Sunset Ridge (6 page)

‘Hey, Dave,' Harold called, ‘you've got a biter.'

Dave slid back along the branch and half slipped and half climbed down the trunk. Losing his footing, he fell the last few feet, his palm catching roughly against the nail and rotting board. Biting his lip, he reached the taut fishing line in time for it to go slack in his hand. Blood seeped from Dave's palm as he dug filthy fingernails into the flesh to withdraw a long, thick splinter. He sucked at the weeping wound and spat the blood and grit on the sand as the pop of rifle-fire sounded in the distance. A horse whinnied, followed by the crunch of leaf litter.

‘What have I missed?' Thaddeus slid from his horse in a showy manner. He had recently taken to riding bareback, causing their father to ask their mother on more than one occasion if she had planned to breed a circus act. Slipping the rifle from his shoulder, he dropped it on the river bank and joined Harold.

‘Joe Barnes died of his wounds,' Harold told them. ‘Those blasted Turks got him eventually.'

‘Joe was a good bloke.' Thaddeus lifted an arm and bowled an imaginary ball. ‘He could run like the wind and bat with the best of them.'

Harold scraped his teeth over a thick bottom lip. ‘I'd like to be doing more than selling nails and pannikins. You know, I've heard stories about lads younger than us enlisting.'

Thaddeus clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘By the time your father lets you sign up, mate, the war will be over.'

‘I thought you wanted to go,' Harold replied. ‘What if we lose over there and the Germans invade Australia? What then?'

‘And what about our businesses?' Thaddeus countered. ‘We've already lost five station hands since last year, and with Rodger's brother dead I reckon he'll leave soon. That'll leave two. Someone's got to look after the sheep and the cattle.'

‘That's a convenient excuse,' Harold sniffed.

‘You're just saying that because food and clothing are more important than ladders and lanterns in war time.'

Harold dropped the line he was holding.

‘Okay, okay.' Thaddeus held up his hands in surrender. ‘I agree that it doesn't seem right, us sitting here fishing while there's a war on, but we're still doing our bit – there's so much beef and mutton being preserved and shipped abroad that you wonder if there's enough meat left in Australia to feed our own people. Anyway, I've been thinking that if the war's still going on next year I'll probably join up.'

‘Me too,' Harold agreed.

‘It's not our w-war,' Luther argued. ‘I'm all for a b-bit of adventure, but I don't w-want t-to fight for the B-british. I'm Australian. B-besides, we would p-probably e-end up over in France and th-there's no w-way I'm eating frog l-legs.'

Harold flicked his line. ‘That's just wrong. We're part of the British Empire; we have a duty to the King.'

Luther made a point of swivelling his neck to look at their surroundings. ‘I ain't never seen K-king George out the b-back of B-banyan.'

Thaddeus snickered.

‘If
we
were attacked,' Harold replied indignantly, ‘the King would send troops.'

‘If w-we w-were attacked? Out here in th-the b-bush?' Luther let a handful of river sand run through his fingers. ‘Dying stock when it doesn't r-rain, drowning s-stock when it does, and l-long b-boring days in b-between.' He tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘I'd tell the invaders they could h-have it.'

A straightening of Harold's shoulders was the first indication that he had a bite. Dave knew the signs by heart and could plot the course of the upcoming battle in his head; the tensing of muscles, the concentration, the battle of wills between fish and man. Harold, never one to be beaten by anything or anyone, treated fishing with the same solemnity Miss Waites gave to their weekly bible reading, and as Harold held the record for the most catches, every fish added to his tally left Thaddeus and the rest of them further behind.

‘Keep it t-taut, keep the line t-taut, H-harold, or you'll l-lose him.' Luther jumped to his feet as Harold began to slowly wind in the line.

When Harold took a step forward, they all did; when he paused briefly to check that his catch was still hooked to the line, they each held their breath in anticipation.

‘I've got him.' A final tug brought the shimmering yellow-belly to the water's edge.

‘He's a b-beauty,' Luther enthused, ‘a six-p-pounder.'

