The night air had a bite to it. She rubbed her work-roughened hands together as a smile settled into the care lines etching her mouth. Francois was tall, brown-haired and lean like his father and had inherited the same tendency towards conservatism and learning, while Antoine favoured her family, his stockier build and darker looks complemented by a level of optimism undimmed by the war being waged in their country. Their bobbing heads rose and fell against the paling sky as they jumped the narrow stream. She imagined their feet springing on the soft turf, her daydreams taking her back to another time, seventeen years ago, when she and Marcel had sat in that same spot in the dwindling light, the twins a bulge in her belly. No one else would ever remember her as she was back then: a pretty, high-spirited girl.
The woman could hear Antoine’s laughter and the cajoling tone that inevitably meant he was trying to convince his older brother (by two minutes) of some new scheme. His last adventure, before winter, had led them some three miles into the village of Tatinghem. Unbeknown to her, Antoine had tried to barter some of their excess eggs in exchange for a packet of cigarettes. His plan proved unsuccessful and instead he and Francois returned home with the dozen eggs and ten soldiers and a British officer, who quickly informed Madame Chessy that his men were to be billeted on her small holding for a week. Although she was happy to oblige, she made a point of taking several minutes to reflect on the officer’s request before answering. Demanding, instead of asking politely, was never an attitude she had taken to.
The Chessy farmhouse had been noted by the Allies as a potential billet for troops in early 1915, however their use of the farm had been limited to date. The ancient town of Saint-Omer, the current Allied headquarters, was ten miles away and the surrounding villages absorbed the majority of troops. Yet a small stream of soldiers on leave from the front found peace and a semblance of rejuvenation at the farm during the bitter winter. And it was through them the widow learned of the true extent of the war. Although firmly situated on French soil, she expected a difficult year ahead. The Germans, with their huge army, were aggressive in their attempts at invasion and a long thin line of defence on a map was all that protected her beloved country. The West Flanders city of Ypres lay to the north and was something of a defining line for the British Empire. Madame knew only too well that Ypres stood in the path of Germany’s planned sweep across the rest of Belgium and into France, and would also give the invading army access to the French port cities bordering the Channel.
‘Mama.’
She waved in response to the boys’ greeting, their features still indistinct.
Ypres. How she wished she had never heard of the place. It was to this battleground that her beloved husband, Marcel, was forced to travel in 1915. When she objected to him leaving, he argued that if the British were prepared to make a stand and join the war in 1914 having guaranteed Belgium neutrality, then he too would proudly accept the call for his beloved France. How she hated conscription.
As the distance closed between her sons and the farmhouse, Madame Chessy noticed a third shape, an animal of some sort, a –
‘No, no, no,’ she lamented, checking worriedly on her hen before firmly closing the farmhouse door. The dog was large and ungainly looking, a wolf-like mongrel if ever she had seen one.
‘Please, Mama.’ Antoine’s cheek dimpled. ‘Can’t we keep him?’
Francois did his customary shrug, as if the events of the day were beyond him. He was so like his father.
‘He has been with us in the field since noon,’ Francois explained as the lumbering animal covered a kneeling Antoine’s face with slobber.
The animal was shaggy-haired, its colouring white, black and grey, which spoke of a mismatch of breeds. Madame Chessy could hardly imagine what it would take to feed such a giant of a dog.
‘He came from the north, Mama,’ Antoine stated, the words causing the three of them to look in that direction. It was the place the boys’ father had gone to, and from where he had never returned.
‘Ypres?’ Madame Chessy murmured, the question hanging in the air. The dog was sitting, his brown eyes fixed on hers.
‘He has no home,’ Antoine pursued quietly.
‘Many have no home, Antoine,’ she snapped. She did not want a dog. There were chickens and pigs to mind, and cows and fields to tend, and any number of other chores to fill her days. Besides which, she knew that it would be impossible to instil a modicum of obedience in a dog clearly so devoid of breeding.
‘He may well be attached to a battalion,’ Francois suggested. ‘They are using any number of different breeds at the front.’
