‘Shame about those poor boys running away.’
‘Young rascal; that boy should have been sent to reform school.’
‘You’re better off with us, love, with your own kind, eh?’
‘That’s what happens when a man lets his wife make the decisions.’
‘Don’t mind them,’ a portly woman commented.
‘Guid morning, how are ye?’
‘Good, my dear.’ Mrs Marchant introduced herself and signed the ledger on receipt of her parcels. ‘Not much happens in the village and any gossip takes people’s minds off things.’ She handed over a package wrapped in pre-used brown paper and string. The word ‘France’ was written in a bold hand.
Catherine positioned the scales and sat the parcel in the weighing pan hanging beneath the beam. In the opposite pan she placed weights until the scales balanced. She checked the postage cost in a tattered book. There was a special section for overseas deliveries, with the required postage for the AIF and the locations for troops stationed abroad underlined in pencil.
‘My Joseph’s been there for nearly six months, and not a scratch. I put it down to my prayers at night and the weekly parcels I send him. It’s not much, sometimes a nip of rum or new socks. “Can’t get enough socks, Mum,” he tells me, bless him. But this time I made a fruitcake. Wrapped up good and tight, it is. Made the mixture real dense and sticky and added some extra rum to keep the chill out. It will be winter over there soon. Nasty time in them northern places.’
‘Well, I’m sure he will enjoy it, Mrs Marchant.’ Catherine dabbed the stamps on a dampened sponge and stuck them on the paper. ‘My fiancé, Rodger, has gone to enlist,’ she revealed. Her cheeks pinked up as she stamped the parcel.
The older woman stilled Catherine’s hand with her own. ‘I’ll pray for him.’ And with a kindly smile the portly woman was gone.
When a lull in business finally came, Catherine listened to the soft metallic beeps sounding from the telegraph office while she stared at the neat labelling above each pigeonhole lining the wall. The area was divided into two sections: Banyan residents and those who lived beyond the town limits. Each section was arranged alphabetically, and each square represented a business and family; each slot a microcosm of joy and sadness, life and death, hope and despair. Telling Mrs Marchant, albeit briefly, about Rodger had loosened something within her. It was the first time Catherine had spoken of him in a personal manner and it reminded her that there was no confidante in her life, no close friend.
She thought of the funeral cards that were sitting in the bottom of one of the mailbags and of Mrs Marchant’s parcel bound for France. Catherine had no doubt that boys from her home village in Scotland would have enlisted, but with no cordial relations existing with what remained of her relatives she would never know which of those families were affected. Today was the first time she had been confronted with the actualities of war, with the women left behind to pray and hope. More importantly, Catherine realised that she was now one of those women. If she had ever wanted to crawl into a hole and wait out the war in desperate isolation, she had chosen the wrong occupation. The post office was the centre of life – and particularly of all things pertaining to the war – in Banyan. At the thought of Rodger and the Harrow boys, Catherine clutched the counter for support. Perhaps Mrs Dempsey was correct. Maybe she had been oblivious.
At day’s end Catherine walked outside into a stifling heat. A handful of horse-drawn drays shuffled impatiently in the street, while at the far end of the dirt road the Banyan Hotel was ringed by horse-drawn vehicles. Dabbing at the perspiration on her brow, Catherine crossed the street to the single Box tree and sat beneath its shade. The street was quiet, the leaden heat forcing everyone indoors. Spirals of dust floated down the middle of the road as she wished for a zephyr of air to rustle the leaves overhead. Catherine felt like a fool, burdened by a dislocated life; a girl at odds with her family; a governess without a governess position and three charges who had run away. Worst of all, she had kissed her lover goodbye, and surely sent him to his death.
‘Hello.’
A winsome young girl stood before her. Catherine absorbed the dated skirt and blouse, both carrying the remnants of old stains. ‘Do we know each other?’ she asked the girl, who had a fine woollen shawl tied absently about her waist.
