Sunset Ridge

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisette, what did you say?’

  ‘Last Sunday Mama and Papa were talking about Christmas.’

  The older woman frowned. Everyone, it seemed, was talking of holidays. ‘We are yet part-way through November.’

  ‘It’s good to have something to look forward to,’ Lisette persevered. ‘I was asking if you will be joining us to celebrate Noël? Mama and Papa insist. First we will walk to the village to celebrate midnight mass and then we will have such a celebratory supper. Oh, I love that time of year.’

  ‘I don’t think so. What if Antoine and Francois return home and find the farmhouse empty? What if a thief should steal the last of the chickens or the sow or –’ Madame Chessy stopped herself. Lisette was clearly disappointed. ‘You do understand?’ she said more gently. ‘Please thank your parents, but I must be here.’

  ‘But it’s a celebration,’ Lisette insisted. ‘The little ones place their shoes on the hearth for Father Christmas to fill. Papa has promised escargots and Mama is going to make a little foie gras from wild duck.’

  Madame tried to smile. ‘I am past broaching the cold at mid­night, Lisette.’

  ‘But, Madame, it’s a celebration,’ Lisette repeated dejectedly.

  Above the stove Christ on his fractured wooden cross stared vacantly into space. ‘Not for everyone,’ Madame Chessy replied.

  A knock on the farmhouse door stilled further argument.

  Madame Chessy lifted her palms upwards in annoyance. ‘So, once again the cow, hens and my little pig will have to share their space with soldiers. This time we must tell them that the barn must be cleaned out and the hay burned before they leave.’

  Lisette nodded intently, causing her hair to come loose from its ribbon. ‘Yes, Madame. Last time it was terrible. The fleas were so bad all the animals suffered.’ Her fingers scratched her arm automatically.

  ‘And only eggs and potatoes are for sale, no other produce,’ the older woman waggled a finger, ‘alive or dead.’ Lisette had fancied a young British private billeted with them last month and came close to being coerced into parting with a round of their precious cheese before Madame Chessy intervened.

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  The rap of knuckles on wood sounded again. Madame Chessy looked out the window. ‘Coming, coming,’ she replied sternly. ‘It’s nearly dark,’ she called out, crossing the short distance. Sliding the bolt on the door, she opened it just a little. A blast of cold air swept into the cramped room.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Lisette asked, walking forward.

  Madame Chessy staggered backwards, her progress halted by the kitchen table.

  Father Benet dipped his chin apologetically, stepped inside and closed the door.

  Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia

  November 1916

  The front door slammed. Lily rose from her mending as G.W. strode through the homestead, leaving a trail of mud in his wake. Flinging open the door of the sitting room, he marched to the shelving that housed their library, his filthy hands coming to rest on the Harrow family bible.

  Lily followed her husband into the room. ‘My dear, your boots.’

  Unhearing, he selected the large leather-bound book and thumped it down on the oval table in the middle of the room. The vibration rattled the porcelain knick-knacks and tipped over the crystal specimen vase with its single native flower within. Water seeped across the table.

  ‘Eight hours we have been out in the paddock. Eight hours in this abominable heat.’ Dragging a chair to the table, he sat heavily.

  ‘Please, my dear, don’t distress yourself so.’

  ‘We are stretched beyond capacity. There are sheep bogged in dams, sheep that need to be mustered in and checked for flystrike.’

  Lily lifted her skirts above the dirt on the floor. ‘Let me get you some water.’ Mud reached to G.W.’s thighs and splattered his torso and arms. As the heat slowly crusted it, tiny pieces flaked from the clothing onto the floor and table.

  ‘I have the books to balance and accounts that require payment. And what am I doing? Wading in mud and filth while your sons gallivant about the countryside, shirking their duty to the family business.’ Pointing a mud-caked finger, G.W. snarled at her. ‘This is your fault. I never should have allowed you to sway my decision regarding Luther.’ He slammed a fist on the table. ‘He should have gone to reform school, and the others with him.’ He unlatched the silver hinge and opened the bible. ‘Instead I allowed you and your mollycoddling ways to interfere.’

