Sunset Ridge (16 page)

‘We should have dinner,' Madeleine suggested as George drained one beer and reached for another.

‘I'm not hungry,' George mumbled, opening the bottle and pouring it into a glass.

Madeleine put a hand on his. ‘Sure you are; you've just been out in the heat too long today.' She poured some water for him and at her insistence he took a tentative sip.

‘I tell him all the time to drink more water,' Rachael began, dishing up Sonia's slow-cooked stew, ‘but he always tells me that beer's more refreshing.'

The fan gave a screech, vibrated loudly and then resumed its task. Rachael sat the plates on the table, buttered bread and handed out cutlery. Madeleine began to eat and immediately felt better. Now she knew why the fridge was stacked with leftovers. ‘It's tasty,' she encouraged. Although the food was heavy in her stomach, she knew that in a few days she too would be picking at her meals, so it was best to eat up before the heat sapped her appetite. ‘Sonia's a good cook.'

‘Well, it's taken her a while,' Rachael replied between small mouthfuls. ‘I even sent her to a cooking school one weekend. For the first two months she was here I thought she was trying to kill us. It was meat-and-three-veg every night, wasn't it, George? And either mutton or corn-meat sandwiches for lunch.'

George wiped at the gravy with some buttered bread. ‘Oh, it wasn't too bad.'

‘That's not what you said at the time,' Rachael argued.

‘The thing is, Maddy,' George began, ‘we didn't have a choice when she applied for the job after Nancy retired.'

‘Why? It's only the two of you here. You don't really need a cook-cum-housekeeper.'

Rachael's fork tapped the edge of her plate sharply. ‘There have always been staff at Sunset Ridge. And, Sonia being a Jackson,' she continued, ‘well, we had to take her on.'

‘Why's that?' Madeleine's appetite was diminishing. The hot meal wasn't agreeing with her.

‘Because she's a Jackson, and Jacksons have always worked here.' George ran a finger across the gravy-smeared plate and licked it. ‘You know that.'

Actually Madeleine had never given the subject much thought. Jude had had help, however that was only after the decision was made for her to work side-by-side with their father on the property, as well as handling the bookwork. Back then they were financially better off employing a housekeeper who could also care for the kids, especially as over the years her father's mood swings worsened and station hands became difficult to find.

George sipped at the water. ‘The first Jackson arrived here sometime after the Great War. Julie, I think the girl's name was. Most of them have been cooks or housekeepers and I think there was a maid once.'

Madeleine thought of the account she discovered yesterday in the schoolroom. ‘What about a Miss C.?'

‘The name isn't familiar. Anyway, after Sonia goes I'm pretty sure that'll be the last of the line, which is a pity,' George conceded. ‘The family's been in the district for over a hundred years.'

‘What about Nancy, is she still about?' Madeleine had a vision of sitting down to tea with their elderly former housekeeper to discuss family history and perhaps the unknown Miss C. and the missing paintings; it was a thrilling thought.

‘Dead.' Rachael placed her knife and fork together, most of the stew untouched. ‘Sonia found her in bed and apparently spent a good few minutes trying to wake her up before realising that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.'

‘Oh.' Madeleine brushed away the beads of sweat peppering her forehead and began to clear their plates. Although discovering anything about her grandfather – apart from trying to view the landscape with an artist's eye – had been far from Madeleine's thoughts when she decided to make the trip home, she was now cautiously optimistic. The discovery of the account for the unknown commissioned works was intriguing, and Ross Evans was an unexpected bonus. Madeleine pushed the plug into the sink and rinsed the plates. ‘I met Ross Evans this morning. He said he recalled seeing Grandfather and Jude in Banyan in the 1940s. That must have been just after Granny Harrow was killed and before Jude was sent away to boarding school.'

George's eyes bulged. ‘How on earth did you get that out of the old fella?'

‘It took a bit of prodding. He came around when I called him
Mister
Evans.'

‘I'll be.' George looked at his wife.

‘Politeness will win every time, George,' Rachael said with approval.

‘What else did he say?' her brother asked.

‘Well, he wouldn't tell me why he was helping out here. He
did
say that Grandfather took over the property in the mid-1920s when his father died.'