Their mother blew a puff of air out through her lips. ‘I have never heard such rot.’
‘But it’s true, Mama,’ Antoine agreed. ‘They have dogs that run messages, dogs to deliver cigarettes to the men in the front-line, and others that locate injured soldiers.’
Madame Chessy did not want to continue this ridiculous talk, yet such extraordinary tales regarding all manner of strange and wondrous things had spread through the French countryside since the war’s beginning that at times she was unsure where fact ended and fiction began.
‘They say the German mercy dogs are trained to ignore the dead and approach only the injured,’ Antoine continued, ‘and they carry water or alcohol around their necks or strapped to their chests.’
The dog placed a wide paw on Madame’s sturdy lace-up boots and, as if cued, gave a low plaintive whine. The widow furrowed her brow. The noise was not unfamiliar; indeed, she had heard it not twenty minutes ago. She compressed her lips. Here was her fox. ‘I doubt this stray has held such a lauded position.’
‘He has no identification,’ Antoine told his brother. ‘Which means we can keep him.’
‘Perhaps,’ Francois began cautiously, ‘he would be a good guard dog.’
Madame Chessy carefully pulled her shoe free of the animal’s heavy paw. ‘We shall see.’
Antoine smiled broadly, dragged the dog to his side and hugged him.
They sat at the table; behind them the wood fire heated a pot of stream water to wash the plates after their meal. Antoine and Francois were ravenous. The small quantity of bread and soft cheese consumed at noon had long been forgotten. Their mother listened as their stomachs rumbled.
‘Slow down,’ she chastised, ‘you will both be ill.’
Francois paused, a chunk of bread in one hand, a mess of egg on his plate ready to be piled on the dough. Antoine’s mouth was crammed with butter-fried wedges of potato and still he tried to place more into his mouth. Only the soft whine of the dog outside the farmhouse steadied both boys while eating.
‘The first and second Australian divisions are being billeted in the Saint-Omer–Aire–Hazebrouck region.’ Francois’ eyes glittered. ‘That’s good news, I think.’
Madame Chessy did not know much about the Australians, but word had spread of their imminent arrival and that it was a volunteer force. ‘It’s a long way for them to come. Australia is at the bottom of the world.’
‘And yet they come,’ Antoine said with fervour, ‘to this war to end all wars.’
His mother huffed. ‘I’ve told you to stop listening to the propaganda, Antoine. I pity the Australian women and their families sending their men to the other side of the world to these, these –’ she searched for a word that summed up her feelings, ‘killing fields. They have no idea what they are sending them to.’
Her son’s cheeks reddened. The pain of their father’s death remained raw.
The fire crackled. Antoine poured water from a ceramic jug as the dog barked outside. The noise broke the strained mood about the table. ‘What shall we call him?’ Antoine asked, his head swivelling towards the door.
Madame Chessy rose to lift the pot of now-boiling water from the fire. Sitting it on the hearth, she sipped her wine thoughtfully. There were only twelve bottles left in the cellar and sh
e savoured her single nightly glass. ‘I don’t think we can keep the dog.’ She dunked her plate in the pot of hot water. ‘If what you say about these Australians arriving is correct, then we can only assume the war is nowhere near ending. We must prepare ourselves for food prices to rise again, and no doubt the shortages will grow worse.’ She swished a dishcloth absently across the plate. ‘We must tend to the soldiers protecting France and our own needs first. With only boys, women and old men left to mind our farms I doubt our ability to produce enough extra food. This dog, I think, will take much to feed.’ The woman rested her plate in the drying rack on the hearth.
‘I don’t agree,’ Antoine stated, his voice bold. ‘More troops could see an earlier end to the war and then things will get back to normal.’
Francois pushed his empty plate aside. ‘Mama, we cannot turn out a defenceless animal.’
