Occasionally Luther stopped to listen to the night noises of the bush. Having done his best to lose Thaddeus in the scrub by keeping his horse at a canter until the river was in sight, Luther didn’t want to be caught now, so he stayed attuned to the sound of snapping twigs and the strain of leather, ready to dart into the scrub at the slightest hint of company. He was not driven by indifference towards Thaddeus – in fact, his brothers’ suffering for his deed at the Banyan Show was part of the reason Luther felt compelled to leave – he had simply had enough, and he knew that he couldn’t live at Sunset Ridge anymore. Telling Thaddeus he was heading to town to find work was easy, and his brother hadn’t argued. Surprisingly, Thaddeus had thought it a good idea and they talked about meeting up and heading north; they had spat on their palms and shook on it as brothers should.
Luther hoped for understanding. He was heading south, not north. He wasn’t going to be responsible for anyone’s life, except his own, and by agreeing with everything Thaddeus suggested he had saved himself the difficulty of saying goodbye.
Patting his horse roughly on the neck, he stretched his shoulders before directing Scratch away from the sandy river flats. A gum tree split by lightning marked the spot where the river twisted towards the centre of Banyan, and Luther spurred his horse up the bank and into the shadowy scrub. The bush was dark where the moon couldn’t penetrate the dense woody plants and it took some time before he was certain he was heading in the right direction. His escape was simple; it was what came afterwards that required determination.
After completing his business in Banyan, Luther planned to follow the river to the next town, Whitewood, thirty miles to the east. Here he could catch the Western Mail train to Sydney and his new life: the war. He reckoned he would be suited to that type of undertaking, if they would take him. He was above the required 5 foot 4 inches in height and was fit and healthy. With government posters in Banyan and the newspapers advertising the urgent need for volunteers, Luther figured they wouldn’t turn anyone down. Besides, there wasn’t much point knocking about the bush for a pittance, not when he could be earning six shillings a day while seeing the world. Becoming a soldier was not something he had planned or even considered until now; he didn’t believe in the nobility of the cause the way Harold and his father did, and he wasn’t joining for patriotic reasons or the promise of adventure. It was simply a matter of figuring out what a man could do best and then doing it.
The cemetery was a mile and a half from the courthouse, if he remembered rightly. He had been sitting in the rear of the dray as the Cobb & Co. coach passed them and the peeling signpost marking the cemetery road had caught his eye. The idea of calling on Corally Shaw had crept up on Luther gradually. The weeks of boredom allowed plenty of time to contemplate life, and the more he looked back on the previous months, the more Luther came to understand that Corally was the first person to actually care about him. His mother had made a point of standing up to their father’s bullying and it was she who had saved him from reform school, but to Luther that was a mother’s duty. In comparison, Corally had taken the stand in the Banyan courthouse, placed her hand on the bible and sworn to tell the truth. Just for him. Luther figured that if he owed anyone anything, then that person was Corally Shaw.
The sign for the cemetery was paint-peeled and faded. Were it not for a spray of wilted bougainvillea flowers lying in the dirt, he may well have missed it. Luther tugged on the reins and Scratch nickered softly in reply as they turned down the narrow, rutted road that was fringed by scrub on either side. Luther had never been one for closed-in country and was pleased when the cemetery came into view after just five minutes. The graves stood in neat rows in a long enclosure bordered by a wooden fence. On closer viewing he made out a section of crumbling headstones and broken crosses, and then newer burials gradually filled his vision. It seemed strange to Luther that such a place should be enclosed: who would want to wander in or, for that matter, how could anyone break out?
The moon patched the bare ground with silhouettes, some simple, others ornate granite memorials that seemed out of place amid the more humble remembrances. Dismounting, Luther led Scratch through the graves. The ground was hard, the air dry, yet in spite of his edgy ride towards the cemetery and the dark recesses that lay behind eroded gravestones, Luther felt calm. Walking his horse to the lone tree in the middle of the graveyard, he scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. It was impossible to tell if a house was nearby. Trees skirted the cemetery and in some places twisted scrub had overgrown the wooden fence. At this time of night there was no lonely lamp in a window to beckon him in a particular direction, and the lack of wind offered no scent of a cooking fire. Luther knew that his night wanderings had drawn to an end: it was too early to wake Corally, even if he knew where to find her, and far too late to turn back, not that he was inclined to, for this was a journey just begun. Luther wrapped Scratch’s reins around a branch of the tree, slid down onto the ground and promptly fell asleep.