  Lily grew alarmed. The man before her was turning purple and a large vein on the side of his neck was pulsating and increasing in size.

  ‘Painting and pianos indeed, woman. You birthed boys, not the weaker sex. Mark my words, Lily: it will be the first and the last time you meddle in family business. Do you hear me?’

  Lily backed away from the harsh tone. ‘I understand that you are upset, my dear, but please remember that our sons cannot be blamed for the season or for our lack of staff. The war has brought many changes and –’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me!’ G.W. shouted. ‘Those boys ran away with scant regard for anybody except their own misplaced sense of injustice. Who did they think was going to work this place in their absence – you?’ Reaching inside his jacket, G.W. withdrew a notepad, which he threw on the floor before locating a stubby pencil.

  ‘What are you doing, G.W.?’ Lily took a step closer to the table. The bible was open on the first page of the substantial Harrow family tree. Dirty fingerprints smeared the page.

  ‘Seven generations,’ he muttered. ‘Seven generations and we’ve come to this.’ He met Lily’s horrified stare. ‘I should have chosen more carefully,’ he announced. ‘Clearly our blood was not meant to mix.’ Turning to the last page of entries, G.W. lifted the pencil and drew a thick black line through each of his sons’ names.

  Lily mouthed a silent o.

  With the obliteration complete, he closed the bible, snapped shut the finely etched silver latch and pushed the book aside.

  Seconds later he fell to the floor.

  Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia

  February 1917

  Lily rested the rifle butt on the veranda. The barrel was cool to touch, a distinct contrast to the heat of her husband’s shoulder. ‘G.W.,’ she whispered through clenched teeth, shaking him. There was drool at the corner of his mouth. ‘G.W.,’ she said more firmly, ‘we have a visitor.’

  The man in question was sitting astride a horse beyond the back gate. It was difficult to decipher where the rider finished and the animal began, such was the paraphernalia that hung from man and beast alike.

  ‘What’s the matter with him, then?’ The man’s voice was deep, his physique nuggety. A long beard and moustache covered part of his face, a wide-brimmed hat the rest. Lily noted a swag, two rifles, a quart pot, saddle-bags and a stockwhip.

  ‘Nothing is wrong with him.’ Lily’s fingers gripped the cold steel of the barrel as the stranger dismounted.

  ‘Right, and the Hun have all been beat and the war is over.’ Unlatching the gate, the stranger crunched dirt beneath cracked boots.

  Lily lifted the rifle as the man continued towards her. Although aged in appearance, he walked energetically. ‘Who are you?’ The rifle bolt slid into place with a metallic click.

  ‘Don’t get uppity, missus.’ He raised a palm against the rifle’s aim. ‘The boss there employed me to look after his cattle.’

  Lily lowered the rifle, just a little. Her husband was asleep.

  The man propped a boot on the edge of the veranda, the movement dislodging myriad smells including grass, horse sweat, cow manure and camp smoke. ‘If you put the rifle down I’ll be thinking you don’t mean no harm.’

  The glint of sunlight on a silver spur distracted Lily. ‘I think I’l
l leave it be for now. What’s your name?’

  ‘Taylor.’ He scratched at his beard. ‘You here by yourself?’ His eyes swept briefly over Lily before returning with interest to his employer.

  ‘No. I have Cook and a maid.’

  The man’s eyes skimmed the homestead. ‘What about men? Who’s running the place?’

  Lily lifted her chin.

  ‘Well, I’m here ’cause I’m out of supplies.’ He paused as if expecting argument. ‘No one forgets supplies unless there’s a problem, and it looks like you’ve got one.’

  Lily finally lowered the rifle. ‘Heavens, supplies. I’m sorry.’

  The stranger appeared relieved. ‘Well, I figured something was up.’ He nodded at the weapon dangling in her hand. ‘You might want to uncock that thing.’

  Lily’s brow wrinkled as she slid the bolt back. ‘My husband would hardly forget such a thing normally; unfortunately, he’s not been himself since . . .’

  Taylor tipped his hat back to reveal a white forehead untouched by the sun. ‘Since his boys cleared out?’ He raised a hand for silence. ‘One of your station hands told me. How many men have you actually got left, missus?’

