Sunset Ridge (32 page)

 

Lily rode out through the house paddock and followed the track that led to the river. The air was cold. Ice crystals latticed the frost-crisp ground. It was many years since she had ventured out to this part of the property, and a good five years since she had last sat on a horse. In the days when her marriage was still soft and pliable, a weekly ride with G.W. was something of a treat. He was hers then, his attention yet to be stolen by the many responsibilities that gradually had drawn him from her side.

There was a sense of freedom that came with riding, a sensation that had flooded back as soon as one of the young stockmen saddled up the bay mare. The boy barely spoke and had remained silent when she announced she would not be riding side-saddle. These days Lily had neither the time nor the inclination for a leisurely, ladylike trot around the paddock. She wanted to sit astride like a man, to feel the winter air on her face and to gallop headlong into it as if there were no tomorrow.

It took time for Lily to settle into the animal's natural gait. Her body felt cumbersome in the saddle and she was self-conscious about her old riding habit. The white shirt and tailored jacket were paired with riding pants hastily purchased from a catalogue a number of years ago and rarely worn. The mare plodded through the trees. Lily let the horse have its head, her gloved hand caressing the woody plants as they passed. Birds twittered prettily in spite of the frosty morning as they darted through the foliage, and it was with anticipation that Lily clucked the mare onwards.

She steered the horse between the wide-girthed trees until the gentle slope of the river bank appeared. The mare halted and lowered her head and Lily let the reins slip through her fingers as the horse began to nibble at tufts of grass. She breathed in the tranquil surroundings, her breath white puffs in the cold air. Ahead, the slow chug of brown water wound its way along the waterway to disappear among trees and scrub and lignum.

The mare walked forward grazing amid fallen timber, the crackling of fragile twigs and grasses disturbing a mob of sheep. The animals were strung out along the edge of the river, their heads dipping into the water as they drank. One or two lifted their heads and sniffed the air, then turned towards Lily, stamping their hoofs in annoyance. The mare swished her tail lazily as the sheep began to move, before they began to run along the bank in the opposite direction. River sand and dirt puffed up in their wake as the mob crossed a grassy verge and disappeared around the next bend in the waterway.

Lily breathed in the morning scents of earth and animal and thought back to her life twelve months ago. How things had changed. She now knew that her three sons were engulfed in the greatest war mankind had ever seen and her once-robust husband was no more. He barely acknowledged the letters their sons wrote when she read them aloud, and if he did care when she tried to convey her concerns for their safety, he never showed it.

The mare whinnied. Above the tree line the white glow of a winter sun was mottled by a wisp of cloud. Lily clucked her tongue, urging the horse down to the water's edge. Now the cold of winter was with them G.W. was not so adamant in his need to rise early, which was why Lily had decided to go riding. She'd been housebound for too long. The doctor's original diagnosis of a gradual deterioration of G.W.'s health was slow to materialise. Her husband remained stubbornly resistant to his predicted downfall. He made a point of walking every day, and his shuffle had improved so much that he could now amble about the homestead with the help of a sturdy silver-knobbed mahogany walking stick. While his speech remained slurred it too showed progress, and quite often he could be found silently forming words. Unable to write, he spent much of his time reading. There was no limit to the man's willpower and, although Lily said nothing for fear of reproach, she was proud of G.W.'s fierce determination. If only the doctor were not more positive and she more patient. If only her husband still behaved as if he cared.

Lily was torn between the resolve shown by her husband and the doctor's prediction of an eventual worsening of his condition. With the prospect of an invalid to care for, she knew her days of freedom could be limited, and therein lay the most immediate problem. Lily needed to ensure that if the worst happened, the property would continue on as always. Sunset Ridge had been her life for so many years she could not foresee a future without the comfortable expanse of dirt swathing her in safety. If she could rely on Nathanial Taylor her reflections would be less worrying, but fate had made her realistic.

Sunset Ridge's manager was an unknown quantity, and no amount of searching through the station office had calmed her fears. G.W.'s response to her queries remained unhelpful, although it was clear he was not happy with Taylor's promotion. There were no written references for Nathanial Taylor and no paperwork noting next of kin; in fact, the ledger entry stating the manager's starting date and terms of employment was scant on detail, apart from a street address for a residence in the town of Charleville. Lily had penned a letter of enquiry, hopeful of obtaining a list of previous employers. Such lack of formal paperwork was hardly cause for concern, yet now her days had settled into a more regular routine she queried whether Nathanial Taylor was qualified to manage such a large holding.