Pre-dawn arrived with an eerie glow. Luther woke to the smell of smoke and a pungent stink that reminded him of sheep guts. The light wind and the scents it carried were blowing directly across his face. Side-stepping headstones and a fresh plot of mounded earth, he jumped the fence and walked through the thick trees that extended from the edge of the cemetery. Birds were already twittering to wakefulness and he scattered slow-moving wallabies as his path took him deeper into the bush.
Eventually the trees began to thin and a shack appeared in the midst of a clearing. It was a small building, barely bigger than the Sunset Ridge kitchen, and for a moment Luther thought the dwelling belonged to the grave-digger. Then he saw the lengths of timber crisscrossed against the side of the building and the ratty hides stretched and left to dry in the sun. Although it wasn’t the season for trapping, he counted eight rancid skins; a motley assortment of rabbit, fox and wallaby pelts. There was a wood pile, a copper for washing and a mangy dog tied under a lean-to attached to the front of the house. Apart from the stink of the hides the place was clean. That was something, he figured.
Although Luther was confident that this was Corally’s house, he had never caught sight of her parents and was unsure of his reception, so he decided to wait for the appearance of someone from within. Hunkering down behind a tree, he dozed fitfully until the yapping of the dog startled him. The clearing was still layered in gloom as a figure walked out of the hut towards the frill of trees at the rear of the timber shack. Luther would have recognised that blonde hair anywhere as Corally kicked at the dirt before disappearing into the scrub. The sun brightened the landscape as he edged his way through the trees. He came upon Corally squatting in the dirt as sunlight streamed amid the foliage. A glimpse of pale skin showed itself. She was relieving herself. Luther knew he should walk away, but instead he watched the girl as she stood and then very slowly, as if aware of being watched, turned towards him. The morning light shone through the thin material of her gown, highlighting curves Luther had never imagined.
‘What are you doing here?’ A wild-eyed wariness settled about her. Picking up a shawl from the ground, she wrapped the worn material about her shoulders.
Luther walked forwards, fumbling for words. Corally grasped at the woollen shawl. The dog was still barking in the distance.
‘I-I c-came t-to say g-goodbye,’ Luther finally replied. They stood feet apart.
The girl glanced over her shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
Considering how awkward he was feeling right now, he thought that she was probably right. ‘I-I shouldn’t h-have done a l-lot of th-things.’
An easy smile appeared and her sea-green eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘What, are you all grown up now, Luther Harrow?’
‘M-maybe.’ He gave a sly grin.
‘Hey, Corally, where’s that wood? You got something the matter with your innards or what?’ The voice was rough and high-pitched.
Corally cocked he
r head. ‘That’s my ma.’ She grabbed Luther’s arm. ‘C’mon, we better get you outta sight. I can afford a belting for taking off for a bit.’ Her laugh tinkled like running water as they ran back towards the cemetery. ‘But I ain’t so sure about you.’
They raced through the trees, skipping over logs and pushing aside scrub until they reached the fence enclosing the graveyard. Scrambling through the railings they headed for the lone tree where Luther’s horse, having slipped his tether, was nibbling grass. Corally clutched at her side. ‘I’ve got a stitch,’ she panted. Her gown had fallen open at the neck. Luther stared at a shoulder and the rise of her breast, a half-moon of olive brown. He placed his hand on the bare skin and she backed up against the tree.
‘Don’t, Luther,’ she breathed, attempting to right her gown. ‘Don’t.’ She covered his hand with hers as he touched her breast, the shawl slipping to the ground.
Luther could feel the pointed rise of her skin against his palm. He kissed her on the lips as he squeezed the softness of her. Salt laced his tongue.
Corally kissed him back briefly and then turned her face to one side. ‘Don’t.’
