.'

‘Anyway, if it does rain like Madame Chessy says, there won't be much drawing going on.'

‘We'll see. Roll call at six am in Tatinghem,' Captain Egan reminded him before walking away.

Dave watched him go, his knuckles clenched. He knew he'd made the right decision. He could still draw at the front even if his pictures were only for the benefit of the men he fought with. As for documenting the war, Dave wondered why anyone would want to remember it.

‘You said n-no, didn't you?' Luther slunk out of the shadows, the tip of a cigarette glowing in the darkness.

‘Of course I said no.' Luther seemed older than all of them now. Caution framed his movements, making him resemble a coiled spring. Dave was pleased he was on their side. He dared not imagine the horror of facing the tomahawk-wielding soldier that his brother had become.

Luther offered a cigarette and struck a match, cupping the flare of light with a palm. ‘I told Th-thaddeus you would. Anyway, th-there are more drawings scattered about here than you can poke a stick at, and I've never gone m-much on this p-painting caper of yours.'

‘I can look after myself, you know.'

‘I know th-that,' Luther agreed, ‘but Thad? Well, he's always had a m-misplaced sense of authority. It comes with b-being the eldest.'

Dave felt a little better. ‘Can I ask you something?'

‘Depends,' Luther answered, picking tobacco from between his teeth.

‘Do you know what happened between Thaddeus and Harold? I've asked both of them but neither are talking and you always change the subject.'

‘Corally Shaw happened,' Luther revealed. ‘I didn't b-believe it at first but th-that's Harold's story.'

Dave was gobsmacked. ‘So the fight –'

‘Yep, all over a g-girl.'

‘Bloody hell. That's just stupid.'

‘Especially as women are such ch-changeable creatures,' Luther answered. ‘Harold thinks he's engaged to Corally, and I guess Th-thaddeus reckons he has a chance with her. I don't reckon either of th-them have asked Corally what she wants.'

Dave took a long drag on the cigarette. ‘But at the courthouse she helped
you
.'

Luther whispered conspiratorially. ‘We shared a kiss, her and m-me, in the Banyan cemetery. And we write t-to each other.'

‘Well, I'll be.'

‘Don't b-breathe a word. The thing is, it's me she's keen on, but I th-think it's better if we don't tell the others, not with another p-push coming.'

Dave couldn't help but laugh. ‘So, all this is because of Corally Shaw? The fight between Thaddeus and Harold at the show; you chopping off Snob Evans's finger, which led to all of us being locked up and eventually running away from Sunset Ridge? All of us ended up fighting someone else's war on the other side of the world because of a girl?'

Luther sat on the grass. ‘I hadn't th-thought about it that w-way.'

‘Bloody hell,' Dave repeated, joining his brother on the ground. ‘Why?'

Luther gave this question considerable thought. ‘B-buggered if I know.'

‘This is too good,' Dave chuckled. ‘You know, I never even liked marbles that much.'

A greenish light filtered the clouds. ‘Th-hat girl's like a piece of candy to l-look at.'

‘More like trouble,' Dave argued, thinking of the letter received from her.

‘Well, if she is t-trouble, she's
my
trouble,' Luther replied confidently.

‘I don't get it. Why Corally?'

‘I just l-like her, Dave, I always have. She's different, I guess, really p-pretty, and Corally has something th-that no other girl I've met has: spunk. Now I'm over here she's even more important to me. Corally Shaw is w-what I'm fighting for.'

Dave thought back to the conversation with Captain Egan, about remembering what he cared about when they returned to the front. Dave knew he was fighting for a good cause and the constant hope of returning one day to Sunset Ridge. But it was different for his brothers and Harold. While they too were fighting for a future, fighting to protect each other and their comrades in order to put an end to the war so they could return home, it seemed they were also fighting with a woman in mind. The same woman.

‘I'm going to g-get some shut-eye. Th-thaddeus tells me we're on work detail again.' Luther ruffled his hair. ‘And you're wr-wrong, you know, Dave. This isn't someone else's war, it's ours too.'