Madame Chessy wiped her hands on her apron and rejoined her boys at the table. In the glow of the fire and candlelight the twins looked older than their seventeen years. She had heard terrible tales of fourteen-year-old German boys being sent to the Ypres battleground, and she prayed daily for the war to be over before the authorities came for her sons. It was only a matter of time. Once they were of age they would automatically be conscripted, if they didn’t join up sooner. Her countrymen were dying in the pursuit of freedom, and the niggling thought of her only children wanting to prove themselves in battle, to follow in the footsteps of their dead father, was becoming more difficult to ignore. She plied the soft skin of her palm with her fingers.
‘I see that you are determined to keep this dog . . .’
The twins waited for her to finish. ‘But you must be prepared to hand the animal back should he be claimed.’ Her sons nodded in agreement. ‘And it is your joint responsibility to look after him, always. Not mine. And,’ she added, ‘he must sleep outside.’
Francois and Antoine grinned, and despite her misgivings she splashed a little wine into their water glasses to celebrate as they laughed and thanked her and promised to look after their new pet. The discussion of a name for the dog started soon after, and by the time the wine was consumed and the table cleared they were still arguing.
‘Roland,’ Francois suggested excitedly, as if having made a wondrous discovery.
‘Ah,’ Madame Chessy nodded with a smile. ‘ “The Song of Roland”.’
Antoine looked perplexed. ‘Roland? What sort of a name is that for a dog?’
Madame Chessy waggled her finger. ‘You should have paid more attention during your lessons, Antoine. “The Song of Roland” is one of the oldest works of French literature.’
Antoine’s face was blank.
Madame Chessy shook her head at her younger son. ‘About the Battle of Roncesvalles, in the eighth century?’
‘In 778, Antoine.’ Francois jabbed his brother in the shoulder. ‘During the reign of Charlemagne. Don’t you remember Mama telling us about it?’
‘Well, why didn’t you just say Charlemagne?’ Antoine complained. ‘Everyone knows him. What?’ he asked in response to his mother’s smile and the raised eyebrow from his brother.
‘Nothing, my dear,’ she said. ‘However,’ she cautioned, ‘Roland was a fierce warrior, loyal and trustworthy, and I am not sure this epic name is suitable for your new friend.’
Antoine rubbed at the slight fuzz of stubble on his chin.
‘Perhaps with the times we live in, Mama, it is a worthy choice,’ Francois suggested.
Habit led Madame Chessy’s gaze to the vacant chair by the fire. ‘I think,’ she replied slowly, ‘that your father would approve.’
‘Good, it’s done.’ Antoine stood and clapped his hands together.
Outside Roland barked.
‘More wine?’ Antoine asked hopefully.
‘No.’ Madame Chessy shook her head, concealing the smile that threatened to stymie her resolve. ‘No more wine.’
It was midnight when the squeak of the farmhouse door broke her dreams. She had been sitting by the stream with Marcel, throwing a rag ball at the ungainly dog that had appeared from amid the trees. He was a cumbersome animal; even the way he bounded across the field suggested he was at odds with his limbs. Yet despite the uneven gait and unkempt look, the dog was surprisingly agile and fast. Flinging his body some feet into the air, he caught Madame Chessy’s ball with ease and, pirouetting, raced back to her side.
Pushing back the bedcovers, Madame Chessy sat upright and peered through her open bedroom door into the kitchen. The remains of the fire cast a faint glow about the room and revealed Antoine returning to the alcove on the far side of the kitchen table. He sat on his narrow cot, which was squashed tightly next to Francois’, and his gaze met his mother’s. The dog Roland was at Antoine’s feet. Madame Chessy threw back the remaining covers readying to rescue her best-laying hen, her feet touching the cold floor, but the dog only sniffed about the flagstone, barely heeding the hen’s presence, before returning to Antoine’s side and jumping onto the bed where he pawed the coverlets like a giant cat readying to settle for the night.