Luther didn’t think he could stop. He wanted to feel what the sun hinted at. He wanted it so badly he could taste it. He pushed forward, his free hand gripping the trunk of the tree. The bark was rough as the whoosh of blood pounded in his ears.
‘Stop it!’
The slap to the side of his head jolted Luther backwards and he landed heavily on the ground. The sun was warm on his neck and the sound of Scratch rolling in the dirt and snorting carried across on the breeze. Corally looked like a young bird that had fallen from its nest. Strands of damp hair clung to her face and a wide strip of redness highlighted each cheek. Tugging at the gaping nightgown she snatched at the shawl when Luther handed it to her, clutching it to her chest.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly. Her sea-green eyes flashed emerald. ‘I w-wanted t-to say th-thank you, for what you did at th-the courthouse. I-I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You tried to rut me like one of your pa’s precious stud rams. You could’ve ruined me.’ Corally wiped at the tears streaming down her face. ‘What have I ever done to hurt you? What have I ever done to hurt anyone around here? Nothing, nothing at all. And what do you do? Treat me like a piece of dirt. I thought you were my friend.’
Luther was mortified. ‘O-of course I-I am.’
‘No, you’re not. First it’s Harold Lawrence, then you.’
‘H-Harold?’
‘Yes.’ Corally raised her chin. ‘He wants me to be his wife. To wait for him while he goes off to fight the bloomin’ Germans.’
‘H-Harold? You’re m-marrying H-Harold?’
‘It’s a good offer for a girl like me.’ She picked leaves from the threadbare shawl. ‘So leave me alone and don’t go ruining everything.’
‘H-Harold? But you can’t marry him.’
Corally snuffled back tears. ‘Why not? My pa reckons that most likely he’ll be blown to bits anyway, but if he isn’t . . .’
Luther digested these words. The thought of being injured hadn’t crossed his mind. Besides, he was younger than Harold, faster and quicker. There was no way Fritz would get him. ‘B-but you spoke for me in th-the c-courthouse.’
‘You’re going too, aren’t you?’ Corally eyes were red.
‘Yes.’ Luther nodded. ‘I’m t-taking o-off. I don’t go m-much on f-fighting for a l-living, b-but I f-figure I’ll see the world at l-least.’
‘And your brothers?’ Corally asked hesitantly. ‘I suppose all of you are the same. All you can think about is rushing off and getting yourselves killed.’
‘Dave’s t-too young. We didn’t t-tell him w-what we were up t-to,’ Luther revealed. ‘And Th-Thaddeus th-thinks he and I are going north.’ He looked at the girl, her toes curling in the dirt. ‘I figured after th-them b-being p-punished for w-what I did t-to Snob th-that I should go it alone for a-a while.’
Corally eyes grew moist. ‘If I was a man I’d go too instead of being left behind in this place.’
Luther surveyed the rows of headstones fanning out from the lone tree. ‘It’s not s-so b-bad.’
‘Really? And what would you know, Luther Harrow? You with your grand home and miles of land.’
‘I b-better g-go.’ Corally was getting a crotchety tone to her voice, which reminded Luther of Miss Waites and his mother.
The girl tucked strands of hair behind her ears, wiped roughly at her face and marched past him, her arms swinging fiercely. A jumble of thoughts rushed through Luther’s mind. ‘D-don’t m-marry Harold.’
The girl pointed to where Scratch was lying across a fresh gravesite. The soil forming the mound was rooted up. The horse rolled over the recently buried and whinnied with delight. ‘See, even your animals ain’t got respect for anybody.’ Corally climbed through the fence.
‘H-hang on, Corally. Don’t go charging off like a b-bull at a g-gate. Won’t you write me a-at least? While I’m at th-the w-war?’
Scratch scrambled up onto his feet and neighed loudly.
‘Well d-done,’ Luther admonished as Scratch trotted towards him. The last he saw of Corally was a slip of a girl merging with the trees.