Initially his arrival at the homestead was a timely fix for her immediate problems, and outwardly the man appeared to be doing an excellent job. But what did she know? A woman in her position with an ill husband and three sons fighting abroad needed to be assured of both the suitability and ability of the property's manager. She needed more than his word. Should her enquiries show him unsuitable for the job, Lily intended to advertise for a new manager in the spring. When her sons returned they would barely be experienced enough to take over the management of the property, and she faced the probability that her husband would never fully recover.

‘Morning.' Nathanial Taylor appeared around the river bend, his gelding at a trot. ‘I wondered what startled those ewes.'

‘Sheep are not known for their steady nerves,' she replied, noting the curve of his thigh and the ease with which he held the reins.

He stretched cold-stiffened fingers. ‘Actually, Mrs Harrow, I've always found sheep to be incredibly intelligent. It's all in the handling.'

The gelding trotted to the mare's side and snorted playfully, tossing his head sideways. Lily noted that the shaggy beard Taylor favoured had been cropped and his neck-hair trimmed. She could smell soap beneath the familiar scents of horse, leather and perspiration. It was a welcome change. The gelding walked forward, pressing the length of his warm body against the mare's. Lily's leg touched human warmth and she caught a glimpse of grey eyes as she quickly reined the mare away until some distance separated the two horses. Taylor leaned back in the saddle, watching her watching him.

‘What are you staring at, sir?' A twinge of nervousness settled in her throat as the mare pulled on the reins.

Nathanial Taylor rested his hands on the saddle. A rope and stockwhip hung close by. ‘Why, at you, Mrs Harrow.'

Lily looked away but then inexplicably found herself returning his smile. Her response confounded her. Flicking the reins, she steered the mare up the bank and away from the river.

‘I didn't realise you could ride, and without a side-saddle, I see.'

Lily gripped the leather reins.

‘Very modern,' he drawled, walking the gelding after her. ‘You should do it more often.' His mount crushed leaf-litter. ‘It becomes you.'

Lily turned the mare so that she faced the manager. ‘Mr Taylor, I −'

‘Yes, Mrs Harrow?' he interrupted, urging his horse forward. ‘I was simply stating the obvious.'

‘It's not your place, sir, to say such things.'

The manager walked his horse slowly towards her until he was by Lily's side again. ‘It's the truth,' he replied.

Lily wasn't one for blushing if it could be helped but nor was she immune to the unknown sensation of having a conversation with a single man in the middle of the bush. ‘I have to go.'

‘Of course.' Mr Taylor tipped his hat. ‘If you must.'

Lily hesitated and then turned the mare back in the direction of the homestead. The scrub closed in around them. She wanted to look behind; instead she clucked the mare onwards, noticing that every tree looked the same, every nubby bush similar. Commonsense told her there was little need for concern; the mare would find the trail home. Once or twice Lily looked over her shoulder, as the mare zigzagged through the dense bush, convinced she was being followed. ‘Ridiculous,' she muttered. ‘You've been alone in that rambling house with a nearly mute husband and a sullen cook and housemaid for too long.' The scrub behind her was empty, save for the twittering of birds and the startled dash of kangaroos and wallabies as they bounded across the mare's path.

‘Steady, girl,' Lily cautioned, rubbing the horse's neck when the mare shied at a wallaby. Her tiredness was mounting, and an ache was building in Lily's lower back; any number of unused muscles were readying to complain once the morning ride came to an end. To the right, a noise echoed through the timber. The snap of twigs and branches and the rattle of leather and brass confirmed her suspicions. He was out there, perhaps not following, but close by.

When the trees began to thin and the countryside was again spread out before her, Lily relaxed. There was no rider poking out from the fan of trees, no sign of Sunset Ridge's manager. Soon she would be home and the dull domesticity of homestead life would resume with regular monotony. At the moment it was a pleasant thought, in spite of the difficulties that awaited her. It was just as well she had firmed her decision with regards to advertising for a new manager. Nathanial Taylor had unnerved her this morning and the worst of it was that she had found their brief conversation strangely compelling.