The top of the fish was dark brown but once floundering on its side in the shallows the iridescent gold of its body sparkled up through the water. Harold grabbed hold of the fish by moving his hand from the head towards the tail so as not to get lanced by the protruding fins. ‘It's a good size. Think I'll keep it.' Carefully freeing the hook, he dropped the fish into a hessian sack and sat the bag in the river's shallows.

‘Well, that gives Harold twelve big ones for the year so far,' Thaddeus stated flatly. ‘Maybe we should change waterholes.'

‘B-bollocks,' Luther argued. ‘Th-this is the b-best fishing hole in these p-parts. Fishing's about skill and Harold is th-the best.'

Thaddeus fetched his rifle from where it lay in the sand. Deftly loading a bullet into the chamber, he swept the barrel across the river bank. The target came in the shape of a sulphur-crested cockatoo, which Thaddeus dropped from the branches of an ancient tree with a single shot. The white-feathered bird fell silently to land with a plop in the river as thirty cockatoos took flight, their outstretched wings filling the pale blue of the sky.

‘If we do go to war, Harold,' Thaddeus walked towards his horse, ‘I don't think your fishing will help us.'

Harold and Luther exchanged glances.

Dave knew that Thaddeus was changing. He had, on more than one occasion, caught Thaddeus checking his reflection in the mirror. Anyone would think he was the one being exhibited at the Banyan Show and not Sunset Ridge's prize fleece. No, Dave didn't think the war was the reason for the changes in his brother. It was something or somebody else.

With the others diverted packing up their things, Dave walked nonchalantly down to the water's edge and, quickly untying the top of the submerged hessian bag, let the yellow-belly escape to safety. He caught a glimpse of shimmering scales beneath the water's surface and smiled.

 

Lily Harrow fiddled with the cutlery at her place setting. At the opposite end of the ten-seat dining table, her husband twirled a water glass, the finely etched crystal refracting slivers of light from the kerosene lamps on the sideboard. At fifty, G.W. Harrow resembled the grainy photograph of his father. Over the years, watery blue eyes, sunken cheeks and a thick, military-style moustache had replaced crinkled laughter lines and a ready smile. Of course, in fairness she too had lost youth's bloom. If a woman's future was tied to her looks, then fate had been quick to ensure hers would be forever joined to her husband.

The sound of crashing pots and pans emanated from the kitchen. It was hardly the pleasant evening hoped for. The wait for tea was now straggling towards the ten-minute mark, thanks to their wayward sons who had only just managed to join them at the table. They were now being subjected to five minutes' silence, a punishment that Thaddeus, Luther and Dave were quite used to. The boys sat quietly, occasionally flashing covert glances at each other, while G.W. had the familiar tight-eyed expression of a gentleman unused to being delayed.

Although not handsome in the dashing, hero-type mould young women dream of, G.W. had been kind and courteous in the early days of their marriage. Such beginnings suggested a rosy future, and at eighteen Lily had known nothing of life. Her aspirations had centred round an ideal of love, not the reality of it. He had been searching for a bride, and she, eager to escape a coddling, music­ally inclined yet drink-addled family, was not slow in displaying her interest. It was a pity that their relationship had lost its bloom so quickly. G.W. was distracted by the management of the property and it quickly became apparent that he did not have the patience for children. It was also quickly becoming obvious how little they had in common.

Another crash sounded from the kitchen. Considering Cook's domain was separated from the main homestead by a twenty-foot covered walkway, the noise was impressive.

‘This is ridiculous,' G.W. announced.

‘I'm sure Cook is doing her best.' Having entered the kitchen earlier to see Cook retrieve the mutton chops from a boiler of fat-laden water, Lily's enthusiasm had waned. Cook detested fat, and her habit of par-boiling every piece of meat before baking or frying left choice cuts tasteless.