‘Well, maybe if you’ve been to the Banyan Show, you might have seen me there.’
Catherine placed a hand to her chest. ‘Corally Shaw, of course.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not really myself today.’
The girl inclined her head to one side. ‘Out of sorts, are you?’
‘Yes, I guess ye could call it that.’
‘You were the one that taught Luther and Dave, weren’t you?’
‘And Thaddeus for a time, yes.’
Corally bit her lip. ‘Have you heard from them? I mean, I know they’ve run away from home and all, but do you know where they’ve gone?’
The girl looked as if she could burst into tears at any moment.
‘No, no I don’t.’
The girl wiped at her nose with the back of a hand. ‘I thought you might have heard something. That’s why I waited. My pa told me you were working here now and I figured if there was anything to know, well you’d know it; especially with handling the mail and all.’
‘I wish I did.’
The girl eyed Catherine for a good few seconds. She was clear-skinned with extraordinarily coloured eyes that instantly reminded Catherine of the sea. Some would think her beyond pretty, and for a moment Catherine almost understood Luther’s rash act of chivalry.
‘Do you know why Dave left?’ The girl’s voice was velvety, almost a caress. ‘Was it really because his parents locked him up and beat him?’
‘I dinna know.’ The gossips had been busy. Catherine stood and began walking back to the boarding house.
‘How can you not know? You lived out there,’ the girl countered.
‘I was only the governess,’ Catherine replied. Guilt made her wary.
‘So, one minute all the boys were at Sunset Ridge and then they were gone,’ Corally stated simply. ‘So, they didn’t tell anyone out there what they were up to?’
‘No.’
‘Dave would have been too young to join up, wouldn’t he?’ Corally asked, matching Catherine’s measured walk as she headed absently down the street.
‘I would have thought so,’ Catherine agreed. ‘But from what I hear the British government is desperate for volunteers, so I dinna know. He may have gone.’
Corally tucked her arm through Catherine’s. The familiarity surprised the older woman yet she was quietly grateful for the companionship. ‘I have this letter, you see. It’s from Harold Lawrence. We was promised, but now Mr Lawrence tells me that Harold’s gone to war and that it’s my fault on account of the fact that he couldn’t face his parents after he’d been bold with me.’
‘Bold with ye? Ye and Harold were engaged?’
The girl stiffened and pulled her arm free.
She hadn’t meant to sound surprised. However, the little Catherine knew of Harold Lawrence, based on his frequent visits to Sunset Ridge, suggested that not only would the boy be wasted in an ironmongery, but he could do far better than a girl such as Corally Shaw.
‘I thought you’d be different,’ Corally said flatly.
‘I apologise. I didn’t realise Harold was outing with anybody.’ The girl had a defiant look about her, one that reminded Catherine of Luther. ‘What were ye going to show me?’
Corally was not one to be so easily fooled. ‘You’re not so much older than me, you know, and being a governess doesn’t make you better.’
‘I never said it did.’ Catherine guessed she was a good five or six years older than the girl, although Corally did seem to have a confidence beyond her years.
The girl appeared to weigh up
both Catherine’s answer and whatever quandary that had led her to seek the older woman out. ‘Come on.’ She led Catherine down the alleyway, the lingering scent of smoke hanging in the air as they passed the blacksmith to cross the dirt track that bordered the Banyan River. A slight breeze drifted up from the waterway as the girl wove through the trees, her clothing merging with the dull browns of the bush. Catherine lifted her skirts as she skittered across the sloping ground in pursuit. Finally they arrived at a clearing part-way down the bank of the river. Catherine’s heels slipped in the leaf litter as she caught glimpses of Corally through the trees. She came to a sliding stop against the thick trunk of a tree.
‘Here will do,’ Corally announced, sitting in the leaves and dirt beneath a shady tree. She patted the sandy earth by her side, flicking at the ants trundling across the dry ground. ‘It’s about the coolest spot, and apart from the ants there’s nothing that bites, unless a snake appears.’
