Sunset Ridge (41 page)

‘He's got a busted nose,' Luther said suspiciously. ‘He's in the d-dug-out.'

Thaddeus took over from Dave, who had been using a hand-pump for the last hour. Their efforts made little dent in the continually accumulating water. ‘Do you want to share anything with us, Dave?' Thaddeus asked. ‘You don't really expect us to believe the story you told Captain Egan.'

‘I had to punch him to save him. I couldn't leave him there.'

Thaddeus rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, we all have our moments.'

‘What if he remembers what happened?' Dave asked.

Luther drank down a ration of rum and wiped cracked lips. ‘Duck,' he grinned.

Within an hour the rain stopped. Captain Egan appeared and delegated sentries to stand watch while work parties were formed to check damage and continue trying to hand-pump the water lying at the bottom of the trench. Harold reappeared with a swollen nose. He stood next to Dave who readied himself in case Harold decided to punch him in retaliation. Surprisingly, it seemed Harold had no memory of the night before, except for Thorny's death. Spreading his feet, Dave leaned into the sandbags cradling the small sniper hole, the butt of the rifle pushed squarely into his shoulder. The rifle sight scanned twisted barbed wire, the remains of a dray, a dislodged sandbag and the corpse of a German. Sweat dripped down his forehead, blurring his sight.

‘That's him.' Harold stood nearby, his eyesight fixed on the mirrors attached to the end of a rod that served as a homemade periscope. ‘See there,' he snorted through his bloody nose. ‘Directly above stinking Fritz and to the right of that dislodged sandbag. Pale and weedy looking and egg-shaped, that's the one that killed Thorny.'

Dave directed the rifle sight on the young man's chest and followed the pale German's hands as they lit the stub of a cigarette. In the half-light he waited for the soldier to take a few puffs, to linger over the cloying smell of the tobacco, to draw some solace from the wafting smoke.

‘Kill him, Dave.'

‘I can't do it, Harold. Everyone's resting, for God's sake, them and us.'

‘Look at me.' Harold's right hand was shaking so badly a cup of water would have been spilt in seconds. ‘I can't, so you have to. Have you forgotten about what they are doing to our mates? If his sight was aimed squarely at your chest he wouldn't hesitate. Shoot him.'

The German was looking in their direction. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Dave felt he was looking at himself.

‘Do it,' Harold urged.

A single shot echoed across the wasteland. The German soldier was flung back against the sandbags. The boy hung momentarily in a void of muted grey, his arms outstretched, head arched backwards. The unblemished whiteness of the enemy's throat slowly slid from view. Dave lowered the rifle.

‘What the hell is going on?' Captain Egan's spittle covered his skin. ‘Jesus, man, we've been fighting for days and the first sign of reprieve you fire off a stray round.'

An angry voice called out across no-man's land from the enemy trench. No translation was necessary.

‘We'll be lucky if we don't get a whizz-bang on us in retaliation.' Captain Egan cupped his hands and called out the German word for sorry. ‘Thaddeus, take your brother's place. Dave, you're on pre-dawn watch.'

Harold turned to the captain, his nose bulbous and bloody. ‘He killed Thorny.'

‘Jesus,' Captain Egan repeated before striding off.

Dave couldn't stop staring at the enemy trench. He could hear the Germanic mutterings of complaint as a shaft of light shone down from dark blue clouds. In that moment craters rose up, spewing forth decomposed and dismembered bodies, barbed wire scrambled after crawling featureless soldiers and the German trench rushed towards him with a violent lurch. Dave backed away.

‘Are you all right, Dave?' Thaddeus asked, moving to the trench wall.

‘Sure, I'm fine,' Dave replied, except he knew he wasn't. He'd had nightmares before, but never hallucinations.

‘Well, you kept Harold happy,' Luther said, prodding at the contents of a can of bully beef with a knife. ‘And I'm glad you got him.'

Dave sat on an upturned crate next to Harold, who had removed his boots and was massaging his toes.

‘The fighting I can handle, but it's when we stop.' Luther chewed hungrily. ‘I can't bear the waiting, the monotony of it all. I need things to keep happening so I don't think too much.'

‘Did you hear that?' Thaddeus said in wonder. ‘You just said a whole sentence, Luther, without stuttering.' He lifted his rifle and peered over the top of the trench.

Luther swallowed a mouthful of meat. ‘Did I?'

‘Yep. You've hardly been stuttering at all, and now,' Thaddeus grinned, ‘you're cured.'

Harold examined the sole of his foot. ‘Even my planter's wart has gone. Must have other things to worry about, eh?'

Luther jabbed at the meat in the tin. ‘Well, something good had to come outta this blasted war.'

‘Thorny had a premonition,' Harold said quietly. ‘He told me he was going to get knocked and I ignored him. A man shouldn't ignore it when a mate needs to talk about it. You remember that, Dave. Anyway, you did a good thing, not that we'll know if that bastard you knocked was the culprit. But I feel better, don't you, Luther?'

‘The only good Fritz is a dead Fritz.' Luther's knife stabbed the air.

‘You said he killed Thorny!' Dave complained. ‘You said you saw him up close, you said . . . Shit, we're not here to kill anyone that takes your fancy.'