G.W. began to drum his fingers on the table. Lily patted the sweep of auburn hair gathered into a low roll at the nape of her neck and thought of the vast acreage surrounding the homestead. At times she loathed the property, at others the land soothed her, yet always it shadowed and controlled their lives, its unrelenting presence serving to remind them all of the great drama that had befallen the family. In a long-running feud with a neighbour over the placement of a boundary fence erected by G.W. Senior in the late 1880s, G.W. had foolishly bet ten thousand acres of the property that the placement was correct. The Lands Department said otherwise and the dirt was lost by way of a gentleman's handshake. Consequently, 1900 was a dire year. They had been in the grip of the Great Drought since 1895 when this calamity befell them, and whether stress played a part in G.W.'s reckless actions, or he was merely exhibiting inherited tendencies passed down from his forefathers, Lily would never know. She did know, however, that life had not been the same since. Her husband lived in the shadow of his forefathers, and they cast their disapproving gazes from the red ridge in which eight of them were buried.

Cook entered the dining room with two large covered dishes and plonked them unceremoniously in the middle of the table. ‘I'm not to be blamed for the state of the tatties, missus. I've done me best but a person can't be expected to keep things 'ot and tasty when these young rascals are late.' Cook wiped her hands diligently on a less-than-clean apron.

‘I am aware of the difficulties you work under, Cook,' Lily said stiffly, giving each boy a singular stare. ‘Had Mr Harrow and I been blessed with girls, your job, I'm sure, would have been far easier.'

The older woman lifted the lids from a platter of gravy-swimming mutton chops and another of vegetables, and then left the room.

As each serving was passed along, Lily added the soft potatoes, burned carrots and a ladleful of cabbage. The end of shearing and the subsequent loading of Sunset Ridge's wool clip should have been cause for celebration; instead the business of eating the unappealing meal merely eased the burden of conversation.

‘What happened to your hand?' Lily noticed the bandage on David's palm.

‘It's nothing, Mother. I cut it.'

‘You better have a look at that, Lily.' G.W.'s cheek bulged with food. ‘A cut's the quickest way to get blood poisoning. You know that, Dave. Your fingers could swell up, and then –' he slapped his hand on the table so that everything rattled, ‘you're dead.'

‘G.W.!' Lily exclaimed. ‘There's no need to be quite so brutal.'

G.W. served himself another chop and hacked into it as if he were sawing a piece of wood.

Undoing the bandage, Lily examined the wound. David's palm was pitted by grazes while a jagged cut stretched the length of the soft flesh. ‘It appears to be quite clean, G.W.'

‘Well, then all is right with the world, David. Your mother clearly believes she has a doctor's perspective.'

Lily dabbed at her mouth with a linen serviette. ‘Here's to another fine wool clip and to a fleece that will win the Champion Fleece.'

The boys looked to their father in anticipation.

G.W. raised his head. ‘Yes, yes, it may well; the length of staple, the brightness.' He visibly cheered. ‘Yes, I do believe it's our best yet.'

By the time Cook's warm custard was consumed, the Champion Fleece trophy was won and G.W. was pouring two glasses of Madeira. Music from the organ and Thaddeus's harmonica filtered through the homestead from the music room as Lily hid a mutton belch with a sip of alcohol. The warmth of the liquid seeped through her like a soak in her precious hip bath, and she wondered briefly at their weekday abstinence until a memory of her father, collapsed over his broken violin, reminded her of the perils of the bottle. The sitting room was a little stuffy tonight. Thick damask curtains were tugged partially across the permanently closed windows and the faint scent of smoke hung in the room. For as long as she had lived at Sunset Ridge these windows had been closed. The red dust was simply too invasive.

G.W. contemplated the oil painting above the fireplace. Years of heat had left the painting's idyllic rural scene strewn with miniature cracks. It remained in pride of place, however; a link to the mother country, Great Britain, home to the Harrows before their emigration in the 1870s. If Lily had her way she would replace it with an ornate framed mirror; it had been thirty years since her parents sailed from London, and they were happy not to harbour keepsakes of the dirty, overcrowded city. Her mother's family had once been wealthy land owners in Devon, until Lily's uncle died and the estate had passed to a male cousin. Lily's mother had never got over the loss of the family seat and the subsequent dwindling of income. Marriage to a financier seemed a good offer, and she was pleased to leave England.