 

 

Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
February 2000

Tapping the horse's flanks with the heel of his boots, George dodged through the trees in pursuit of Ross Evans. With dawn trickling light across the countryside, George had risen earlier than usual, having spent most of the night awake. The entire homestead was awaiting the response from the Stepworth Gallery and, with a good few days having passed since Madeleine sent the email, they were hopeful that the project was being given the consideration they believed it deserved. George had more riding on the exhibition than his sister, wife or mother knew. He was overdrawn at the bank, and with the manager most supportive of the Sunset Ridge renovations in light of the planned David Harrow retrospective, George hoped for a confirmed exhibition date that would keep the bank happy. And that date needed to happen soon, because if the drought continued he would have to borrow even more money within months.

The horse zigzagged through the trees, startling birds and kangaroos as George tried to follow the rider ahead. Every time he drew near the trees would close in about him and it would be long seconds before he caught sight of Ross again. With his horse beginning to sweat, he slowed their pace. There was little point tiring out his mount for the sake of a man who may well be unhinged – as Rachael reminded him, who in their right mind worked for free these days? At the Banyan River, George gave up the chase. There was no sight of horse and rider, and the mad dash had only succeeded in disturbing the bush creatures at a time when every animal was trying to conserve its strength.

‘You don't have to give chase.'

The voice echoed along the dry riverbed. George stood up in the stirrups and looked about. ‘I know that, Ross. I mean, Mr Evans,' he said, hoping the polite route might work for him as well. ‘It's just that after you talked to my sister the other day, well, I thought you might be willing to have a chat with me.'

‘You young people just can't accept a good turn. You always have to have a reason.'

George swung his head in the opposite direction. ‘Well, I apologise if we come across that way to you. I guess it's hard to believe that a person would lend a helping hand these days without expecting something in return.'

‘Believe it.'

‘Fair enough. I know one thing for sure: your mother certainly doesn't like you coming out here. She gave me an awful roasting the day I visited your house a few years back.'

‘You went to Mum's place?' Ross asked. He nudged his horse out from a clump of trees and crossed the sandy bed of the dry river, halting twenty feet from George.

‘To say thanks and to offer to pay you for some of what you'd done,' George replied, hoping to prolong the conversation. ‘You've been a real help to me over the years, especially since this God-awful drought started.'

‘She never told me you came looking.'

‘Well, I got the impression I wasn't wanted, so I left real quick.'

Ross gave a rough laugh. ‘She's ballsy, my mum. Always has been. She's one of the reasons I'm here.'

‘Sorry?' George said, confused.

Ross scratched his ear and dismounted, straightening his back with effort. For a seventy-year-old he was still pretty agile, even if his movements were slow. ‘It's a long time ago, George.' Dropping the reins so his horse could graze, he leaned against a tree and then reached for the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket and lit one.

George dismounted and tied his own horse to a stump and then joined Ross on a fallen log. They sat companionably, the smoke from Ross's cigarette wafting about them. After a minute's silence, Ross spoke.

‘I guess I sort of figured it was better to just go about my business and do what I thought was right. And I did. Then your wife started spouting around the district about this art thingy she wants to do for your grandfather, and your little sister turned up. After her visit to the Banyan museum, most of the district wants to know more about your grandfather's life and the few left who remember the old days wish you would all bugger off.'

‘Why?' George asked.

Ross took a deep puff of the cigarette. ‘Because not everyone has a high opinion of your grandfather. He did something when he came back from the war that riled a lot of people, and back then not everyone wanted to see his point of view. He made a lot of folk feel real guilty, the rest, angry.'

George thought back to what Maddy told him after her visit to the museum. ‘Did it have something to do with Germans?'

Ross swivelled his neck and stared at George, then stubbed out the cigarette in the dirt. ‘What he did was draw attention to a number of families, and his actions made a lot of people in and around Banyan feel mighty uncomfortable. Some of the folks involved have descendants living in Banyan today. But all that aside, he did the right thing by my mum, and despite the fact the old girl's been in a bad mood for as long as I can recall, your grandfather looked after her for a time when her situation was real tough. Of course, there's a cost to everything, and Mum never could forgive your grandfather.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' George admitted.

‘Well, of course you don't,' Ross replied. ‘The Harrows made sure it was all kept quiet and Mum agreed to it. I understand there's a pecking order in society. Mum doesn't, but I sure do. Anyway, me helping you and your mother is just a way of repaying your grandfather's kindness.'

‘So, it
was
you all those years ago. My mother said she believed that someone was giving her a helping hand when she and Dad were running the place.'

