Sunset Ridge (7 page)

‘We'll place the trophy right here in September,' G.W. stated, moving a vase from the centre of the mantelpiece. ‘Things are going to be better from now on, Lily.' He joined her on the couch. ‘The British Government has finally agreed on the flat rate for the year's wool clip.' He took a breath. ‘It's fifteen and one half pence per pound of greasy wool, which is nearly double compared to what they paid us last year.'

Lily clasped her hands, then forced the smile from her face. ‘Oh, but I'm forgetting myself. It's for uniforms.'

G.W. patted her arm. ‘The Great War machine must be clothed and fed, my dear. With the extra money I've decided to increase our cattle numbers. Eventually they'll be travelling abroad in cans to feed our boys on the front-line.'

In spite of their financial improvement Lily felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach. It didn't seem right to be benefitting when young men were dying abroad. And they
were
dying. The casualty lists were frightening.

‘Also, this year I intend to join the ewes again as soon as they've finished lambing. With last year's drought a memory, we'll quickly build our flock numbers up. I expect even bigger things by 1918.' G.W. plucked at his trousers. The habit he had of picking at his clothing had increased since the last drought. Each dry period that decimated their land lingered on in nervous twitches and greying hair and memories that were now slightly blurred at the edges. ‘I feel like I've done my penance.' G.W. looked briefly towards the music room where a familiar tune was being attempted on the organ.

Lily squeezed his hand. ‘We've had our problems. The seasons have not always been kind.' She faltered. ‘There is the disappointment of no more children and –' But the words wouldn't come. The loss of the ten thousand acres sixteen years earlier remained as fresh as if the catastrophe had happened yesterday. The organ music stopped, to be quickly replaced by a harmonica. Uncharacteristically, G.W. began to nod in time to the tune.

‘I've heard there is another piano being exhibited at the Banyan Show this year. I could teach the boys,' Lily suggested. ‘You know I've always wanted one.'

G.W. considered the contents of his glass. ‘Well, my dear, we will inspect it. We may yet find ourselves entertaining in the spring.' Lily couldn't believe what she was hearing. It had been many years since her husband had been so inclined. The bare mantelpiece shone in the lamplight. ‘And our sons must marry suitably accomplished women, who will appreciate the refinements that this homestead offers. In the meantime I should warn you, my dear, that we may yet see one of them enlisting. We've been giving the Germans a good push, and I believe we have the upper hand, but one can never be certain.'

‘Heavens, G.W., you can't be serious.' Lily sat her glass on the round side table. ‘The boys are far too young.'

Her husband raised an eyebrow. ‘Thaddeus is already of age, and Luther will turn eighteen next year. The Allies have achieved some substantial gains, however the war is not yet over.'

Yesterday Lily had received word from an old family friend about the appalling death toll suffered by the Australians the previous month during the great battle at Fromelles in France. Mrs Roberts also spoke of the censorship in the newspapers and of a strict no-camera policy for soldiers on the Western Front. This was the opposite to Gallipoli, where many soldiers took personal snapshots, including their neighbour Joe Barnes, who forwarded photographs home. This point stuck in Lily's mind. What
didn't
the Empire want them to see?

‘I'm sorry to distress you, my dear, but this must be discussed. If the war drags on into next year at least one of our boys will have to do their duty. If and when that time comes, God forbid, we may well have to make a decision.'

‘A decision?' Lily repeated. ‘About what?'

‘Well, they cannot both enlist; at least one capable son must be safe-guarded to ensure the future of the Harrow name.'

‘Oh, G.W.' Lily wrung her hands. She wasn't sure what was worse: the thought of one of her older sons going to war or the indifference shown towards their youngest boy, David.

‘The Hardcastles sent their second-eldest. The older boy will inherit the property. And what of the Gordons at Wangallon Station? Is their son going?' Lily's tone was curt.

‘Of course he isn't. Angus is the same age as David; he can't enlist for another two years.'

‘I have heard rumours of under-age enlistments,' Lily replied.

G.W. sniffed. ‘Unfortunately the future management of Sunset Ridge must figure in the equation, and we don't want to see our two eldest boys both in uniform.' He patted her hand. ‘Don't fret, my dear. None of this may come to pass. But be assured there is a mighty battle being waged in France, and we must be prepared.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Madame Chessy folded the newspaper and placed it on the kitchen table. Sometimes she wished she were illiterate like many of their neighbours – surely it would be better to live in ignorance than to be witness to the rubbish printed in the newspapers. Yet she was unlike many of the peasants dotting the countryside. Her mother's family, the Bonets, had once been part of the wealthy bourgeoisie class. There were also whispers of noble blood in the family, a story validated by her mother. In 1788, a year before the French Revolution began, her great-great-grandmother was said to have been a favourite at King Louis XVI's court at Versailles. Twelve months later, when France descended into turmoil, the entire family went into hiding. The Bonet family had endured so much change over the last two centuries that Madame Chessy often wondered how the line had survived. The family managed to re-establish themselves during Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte's rule, however the glory was short-lived. With the fall of the Bonaparte Empire in 1870 and the establishment of the Third Republic, they never recovered economically.