Dabbing at the sweat on her upper lip, Catherine sank to the ground.
‘The thing is, I reckon Harold hasn’t gone anywhere, on account of the fact he promised he’d see me this week and he’s always been true that way, you know, saying something and meaning it and he said nothing to me about going to the war straightaway.’ The girl unfolded the letter carefully. ‘I have a friend. Her name’s Julie, but I didn’t want her to know what was going on.’
‘Why ever not? That’s what friends are for.’ The girl didn’t answer. ‘Don’t ye trust her?’ Catherine asked.
Corally considered the question. ‘Well, this is important. I couldn’t risk asking anyone in town about Harold because they might run and tell his parents and all hell would break loose.’ She glanced at Catherine. ‘Sorry about the blaspheming. Anyway, most of the folks around here think they’re hoity-toity and they ain’t got time for the likes of me.’
Catherine was loath to agree. Unfortunately, she had seen clearly how well developed the class system was in the Banyan district. The property owners were king, followed by the shop owners, while domestics, pastoral workers and shop staff had their own pyramid of importance that firmly placed the poor and the unemployed at the bottom. Catherine had seen the distinct have-and-have-not attitude at its worst during Luther’s trial.
Corally smoothed a letter gently across her knee. ‘The thing is, when I heard that you’d left the Harrow place and come to live in town I figured you’d be the one to ask on account of you being a governess and all and not being –’ Corally chewed the words over, ‘one of them.’ She nodded towards the village. ‘Or them,’ she finished, gesturing over the river.
‘I see.’
‘Do you?’
Catherine knew that she had been found wanting, and shame flooded her cheeks.
Almost reluctantly Corally passed her the letter. ‘I can’t read,’ she admitted, her gaze directed at the sloping river bank and the curl of water below.
The paper was water-stained, the words smeared. Holding the note to the light, Catherine studied the curve of the writing until letters formed into a semblance of understanding and most words could be deciphered.
‘Tell me.’ The girl pulled her knees to her chin, her face open and eager. ‘I reckon he’s out bush and that the letter has directions to join him.’
‘It’s badly damaged. I can’t make out some of the words.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the girl answered in a rush of enthusiasm. ‘Just whatever you can read, it’ll be enough.’
Catherine began.
My dear Corally,
My father is against our union. Although I tried to persuade him, he remains adamant. He talks of water finding its own level. You and I know different, and it’s the knowing which counts in the end.
I have decided to enlist immediately. I believe in doing one’s duty for the Empire and so I join the great struggle. It’s long been on my mind as you know and now I see war as a means to an end. Soldiers make money and with the war heading into its third year I can’t possibly see how it could last much longer.
So my question . . . will you marry me tomorrow? Once we are joined and I’m at war . . . well, simply put, it will be too late. We have talked of this briefly and without the benefit of our parents’ consent, but believe me I would be ever so proud to have you by my side.
Meet me at dawn tomorrow at the Presbyterian Church. I have spoken to the Reverend and he has agreed to marry us at first light. Should we not be joined by the time I ride northwards mid-morning tomorrow, I will assume that you do not feel as I do. In that case I miss you, I want to wish you a grand life.
Yours,
H
The letter was warm in Catherine’s hand, the girl’s eyes moist.
‘Is that all?’ Corally whispered.
‘Yes.’ Catherine refolded the letter.
Tears slid down the girl’s cheeks. Picking up a stick she tossed it towards the river. The branch wavered in the sand before falling on its side.
‘Would ye like me to re-read it?’ Catherine offered. Instead, the girl retrieved the note and tucked it into a skirt pocket. ‘How long have ye had the letter?’ It dawned on Catherine that ‘tomorrow’ had probably come and gone. ‘Corally?’ The girl’s right hand curled and uncurled itself.