Dave felt his eyes moisten and he bit his lip until the pain cleared his head. He wasn't like the others. He couldn't hate people just because they were Germans. Each side was following orders in a war orchestrated by generals who never came anywhere near the front-line. Dave went into battle because he was told to, like the young men on the other side of the barbed wire. He had nothing against the poor bloody Germans and he figured it was possible that Fritz felt the same. Where Dave stood there was no hate in war, only duty. ‘Steady on, Dave. Now there's one less of the bastards to kill us,' Luther argued.

Unscrewing his canteen, Dave took a sip of water. He could sense the others waiting for him to agree, to say something that would make them all equal again, comfortable. ‘No matter how we try to convince ourselves of the righteousness of our actions,' Dave began, ‘causing a man's death is no easy thing; at least it isn't for me.'

‘Holy Frost, Dave,' Luther said as he scraped the inside of the tin, ‘you'll have me thinking I'm back in the schoolroom with Miss Waites if you keep this up.'

Overhead, dark twirling clouds mingled with a creamy whiteness. Dave closed his eyes and imagined the blue-green swirl of the river that ran through the heart of Sunset Ridge. He was riding towards the life force of the property, his mount eager for a gallop in the fresh morning air. There was a rise coming in the waterway, glistening bubbles on the surface signifying a coming flood. His hands gripped the reins and the horse flew over the whorls and curls within the bark of the fallen timber they jumped. Then a figure appeared through the trees. It was Corally Shaw.

‘You better get some sleep, Dave.' Picking up his rifle, Thaddeus leaned against the sandbags. ‘We don't want you nodding off before dawn.'

Dawn. Never again would Dave conjure up the wispy pink tendrils that stroked the sky without shuddering at what might appear out of the mist of no-man's land. Shoving his fingers into his pockets, he touched the last letter received from Corally. In it she spoke of life after the war. He squeezed the well-read letter. ‘You were imagining home, weren't you?' Luther asked. ‘I could tell. Tell us what you saw, Dave, and then draw it for us.'

‘Yeah, go on, Dave. Draw us a picture of home,' Harold enthused.

Dave leaned back against the trench wall, pulling his hat low over his face. Although he tried, the image of Sunset Ridge melted away to be replaced by the many faces of the soldiers sketched since arriving in France. Their features were indistinct and yet they peopled his mind like a small town. Each portrait was attached to a body, a life connected to loved ones and friends and neighbours, and most of them were either dead or wounded. At night, when Dave closed his eyes, the drawings of the lost blew across the battlefield. The images papered a world on fire and just as quickly disintegrated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Banyan, south-west Queensland, Australia
September 1917

Catherine passed the sketch of the dog to Corally. It was truly a remarkable drawing. No one could doubt the artist's talent. The animal's eyes appeared to follow Catherine about the room as if the dog could see inside her very soul. He was a large rangy-looking beast, with massive shoulders and a powerful jaw. Hardly well bred, he remained nonetheless an intriguing subject, particularly as Dave's depiction placed the animal in a trench with a soldier's identity discs around its neck. Catherine deciphered the name Antoine Chessy and assumed it was a friend, although the image disturbed her. Identity discs were never to leave a soldier's person, until death. Even then one was meant to remain with the body for identification.

‘Well, what do ye think of it?' Catherine said to Corally. She was of a mind to ask the girl if she could keep the sketch.

The younger woman brushed a hand across the surface of the drawing. Corally sat stiffly erect in a sage skirt and cream blouse, both of which were spotless. Her long blonde hair was pinned back becomingly and her shoes had been patched and cleaned. Some weeks ago the girl had stopped dressing like a tomboy and was now a familiar sight walking the main street with one of Catherine's baskets draped over her arm as if she were like any other young woman in the district. Corally was also a regular Sunday worshipper at the Presbyterian Church, her choice of faith apparently decided by an aversion to confession.

‘It's a dog,' Corally replied dispassionately. ‘What does the letter mean?' Placing the sketch on Catherine's bed, she held the teacup to her lips, the saucer poised delicately in her other hand. ‘Surely he can't be saying that death is a smudge in the sky.'

Catherine noticed the studied movements. Corally now possessed all the attributes of an educated young woman, and with this new knowledge had blossomed a shrewd mind and a propensity for astute observation. On more than one occasion Catherine's own gestures and opinions were mimicked by a girl who only a scant nine months ago could barely read or write.

‘He is scared, Corally, and he needed to put his feelings down on paper.' Locating the sentence Corally referred to, Catherine read the section aloud for the second time.

‘It's strange, but I see death as a smudge on the horizon, like a storm hanging out to the west of Sunset Ridge. The smudge grows in size daily like a new world waiting to be discovered yet it remains at bay, waiting, marking time.
The words that he uses are really quite marvellous and yet it is so poignant the way he talks of mortality.'

Corally's brow creased. ‘Thaddeus, Luther and Harold talk about other things. The farmhouse where they stayed, what the countryside is like. Really, their lives are very interesting. Don't you think it's strange? Dave didn't even start the letter with “Dear Corally”. It's just a piece of paper signed and dated.'