‘That sounds about right,' George agreed. ‘Mum told me that her grandmother, Lily, stayed on after G.W. died. As she got older the heat really bothered her and she moved to Brisbane in the late 1930s and eventually died in the 50s.'

‘It's possible Sonia might know something about Grandfather Harrow, don't you think, George?' Rachael asked.

‘I doubt it. It's a bit before her time. Although she's a Jackson, and therefore she must be related to the Julie Jackson who came to work here after the war. It's a pity Nancy isn't still alive.'

Madeleine agreed. Their former housekeeper had been here on Madeleine's last visit home three years ago. A modest woman, she reminded Madeleine of an elderly aunt, pottering in the garden, baking butter biscuits and ironing in front of a portable television in the kitchen. The more she thought of Nancy and her many kindnesses – patting her shoulder at breakfast, cooking her fav­ourite meal of lasagne and salad – the worse Madeleine felt about not saying goodbye to her the last time she left the property. ‘You're right, Rachael, it wouldn't hurt to sit down and have a chat with Sonia. You never know what she might know.'

 

 

Banyan, south-west Queensland, Australia
September 1916

Harold tried not to stare as the Harrows headed out of the village, following the court case. What he wanted to do was turn on his heel and walk away. Instead, he watched the family's departure, a mixture of anger and relief flooding through him.

‘Just as well they never accepted our invitation to tea,' Mr Lawrence said in a low voice. ‘Otherwise we'd never live the association down.'

Harold turned and faced his father. Having decided to delay opening the ironmongery until the trial was over, Mr Lawrence was ready for business. ‘Luther isn't going to gaol, Father.'

Mr Lawrence ignored his son
.
‘Of course we know why they never paid us a visit; too high and mighty, them Harrows; too good to be mixing with townsfolk.'

Harold knew his mother didn't feel the same way. Although following Luther's arrest, his father had forbidden him to attend the court hearing or mix with the Harrow family, his mother had been inclined to see both sides of the court case. Harold's father on the other hand dredged up four generations of Harrow flaws, both real and imagined, which in his mind had finally culminated in the family's ultimate fall from grace.

‘Well it's a work day, lad, even if justice hasn't been done.'

‘Yes, Sir.' Harold watched as his father walked down the street to the store.

Although Harold had never been one to hold a grudge, the altercation with Thaddeus at the Banyan Show had soured their friendship. He couldn't understand what had got into his best mate; however, one thing was certain: Harold was not going to put up with it.

‘That Harrow boy probably deserved it,'
had been the standard refrain from many townsfolk upon hearing of Harold's clash with Thaddeus. The fact that some of these well-wishers had never previously spoken to Harold suggested a level of support verging on collusion, however, regardless of motivation, the shared sentiments had buoyed him. Across the road at the courthouse people began to spill out onto the street. The crowd reminded him of meat-ants: a seething mass of occupants scurrying onwards to their next food source.

Although the street teemed with clusters of people and drays coming and going, when the Harrow wagon finally disappeared down the dusty road, a strange remoteness seeped through Harold. He knew he had to head back to the ironmongery, yet the thought of listening to the idle chatter of customers with only one subject on their minds held little appeal. Even heading to the river and the boat didn't interest him – where would he travel to now?

Harold looked back across to the courthouse to see Corally Shaw standing a few feet away from the assembled crowd; just as he had done, she was staring at the empty dirt road. Julie Jackson was talking to her, clearly trying to entice Corally to walk across the road to the general store. In response Corally gave her friend a forced smile and shook her head. Julie walked away, alone. Down the middle of the street a gust of wind lifted spirals of dust, which skittered across the surface to disappear into scrub and red ridges. In its wake, Corally followed. Harold trailed her at a distance, careful to not catch anyone's attention. As he pursued her, he reflected on the conversation he had shared with Thaddeus at the marbles game. Was his old friend interested in the girl ? Harold considered the idea and quickly disregarded it. If there was any threat to his interest it was Luther, for hadn't the girl appeared on his behalf in court?