Marie had been educated by her mother in the family villa, which gradually grew emptier as the furniture was sold off to pay debts. Such an upbringing led to a certain adaptability of character, although Madame Chessy wondered how she would have survived being poor had she not married her beloved Marcel. Having taught her husband and sons to read and write, she hoped future daughters-in-law would not be dullards. She was the last of the Bonet line, and education remained the only form of inheritance she could pass on, although at times she wondered why she bothered with such thoughts.

The edges of the newspaper rustled as a light wind blew through the partially open window. The paper was a weekly extravagance, yet it allowed her to feel in touch with reality, if it could be called that these days. This week the newspapers told her that the Allies were winning every battle and the Germans were on the run. Once again fact was blurred by fiction. The propaganda machines were hard at work. She had no doubt that there was a government office devoted to censoring newspaper articles. Well, they had to, she reasoned, sipping black coffee; the Allied army could hardly note in print which area of the front they were heading to or where they would next engage the enemy, nor could they speak the truth of the battles. The need to ensure that morale was maintained within the military and civilian population, and that the secrecy of military movements was safeguarded had stripped the word truth from the world's vocabulary.

From an early age Madame Chessy learned to project an image of carefree optimism. She had loved her husband dearly, however at times during their marriage she yearned for the life the Bonets had once lived. Such thoughts made her feel guilty, which was why she tried to be positive at all times. Marcel had often criticised her simple enthusiasm, playfully at first, then, as years of physical labour on the farm began to take its toll, he grew impatient and gruff.

The trait her husband took umbrage to was the one that saved Marie following his passing. On news of his death, anger and denial had seeped through her, to be followed by a grudging acceptance. She still grieved for Marcel and dreamed of their years together, but she also learned to be grateful: for her boys, the farm, the food on their table and the life she had lived to date. She did not become bitter, simply realistic. She found it absurd that Marcel did not live to see the change in her.

The final metamorphosis from flirtatious girl to pragmatic woman came with the arrival of a letter. The letter, written by Emmanuel, a soldier friend of Marcel, arrived months after the official notification had been received of her husband's death. The correspondence was a revelation. Unlike Marcel's all-too-few letters from the front-line, this despatch had escaped the censor's watchful eye, and it was brutal in description. In it she learned the details of her husband's death. He had been gassed at Ypres in April 1915. A yellow-green cloud had floated towards the men; assuming it was some type of smokescreen created by the Germans, the French had waited in their trenches for it to pass and the attackers to be revealed. The cloud was poison gas. Madame Chessy recalled the letter falling from her hand. A swift, painless end to her beloved's life was the only one that she had considered. It was some days before her courage returned and she was able to read the rest of Emmanuel's note. In some respects, she wished he had not divulged so much.

Many of their soldiers, he had written, had died in and around Ypres and the carnage had been going on for months. The old town was in ruins and the great Cloth Hall, which dated back to the twelfth century, had been partially destroyed, with a number of civilians fleeing to nearby Poperinge. Despite the artillery bombardments that carried on the wind, the French newspapers spoke only of minor skirmishes. Certainly, few people in the Saint-Omer area, including Madame Chessy, had any idea that such major warfare was occurring only forty miles away.

The worst of it was the number of dead French soldiers Marcel's friend spoke of. The word
thousands
was still imprinted in her mind. One, even twenty perhaps, she could comprehend, but thousands? Where were the bodies? Why were people not screaming in the streets? Did they even know their loved ones were dead?

The author's parting words still haunted her:
‘Many still think the war will be over soon. Perhaps it will be. There will be no more Frenchmen left to fight.'

Madame Chessy threw the newspaper atop the embers in the firebox. As a mother she could forgive the military censors. Part of their aim was similar to hers: a wish to give an assurance of normality and hopefulness in difficult times. These were the same attributes she had worked so hard to instil in her home following Marcel's death, and to that end her twins never saw Emmanuel's letter. It had long ago become ash. Yet as a woman she hated the men who had pushed them into war and now lied and glorified it for the sake of propaganda and military strategy.

The coffee was cold. She sipped at it absently, so lost in thought that when a familiar bash vibrated the farmhouse door the drink splashed the back of her hand. Clucking her tongue at the interruption, she wiped her skin clean and opened the sturdy door to a warm summer morning. Roland the dog sat patiently outside.

‘Can you not scratch or paw at my door? Must you fling yourself at it like some marauding animal?'

Roland cocked his head to one side and trotted into the farmhouse. He snuffled about the kitchen floor and then whined.

‘I should never have made this for you,' Madame Chessy replied, reaching to where a rag ball sat on the top of a wooden dresser.