Corally was not the regular visitor of old. Quite often she collected her mail from the post office on the day of delivery so that if Mrs Dempsey were present and assisting with the sorting Catherine was not always aware of who wrote to her. Today, however, the young woman was at a loss as to the meaning of Dave's emotive lines; her appearance at the boarding house at eight in the morning was evidence of this. Catherine, although pleased to be of assistance, knew that Corally took some pleasure in speaking of the content of those letters not shared.

‘He is young and far from home and he has the sensibilities of an artist.' Catherine could not imagine the girl before her ever appealing to David. Aesthetics were one thing, but there was more to a character than handsome looks and a basic education. Corally lacked understanding and life experience, something that Catherine imagined all the young men fighting abroad now had too much of.

‘Well, apart from all that I think you're right. It sounds to me like he's just scared.' Corally sat the cup and saucer on the table. ‘Anyway, it's not even a real letter, it could have been written to anyone.'

‘Unlike the letters from Thaddeus and Luther?' Catherine purposely let the names linger in the cramped room. ‘It's interesting that they still write to ye as if there was some form of shared attachment.'

Corally ran a finger along the rim of the teacup. ‘They must be very lonely.'

Catherine felt an urge to slap the girl. ‘I think we both know why they still write as if they were your beaus.'

‘Really?' Corally held her gaze.

‘Ye have been a quick learner, Corally. I hear that ye have applied for a position at the general store.'

‘You're a good teacher.'

‘Ye even style your hair in a similar manner to mine now.'

Corally narrowed her eyes. ‘And once I have employment I shall eventually be moving into one of the rooms here in the boarding house. Does that bother you?'

‘Should it? What will ye do if, as we all hope, the three Harrow boys and Harold Lawrence return home when the war finally ends?'

Gathering up the letters and the sketch, Corally sat the correspondence in her basket. ‘I guess I will have to choose.'

‘I didn't realise ye were quite so self-centred, Corally. If I had, I may not have chosen to help ye.'

The younger woman stiffened. ‘And I think you're angry because you were their governess and all three boys write to me and not you.' She gave a little sniff and, rising to leave, adjusted the basket over her arm. ‘You haven't spoken of your Rodger for some time now. Did you have a falling out? Perhaps he tired of you telling him what to do?'

Catherine blanched. She may have given Corally an education and unwittingly become the girl's role model in terms of social mores and dress, however it appeared that her tutelage did not extend to common decency. The worst of it was that the girl was right to some extent regarding Rodger. Although she had decided to cease sharing confidences with Corally, Catherine had not spoken of him recently because there was nothing to tell, at least not until a few days ago. Rodger's letters had stopped appearing over a month ago, and a few days prior she had received a letter from his platoon captain. The news was less than welcome. In fact, Catherine felt ill at the thought of the contents.

‘I am grateful for your help, Miss Waites, however I am quite able to read and write now, so I won't be calling on you again. Besides,' Corally said a little more gently, ‘you have your fiancé to worry about, so you needn't be concerning yourself with me.'

‘Hearts are difficult things to mend, Corally, remember that,' Catherine advised. The door clicked shut. ‘Please remember that.' The words swirled around the empty room.

Slumping back in the armchair, Catherine looked across at the bare timber wall. It was true. She was disappointed that the Harrow boys had not thought to write to her, especially David. It was clear that she had inadvertently upset him. Why else would he have abandoned his sketches outside her room the night he ran away? And now her good intent regarding Corally had gone awry and three young men were being misled. It was too much, especially on top of the recent mail.

Her beloved Rodger was missing. Not missing in action, dead or wounded, but missing from duty; missing from the training camp on Salisbury Plain in England. That was why there had been no letters recently, which Catherine had stupidly imagined was due to Rodger having scant time to write because he was surely in the thick of battle. His captain wrote that Rodger had been absent without leave for a number of weeks, having not returned from a week's furlough in London. His whereabouts were yet to be determined. Quite simply, Catherine had been thwarted, for her fiancé had run away, not just from the army but from her.

It had been two days since the arrival of the captain's letter and Catherine's initial shock and sadness were slowly dissipating to be replaced by raw anger and embarrassment. Nothing was as it had once seemed, and as her anger festered and grew, her thoughts centred on the one thing she could put right.

Corally Shaw had manipulated her good intent so that Catherine was now party to a deceitful charade. Three young men, perhaps four if David had also been coerced into Corally's sticky web, believed they were the sweetheart of a young woman. Had Catherine not cautioned Corally that the boys were being misled? Had she not helped Corally construct the appropriate letters and, having witnessed the young girl write them, assumed that they had been mailed? Clearly Corally had written very different letters; letters that would be carried in uniforms in the heat of battle, letters that offered comfort and the possibility of a life beyond the war, letters that, God willing, the boys would carry home. Catherine could not be party to such pretence, not when sibling relationships could be harmed and friendships ruined by a young girl who clearly didn't know her place in society.

Selecting a sheet of writing paper, she pressed the nib of the pen against the creamy paper and began her letter to Harold Lawrence. Catherine would tell Harold who Corally really loved. Truth was the only acceptable path to take.