Ross nodded and looked away. ‘She was a good woman. It was the right thing to do. Actually, I probably wouldn't have kept on poking about the place after your father died and Sunset Ridge was leased, but I got used to coming out here. I'd rather be riding through the scrub feeling useful than sitting in a chair like most of the retirees watching television or down at the club playing pokies.'

‘How come you didn't just tell me years ago?' George was flummoxed.

‘Because it would have got around the district eventually, you know that. Now, I'm not having a go at you, George, but either you or that wife of yours would have said something, even in passing, and I'm not a believer in people having to know everyone's business. Some would have said I was off my rocker.' Ross stretched out each of his legs before standing. ‘My heart's not as sound as it used to be. In fact, I reckon this will be one of my last rides around Sunset Ridge. Don't look like that; I'm not a bloke that needs pity. Anyway, when you turned up this morning, I figured you deserved to know why I've been rambling around here for so many years, and it seemed the timing was right.'

‘Hang on.' George watched as Ross mounted his horse. ‘You haven't told me what Grandfather did for your mother.'

Ross pulled his hat brim low over his face. ‘Son, that's not my story to tell.'

 

The ride home took George through a desolate landscape. Although intrigued and pleased by his conversation with Ross, his good mood soon ebbed. The country felt flat and lifeless, as if all the energy had been sucked from it. At times it was as if the tired heart of the land strained beneath his horse's hoofs. No grass remained to bind the soil together. Little by little the vegetation had simply melted away, leaving the paddocks devoid of ground covering. Manure stippled the pock-marked ground that was crisscrossed by the narrow indentations of sheep tracks leading to and from water. Here and there the white bones and animal hides of the dead swept in and out of George's field of vision. And still the great trees waited for rain.

George understood that he was only a custodian for the next generation, and yet at times he was almost beyond tending the property anymore. The inadequacy of his daily rounds reminded him of a doctor unable to treat the dying and he was unsurprised at his depressed mental state. In some respects he was fortunate to have endured for so long; however, the inevitable was approaching. In a few months they would no longer be able to afford sheep feed and he would have to approach the bank again, cap in hand. He knew that any goodwill had already been consumed by the loan for the homestead renovations.

Were it not for the fact that he hoped the project would lift his wife's spirits, George never would have agreed with Rachael's plans. It was not as if the home stay would bring in thousands, nor did he suspect that Rachael would be the one to clean the house and make the beds and cook the food for the paying guests. The honeymoon was definitely over and in its place he was left with a whinging wife and a drought that threatened to push them off the land. If the retrospective did not eventuate, he would have to ready for the worst.

They would go to Rachael's parents. The thought of the small granny flat behind the weatherboard Queenslander in Brisbane terrified him. He could feel it now: the bricks-and-mortar reminder of a life lost and the accusing wife who married a grazier and ended up with a busted-arse farmer. What would he do for a living? What would he tell his mother? Despite the fact he considered selling up four years ago and had said as much to Maddy, the reality of moving on was very different. He was skilled with horses and sheep, and in a good season he was adept at managing the untameable land of his ancestors. The bush was his office, the sky his ceiling. The thought of a patch of lawn and square of sky designated by the life of the urban dweller gave him palpitations. Having tried to explain these feelings of heritage and identity to Madeleine, the expression on her face only served to reinforce Rachael's complete lack of understanding. This may have been his sister's childhood home but she was as removed from bush life as was the barrister's daughter he had married. They had no attachment to Sunset Ridge. To them it was merely a piece of dirt.

One thing kept his pride intact, kept him from losing himself in grog and a niggling sense of uselessness. It was true that there were times when he wanted to run away from the land of his forefathers, yet a greater responsibility kept him tethered to it. Many others had walked this crusty shell before him and they were of his blood and they had not given up. He thought of his mother doing the best for the family and he knew that it was time for him to make a few adjustments. No one could control the elements and the bitter war waging between land and sky, however George could ensure that he did everything in his power to keep the property in the Harrow family.

 

Madeleine and Rachael were sitting at the kitchen table with cups of coffee when George walked in the door.

‘The Stepworth Gallery is not interested in the retrospective,' Madeleine advised. ‘They were quite blunt in their assessment of the “economic viability of such an exhibition”.' She chose not to share the rest of the terse yet polite email, in which the director suggested that Madeleine spend her time more fruitfully and that if she were looking for a project during her holiday they could easily forward suggestions.