Roland took the ball in his mouth and walked outside. Two rabbits watched the dog's progress as he covered the clearing in long strides. Now comfortable with this invader of their territory, the rabbits barely paused in their foraging. Madame Chessy was keeping an eye on them. If they continued being so unafraid she would not even need a trap.

‘Don't you disturb Francois and Antoine,' she called after the dog. The boys were easily distracted, and having sent them fishing to a neighbouring pond in the hope of some perch for their midday meal, she didn't want Roland to delay them. Roland looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Go on, off you go, then.' Some days she honestly thought Roland understood her. The dog broke into a run and disappeared into the willow trees.

A screech from the chicken pen scattered the rabbits. Madame Chessy lifted her skirts and quickly walked the short distance to the barn. Snatching up a pitchfork, she ran back to the boarded-up yard situated a few feet from the farmhouse. The chickens screeched madly inside, and the rooster crowed hoarsely. A fox rushed past the gate, a smudge of tawny red. A fox in summer was not unusual, but mid-morning? Madame Chessy bellowed her anger, opened the gate and rushed at the animal. She was surprised at its size: it was larger than the one that had stalked them during the winter, much larger than a normal fox. It eyed her as it crouched, two hens already dead at its feet. Tightening her grip on the pitchfork, she pointed it at the animal. Instead of trying to escape through the open gate, the fox held its ground and growled. Lifting the pitchfork higher, Madame Chessy brandished it at the snarling animal.

‘Ha, ha!' she said loudly, trying to scare it off. ‘Get away with you!'

The fox bared his teeth and continued to growl.

Taking a step backwards, she felt the wall of the chicken pen. The fox sprang towards her –

Roland came from nowhere. A mass of grey hair spun through the air like a missile and slammed heavily into the attacking fox. The animals came together in a blur of teeth, limbs and hair. They rolled around the chicken pen, scattering the feathered inhabitants outside. Stunned by the savage battle, Madame Chessy flattened herself against the wall as the animals bit and kicked. Limbs entwined, they rolled across the ground and slammed into the wooden fence. Minutes later it was over. Roland stood with a single front paw on the fox's neck. The animal kicked and snorted wildly, eyes wide. Gradually the fox gasped, then stilled. Roland snuffled at his prey and lifted his mangy head.

‘Mama, are you all right?' Francois appeared.

‘We heard the noise downstream,' Antoine added, taking in the sight of Roland still pinning the fox to the ground. ‘That fox is massive.'

‘It tried to attack me,' their mother gasped. ‘Roland – Roland saved me.'

‘Good boy, Roland.' The dog growled as Antoine approached. ‘It's all right, boy.'

‘Is it dead?' Francois brushed grit and leaves from his mother's skirt.

Roland whined and gingerly lifted his paw from the neck of the animal.

Antoine turned to his brother. ‘He's dead, all right. Come on, boy.' Antoine held out his hand. Roland slowly surveyed the fenced-in area and, as if finally convinced the attack was over, he ambled across to him.

‘Is he injured?' their mother asked, gripping Francois' arm for support.

Antoine ran his hands over the dog. ‘A torn ear, by the looks of it.'

Francois steered his mother out of the chicken yard. ‘Come, let's get you inside.'

‘And you, Roland, let's get you inside as well,' Antoine said.

Leaving the occupants of the chicken yard pecking out in the open, they entered the farmhouse. Francois attended to his mother, offering her a glass of wine to calm her nerves. Roland jumped up onto a chair and allowed Antoine to apply an antiseptic balm to his injured ear. The dog rested his head on the kitchen table and yawned.

Madame Chessy patted him affectionately on the head. ‘You have been well named, I think,' she said softly.

 

The soldiers walked down the road towards the village of Tatinghem. They were a raggedy collection of men. Languid and casual in their movements, they didn't march in formation and were busy talking and laughing, their rifles slung haphazardly across their shoulders. They wore slouch hats and woollen tunics that ballooned over their hips, partly because every man's trouser pockets appeared to bulge with unknown contents. Cigarettes hung from bottom lips and their conversation was loud, full of laughter, peppered with the odd curse as they tried to pronounce French words.

Francois and Antoine observed the approaching soldiers from a copse of trees on the edge of the road. It was mid-morning. They had already visited the markets in the village to sell cheese and eggs in order to buy a little meat from the butcher, and they were about to take a short cut home when the soldiers came into view. Francois patted Roland between the ears and then pointed to the shoulder badges on the approaching soldiers. ‘Australian,' he advised. They had already met some of them, either on the roadside or in the village, but the Australian soldiers were yet to be billeted to the Chessy farmhouse.

‘What on earth do they feed them in Australia?' Antoine mused as they peered through the trees at the passing troops. The men were tall and strong looking and, by all accounts, a mischievous lot. Antoine had witnessed first-hand that many of these soldiers from the great south land had little respect for British officers, and when not fighting were generally more concerned with gambling, drinking and having a good time than showing any form of military discipline.