Corally moved quickly. At this rate she would be at the village limits and cutting cross-country to the ramshackle dwelling she lived in before he had left the last of the village houses in his wake. With a rush of adrenalin Harold ran after her. The unmade road was hard beneath the leather soles of his shoes and although he retained a steady pace, soon Corally disappeared from view. At the bend in the road, where civilisation met scrub, he came to an abrupt stop amid a scatter of dirt. Corally leaned against a tree, her skin layered in speckled sunlight.

‘What are you doing following me?' Wariness looked out through red-rimmed eyes.

Harold did his best to compose himself. He had intended to wait a month or so before approaching Corally and revealing his intentions – and putting his case forward when he was sweating and out of breath was not the most promising of starts – but seeing her at the courthouse, knowing what she had done for Luther, pulled him from uncertainty to a sense of purpose. ‘I wanted to speak to you.'

‘Must be urgent then, is it, Harold Lawrence? You running after me and all.' She swayed back and forth against the tree.

‘I've been thinking about the future.' Harold rolled his lips together, the action refocusing his thoughts. Corally had always been quick with her tongue. He had seen boys with less experience slink away from her in silence. ‘I've decided I should make myself plain so there's no mistake.'

‘About what?'

A slight puckering appeared around her eyes. He had her interest. ‘About you and me.'

‘You and me?' Corally nibbled intently at a fingernail before wiping the unruly nail against her skirt. ‘Why, you've hardly given me the time of day, Harold Lawrence, lording it around the place as if you was landed, mixing with them snooty-nosed Harrow boys.'

Harold frowned. ‘You stood up for Luther in court.'

Corally crossed her arms. ‘He stood up for me. I'd do the same for a dog.'

Harold was not so sure about that. ‘So, there ain't nothing in it, then?'

‘In what?' Her eyes narrowed.

‘In you speaking for Luther Harrow. You're not outing with him?'

‘Luther?' For a moment Corally looked confused. ‘No,' she said quietly, ‘not Luther.'

‘Anybody?'

A shadow turned the sea-green brightness of her eyes dark. ‘Why? You interested?' She manoeuvred against the bark of the tree, crossing slim legs at her ankles.

‘Maybe.' Harold expected Corally to say something, and when she remained silent he realised he was quite pleased with her response. ‘So, you reckon you'd out with me?'

Corally's mouth gaped. Harold didn't know if she was weighing up the merits of his question or preparing to bolt into the scrub.

‘Well?'

‘I'm thinking.'

Harold shoved his hands in his pockets. He had not imagined things would go this way. In fact, he had expected the girl to jump at the chance. ‘Well, hurry up. A man hasn't got all day.'

Corally stepped out from beneath the shade of the tree. It was past noon and with spring's arrival a haze hovered above the scrub. ‘If there weren't no funny business.'

A red stain seeped up Harold's neck. ‘On my honour.'

‘Your mother and father won't like it,' Corally said, defiantly.

‘I reckon they won't have much say in it. Besides, I haven't ever set eyes on someone like you, not ever.' The words escaped before Harold gained control of his mouth. For a second he worried that he had scared the girl off. Corally had an uncertain look about her, like a person hoping for good but not quite trusting to believe in the possibility of it. Wide, unblinking eyes greeted his thoughts. Treating this as a good sign, he persevered. ‘I've been watching you for a while and I figured that you and me, well, that we'd make a good pair.'

‘Maybe,' Corally conceded. ‘Although I ain't nothing to anyone around here.'

Harold took a step towards her. ‘You're something to me.'

‘You don't know anything about me, Harold Lawrence. Me and mine, well, we're sure not like you and yours.'

‘And do you think the world will be the same place after the war, Corally? 'Cause I sure don't.'

Corally tilted her head to one side. ‘My pa always said that it never hurt a person to hope.'

‘So, I'll see you then? Next Saturday, noon, at the river behind the ironmongery?'

‘Sure, I'll be there, Harold Lawrence.'

Walking away, Harold wondered why he didn't feel more pleased; his eye had been on the girl for quite some time, and they would soon begin outing together. Yet, right now men were dying in defence of the Empire, and here he was working in his father's ironmongery, listening to gossip and chasing the girl he hoped to marry one day. It didn't feel right.
He
didn't feel right. And Harold knew that the hollowness bashing at his innards would not be satisfied by Corally Shaw. There were great battles being waged at this very moment, and he was thousands of miles away.