Dave thought of Corally's letter as the ominous rumblings of the big guns filtered through the night. They were already in one war, he mused, and he didn't want to be part of another. Retrieving the envelope, he struck a match and held the flame inches from the girl's brief words. Dave wanted to burn it. He knew he should burn it. Instead he blew out the match and tucked the letter away.

 

 

 

Temporary field hospital, France
August 1917

Francois leaned heavily on the crutches and stepped out from under the portico of the chateau. The cobbled driveway was difficult to navigate and more than once the wooden tips of the walking aide became lodged in the rocky crevices. He headed towards a stone bench, his swinging stride gathering momentum on the soft grass. The weather was fine today and patients were strewn about the garden. Those who could walk strolled about the grounds as if on holiday; others lay on blankets reading and dozing in the sun. Convalescing soldiers lolled in deckchairs or sat in wheelchairs, their faces turned towards the sky like sunflowers. Stippled light filtered the stone bench as Francois leaned his crutches against the wide girth of a tree. Directly before him, the chateau rose proudly. The temporary field hospital had been his home for so long that the prospect of leaving it unnerved him.

Hopping on one leg, he landed heavily on the stone bench. He still had some way to go before his movements became more fluid, although Sister Valois continued to be pleased with his progress. Roland ran through the trees bordering the edge of the chateau's grounds and came to a panting halt at Francois' foot.

‘Where have you been?' Francois scratched the animal's nose. ‘Chasing rabbits again, eh?'

Roland barked and whined in response and Francois could only imagine the tale that was being told. He patted the bench seat and Roland jumped, sprawling his body up across the cool stone so that his head lay in Francois' lap. He fingered the dog's leather collar, touching the smooth discs that had once hung around his brother's neck. It was a comfort to know that Roland had found Antoine; had perhaps laid a great paw on his chest and rested with him in the detritus of Verdun.

Francois wondered if he should have written sooner to his mother instead of relying on Sister Valois to do it. In her last letter she had sounded very sad, and he wondered if his letter explaining the improvement in the infection had not arrived. Francois wanted to be whole again, to return home the same man as the one who had left the chilly farmhouse last year. Putting pen to paper remained difficult. To try to explain everything that had happened, to write of the dark abyss he had crossed, the loss of his leg and of Antoine's death . . . Francois stroked Roland's back absently. It would have made everything too real, too final, and he wasn't ready for that. Francois had been in a dark place, a place part of him would never return from. He understood this was the way things had to be because his other half, his brother, lay in the muck and he had survived, and he would never understand why fate had chosen Antoine and not him.

Above, birds darted through the foliage. Roland followed the fluttering shapes with interest.

‘Francois?'

A young aide was holding a long envelope. Francois accepted it and thanked the girl as an ambulance motored up the driveway towards the chateau. Roland sat up.

‘And Sister Valois said to tell you –'

Francois waved her away. ‘I know, I know.' By his side Roland barked.

The door to the American Field Ambulance opened and Captain Harrison emerged. Francois knew he should greet the doctor but instead he watched and waited as the American was directed to where he and Roland sat. The captain was no stranger to the chateau, having taken Sister Valois to tea on a number of occasions in a nearby village a week after his arrival with Roland before completing his leave at Amiens. Now, however, the man was clearly short for time. He crossed the lawn quickly, weaving between wheelchairs and more able-bodied soldiers.

‘How are you feeling?' the captain asked, although his attention was diverted by Roland's enthusiastic greeting.

‘Better,' Francois replied. Although the captain had a long way to go before he could speak French fluently, the American had benefited from his time spent with Sister Valois.

‘So I see. You'll be going home in a matter of weeks, I hear.'

‘And you to the front,' Francois answered. ‘How was your leave?'

‘Amiens is not as I remembered it. Parts of the city were shelled.' Captain Harrison petted Roland and joined Francois on the bench. ‘Sometimes I think I should have stayed here and courted Sister Valois. I'm sure she's fond of me.'