‘Too long.’ She gave a muffled sob.
‘Och, I am sorry.’ What else could she say? It was bad enough kissing your lover goodbye and sending him off to war, but for a man to leave on such terms and for the girl who loved him to suffer so terribly . . . ‘Ye could write to him, Corally, care of the Australian Imperial Forces, and explain what happened. If he has enlisted the letter would find him eventually.’
‘How?’ Corally sniffed. ‘I can’t read and I can’t write.’
A green-and-yellow bird settled in a branch above them. It tweeted prettily, causing both women to trace its movements among the foliage.
Catherine considered the young girl’s plight. ‘I could help ye.’
The two women shared a conspiratorial smile.
Verdun, France
Late October 1916
Francois opened his eyes to a steel-grey sky and a blurred landscape of dark, uneven shapes. Movement caught his attention and he reached for the rifle by his side. His hand scrabbled air and he sucked in a painful breath. It was as if something were astride his chest, pushing his body downwards into the after-world. There was no rifle by his side, no bayonet, nothing. The thought of lying unarmed in the muddy debris of the battlefield filled him with dread. Saliva caught in his throat. He tried desperately to work it forward but even the muscles in his mouth were against him. He was so thirsty. His tongue felt overly large, too large to moisten his cracked lips. The pain struck at him as if a knife. Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was him? Maybe his body was lying in two in the muck that was Verdun and his brain was yet to comprehend the inevitability of his destruction. Could he will death before comprehension came to him?
There it was again: the same flicker of movement. ‘Germans,’ Francois mouthed, clenching his teeth against another rippling sting. They must be Germans approaching. He had heard that the Red Cross had access to the German hospitals; maybe he would be captured and sent for medical treatment behind enemy lines. It was the best he could hope for. He lay perfectly still. It was possible that the Germans would pass him by. It was possible that his own men would find him. He needed to scream. A terrible throbbing tore at his body causing his limbs to shudder and his brain to float into the ether. Images flickered like a kaleidoscope merging horror with snatches of life before the war; the trickling stream, the curl of smoke above the farmhouse, the broad shoulders of his father that he once rode as a child.
Breath wheezed in and out of his lungs. What had happened? Francois wondered. How did he come to be lying out here? He could only recall fragments: night, cold, the wet slick of water, or was it blood? There had been a burst of artillery
and then he had fallen. His arms were outstretched to break the impact but instead he toppled over and over. He was a boy again, having tumbling competitions with Antoine. Over and over the two of them rolled, their parents sitting in the dappled light beneath the willow trees, laughing in delight.
The pain throbbed and pushed and pulled as if a living being.
Antoine. He had ventured out one more time to look for his brother. What had Francois been thinking, running out across no-man’s land while the shells flew overhead? When the whistle sounded from the trench it was too late to turn back and so he had continued onwards, a lone man leading a futile attack.
Francois expected the Germans to be on him at any minute. He guessed that if it came to the worst he could still stab one of them with his dagger, if he could find it. He was cold now, very cold. Above, planes flew overhead, their engines threatening him with a growling whirr, and all around the noise of the shelling continued. When the pain came again he screamed.
‘Next.’ The male voice was harassed yet firm.
A blur of people moved back and forth. Beyond them the flapping sides of a large marquee opened out onto lines of tents and rows of prone soldiers, and still the roar of battle hummed in his ears.
‘I really can’t see the point of taking up valuable ambulance space with these cases. I’m sure the main dressing stations just don’t want to deal with the dying.’
‘Shush up, Nurse, this one’s conscious. And wipe that M off his forehead. He was one of the lucky ones to receive morphine. Most have to manage with opiates.’
As if a bystander, Francois watched as his muddy tunic was cut open and his chest was prodded. A man and a woman stood over him. One wore a Red Cross armband.
‘I don’t think we’ll be able to manage them all, Doctor, there are too many.’
Sunset Ridge Page 22