Dave lay on the floor, staring at the brass knob on the bedroom door. Beads of sweat pooled every few minutes along his hairline to run down the side of his face. Not usually inclined to bathing, he had taken to dreaming of the washstand down the hallway with its cooling water and Pears soap. A suffocating heat had entrenched itself in the room and he was beginning to believe that he would never be cool again. So he remained on the floor, close to the fresh earth below. Occasionally a whisper of air would snake its way through a crack in the boards beneath and Dave would suck in the waft like a cone of flavoured ice.
It had been two days since Luther and Thaddeus’s disappearance and still his imprisonment continued. Breakfast and the midday meal had passed; one meal at night was Dave’s allocation, that and a jug of water and an old potty in which to do his daily business. He stretched out gingerly, his backside and thighs still stinging from the thrashing given by his father – and G.W. had threatened more if Dave didn’t reveal details of where his brothers had run off to. What was he meant to do, he asked himself. Lie? Having never experienced extreme anger before, Dave was at a loss as to how to handle it. He was bored and frustrated, yet his concentration appeared to have been flayed into pieces, much like his wounded skin, and he couldn’t draw to fill in the endless hours. In fact, the sketchbook had been dismantled, pages torn out and hidden in case his artwork became another casualty of his father’s fury. Chickens now hid in clothes, household furniture in a shoe box, people in an old tin in the manhole in the ceiling, and others in his roll-top desk. Only Miss Waites survived concealment: her images were layered beneath his mattress.
A plan of sorts began to structure itself and as it drew him towards freedom Dave realised that there may well be no turning back if he decided to pursue it. Once he left Sunset Ridge it would be difficult to return and face his father. And then, of course, there was the question of employment. A man had to earn coin to buy food, and what if the worst happened and he couldn’t find his brothers? Patches of light angled through the window as evening shadows streaked the garden. Gradually the bedroom grew dark. Rolling onto his side, Dave sat up carefully. Footsteps echoed outside in the long hallway. The doorknob squeaked on turning.
‘It’s me.’ His mother stepped in quietly, then peered back out into the hallway before closing the door.
Dave moved sideways as a meal tray was placed on the dresser. His stomach gurgled loudly.
‘We think Thaddeus may be going north,’ Lily whispered, folding the cloth that had covered the tray and sitting it to one side. ‘He fought with Harold out the back of the ironmonger’s store two days ago. The farrier saw the altercation and reported both of
them to the constabulary.’ Lily lifted the plate of food. ‘Here you go.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Lily sighed. ‘Suit yourself. Anyway, your brother managed to get away, while Harold spent a night in gaol for disturbing the peace.’ Lily fiddled with the cloth, re-covering the food. ‘There’s no sign of Luther.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘Do you know where they are, Dave? If you do, you really must tell us. Please tell us.’
‘I know they’d had enough of being locked up here.’
Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘So you told your father. You really don’t understand the magnitude of this situation, do you?’
‘Thaddeus and I never did anything wrong.’
‘I know that, but you must understand, your father –’
‘I hate him,’ Dave said loudly. ‘Why are you letting him keep me locked up? Why did you let him flog me?’
‘Oh Dave, I’m doing my best. You know how he can be.’ Lily gave a sigh. ‘I’m worried about your brothers, Dave, and you. Please tell me what you know. It’s the only way I can help you and them.’
Dave looked at the floor. His brothers didn’t need any help − they were free.
‘You can stop this immediately by telling your father what you know.’
‘But I know nothing.’ He gritted his teeth.
‘Please; you boys have always banded together. You do realise that if you continue to refuse what your father asks I will not be responsible for what happens?’
‘Fine, keep me in here, then. In the years to come they’ll find my bones, like an old cow left to die in the paddock. What will you say then? Then you’ll be sorry.’
‘If you want to blame someone, Dave, blame Luther. This whole mess started with him, him and that Corally Shaw.’ Lily sniffed. ‘How ludicrous, trying to protect her honour and thinking that maiming the baker’s boy was the only way to do it. I’m beginning to think I should have let Luther be sent away to reform school.’ Beads of sweat sprinkled his mother’s top lip. ‘I see you’ve picked up your brother’s tendencies towards insolence, and I must tell you, my lad, it is a most unattractive trait.’
Sunset Ridge Page 17