It took Francois a few seconds to decipher what the captain spoke of, and then he laughed. ‘Only a brave man would attempt such a thing.'

‘Perhaps, but then we are surrounded by bravery these days, I'm hoping some may rub off on me.' Down the road leading to the chateau, two patients raced their wheelchairs. ‘If there were Australians here they would be betting on that.' Two aides ran after the men, imploring them to stop before there was an accident.

Francois twitched Roland's ear. The dog nuzzled his way onto the bench until he had squeezed both men sideways and made a space for himself, his head level with theirs.

‘He doesn't have to come back with me, you know.'

‘I saw what he did at Verdun.' Francois' eyes shone. ‘And you have told me of how he assists you with the wounded.'

Both men were petting Roland and the dog arched his neck under their joint attention.

Captain Harrison nodded. ‘He's a remarkable animal. He seems to do naturally what other dogs take months to learn. But you of all people know how dangerous it is out there.'

Francois thought of his father and brother and all the others who had given their lives in defence of a land that now seemed unrecognisable.

‘He doesn't have to die a hero,' Captain Harrison reminded Francois. ‘And he is
your
dog. I think Roland has done enough.'

Francois cupped the dog's head and rubbed his forehead against the soft hair. ‘I don't think the decision will be ours.'

Captain Harrison's pale eyebrows drew together. ‘Well, unfortunately I must go.' He rose and took Francois' hand. ‘It has been a privilege to meet you and Roland.'

‘Thank you for bringing him back. It has meant a great deal to me.'

Captain Harrison patted Roland. ‘It was something I felt strongly about. There are many stories about this dog and the two brothers he belonged to.'

Francois watched the American as he wound his way back to the ambulance, pausing to chat to two aides before greeting Sister Valois beneath the portico. They talked for long minutes and then Sister Valois held out her hand; the captain ignored this gesture and kissed her on the cheek, his hand lingering on her shoulder. Sister Valois touched her face as the captain walked away.

Roland's paw was heavy on Francois' thigh. ‘You want me to give you my blessing,' Francois said softly, turning to look into the dog's dark eyes. Roland's breath was on his cheek. There was a smell of wet grass and freshly turned dirt. Francois' eyes blurred. ‘You are not mine to own, but I hope you will come back to me.' Wrapping his arms around the animal, he hugged him fiercely. ‘Go then,' he cried, ‘go and do your duty.'

Roland leaped from the bench. Outside the chateau the ambulance chugged to life and reversed. Roland ran straight to the moving vehicle, which halted suddenly. The driver's door opened and the dog jumped inside the cabin. For a brief moment Captain Harrison stared at Francois and then he lifted an arm in salute. Standing unsteadily, with a single crutch propped beneath an armpit, Francois returned the salute.

‘Don't let him go out into no-man's land!' Francois yelled. ‘Promise me?'

Captain Harrison lifted his arm in goodbye. ‘I promise.'

When the ambulance drove away, Roland's great shaggy head barked at him from the passenger window as Sister Valois walked a few steps after the departing vehicle.

In the ensuing silence Francois placed a palm on the warm stone where Roland had sat and wondered what would become of his life. Half his family were dead, he was maimed and virtually useless, and he doubted that he would ever see his beloved Roland again. As he drew his hand from the now cold stone, his fingers touched the envelope delivered earlier. He opened it quickly. There was a letter from his mother within, along with two sketches. He flattened them on the bench and stared at the finely drawn portrait of his mother and one of the farmhouse. The door was open at a right angle and beyond the figure of his mother the flagstone floor and wooden beams of the kitchen were visible. Tracing a finger across his mother's features, he was unaware of Sister Valois's approach until she stood opposite.

‘You were deep in thought,' she interrupted. ‘What were you thinking of, Francois?'

He looked at her, his cheeks wet with tears. ‘Home.'