She sensed Antoine waiting for words of reprimand, his defiance swelling across the small expanse of the farmhouse and as it grew her own anger subsided. She was weary of being the sole parent, weary of trying to retain a level of normality when only miles away the world was on fire. She lay on her side, one eye trained on the hen, the other partially obscured by the soft curve of the pillow. Finally Antoine slept, his soft snores filling the void left by her departed husband. Adjusting her position until her hip found some comfort, Madame Chessy concentrated on the dancing light thrown by the fire’s embers. She had left the firebox door open, allowing the light to stretch along the floor and walls of the farmhouse, illuminating the dwelling with a golden glow. With a sigh she prayed aloud to the Saints, a muttering of blessings for home and hearth and protection for France and her two sons. Most of all she prayed for the Australian soldiers who would take up arms in defence of a country they had never seen.
Miles away a distant rumble, like faraway thunder, echoed across the countryside. The great guns were firing again. The eyes of Roland the dog met hers from across the room. One, she supposed, could never have too many heroes.
Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
February 2000
Bamboo flares wafted citronella as the day’s remains cast a reddish glow through the garden. Madeleine followed the voices out onto the veranda. Two naps during the afternoon, interrupted by Sonia’s mutton sandwich, had left her bleary eyed and restless. It had been years since her last holiday, and she felt strung out, especially after the altercation with her mother. Her brother and sister-in-law were sitting in front of the open French doors that led into their bedroom, where the cooling draft of the evaporative airconditioner made the environment almost liveable. George rose to his feet immediately and Madeleine smiled as they hugged. He pecked her on the cheek, settled her in a chair and poured her a glass of white wine. Rachael blew a kiss in Madeleine’s general direction.
‘Good trip?’ George asked. He was dressed in beige shorts and a striped white and pale blue t-shirt.
‘Not bad. I forgot how far it was, and how hot,’ Madeleine replied. It was good to see her brother. Although she couldn’t understand George wanting to live out here, she respected his decision. This was his career choice, while she had her own profession and there was no way Madeleine ever would have felt comfortable living out here where their father had died.
Rachael gave a nod. ‘If you don’t move from the house you’d almost think that life was civilised out here.’ Her tone was clipped as she re-tied her long red hair into a ponytail.
Madeleine took a sip of wine. The condensation dripped from the glass onto her sleep-crumpled shorts. ‘You’ve done lots to the house and garden since I was last here.’ A fine layer of red dust glazed the rattan chair in which she sat.
‘Sorry about your bedroom, sis,’ George apologised. ‘Rachael packed your things into boxes.’
‘There wasn’t much,’ Rachael replied quickly, ‘a few old work-clothes, jeans and stuff and some certificates from school.’
Madeleine wanted to complain about not being told in advance of the renovations, however this wasn’t her home anymore, it was her brother’s and Rachael’s, and her sister-in-law had a tendency to overstep boundaries. ‘The nursery looks nice.’
A muscle in Rachael’s cheek twitched. ‘Unfortunately, Maddy, we’re not having much luck on that front.’
‘It’ll happen when it happens,’ George placated, pouring his wife more wine and downing his next beer in a couple of mouthfuls.
‘I just feel like everything is drying up, Madeleine,’ Rachael continued, ‘including me. It’s this shocking drought.’
‘We’ve had a bit on our plates,’ George agreed. ‘Luckily we had that one barley crop last year; it eased the sheep-feeding regime, and all the cattle were sold about eighteen months ago.’ He looked at his wife. ‘We’re still going, just.’ He squeezed Rachael’s hand. ‘At least we’re not trying to find feed for the cattle. The stock routes are buggered.’
‘But you’ve done so much to the old house,’ Madeleine said. ‘And the garden. How could you afford it?’
Rachael plucked at her pink skirt. She still wore makeup from lunch, although her lipstick had long worn off, leaving an outline of pale pink. ‘We had to do something – the house was falling down around us, and at least the garden is now manageable. It makes such a difference seeing green grass when everything else is brown or dead.’
Madeleine admired the freshly painted veranda. ‘And the house?’ There were numerous paint catalogues on the table.
‘Insurance payout,’ George replied. ‘Wind storm.’
Sunset Ridge Page 3