  ‘Enough.’

  He twirled a hat between thick fingers. ‘Look, I can walk out of here tomorrow as well, if you like. By my reckoning that will leave you with one boundary rider.’

  Lily met his unblinking gaze. Her predicament was painfully obvious. Either she trusted this unsavoury-looking individual or wake in the morning with not a soul left to run their vast holding.

  Slowly, his crinkled-eyed frown smoothed. ‘Might be worthwhile advertising for an extra couple of stockmen. Do you reckon you could do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lily agreed slowly, letting the rifle barrel rest on the veranda.

  ‘And station stores? Who’s in charge?’

  Lily pressed her lips together.

  ‘I ain’t here to steal, missus.’

  ‘Cook has the keys,’ Lily relented.

  ‘Well, if you’re willing, I’ll double-check what’s there and make out a list of requirements.’

  ‘Very well, as you seem intent on assistance.’

  ‘Has a doctor seen him?’ He nodded at G.W., whose face was flaccid.

  ‘No. That is, yes, some weeks ago. Melancholy was diagnosed.’

  ‘Looks to me to be a bit more than that.’

  Lily ignored the inference. She was hardly going to sprout forth that her husband’s stroke had rendered him incapable of managing Sunset Ridge. If word got out that there was a female on a remote property with not the slightest idea of how to run it, well, who knew what could befall her? ‘Where are you from, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Nathanial Taylor is the name.’ He gestured vaguely northwards. ‘I was thinking of enlisting, except they turned me down not two year ago because I’m flat-footed. Now they say a man nearing his fifties is too old to fight. Lucky for me your husband needed an extra hand.’

  Nathanial Taylor was the most objectionable individual Lily had laid eyes on. The red dirt of the bush appeared embedded in his skin, hair and clothing and he stank as only the long-unwashed can. Yet he was an older man, which was something of a comfort, and he clearly knew enough to have been hired by her husband. A thought came to her. ‘Mr Taylor, would you be interested in taking over the management of Sunset Ridge while my husband recuperates?’ The rashness of her offer was tempered only by the quick, if temporary, solution the stranger presented.

  Turning on his heel, he surveyed the land. It was a hot, dry day, one that didn’t inspire confidence. Lily felt the familiar pang of exhaustion at the back of her eyelids. She was beyond coping. It was all she could do to get her husband out of bed and dressed every day, and even then G.W. ranted and complained until he had staggered out onto the veranda and resumed his vigil.

  Taylor faced her. ‘I reckon I could be of service to you,’ he replied. ‘Have you heard from your boys?’

  Lily bit the inside of her cheek. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll set up camp, then.’ He touched his hat, turned and walked down the gravel path.

  ‘Well, we have a manager,’ Lily advised her sleeping husband as Taylor led his horse away by the reins. Although there were chores to attend to, a slip of white cloud hanging forlornly in the west held her attention. Lily remained convinced that somewhere on the other side of the world her errant boys were staring at a different sky. In desperation she had written to the Lawrences late last year in the hope of news. The ensuing terse note informed her only that Harold had enlisted, and on the strength of her children’s friendship with the Lawrences’ son, she guessed that they too had joined up. So, she wrote to them care of the Australian Imperial Forces and prayed they would reply. She wrote to them weekly, her words never varying. Although bitter at the selfishness of their leaving, she craved news of them, especially of her youngest, and she begged God nightly for a reply. Everything – the property, her future, G.W.’s health – depended on her sons. They simply had to survive.

  ‘Camped out on the flat, he is, like a blackfella. Got all his gear circling him as if he expects someone’s going to steal it in the dead of night.’ Cook mashed the potato uninterestedly. ‘I don’t know, Mrs Harrow. It just don’t seem right, a man like that camping in the middle of the paddock, especially if he’s going to be running things, for a while at least.’

  Lily sat her husband’s partially eaten meal on the kitchen table. Nathanial Taylor had been camped in the house paddock for three weeks and the only time she had seen evidence of Sunset Ridge’s new manager was when he returned to the campsite at dusk. A spiral of smoke silhouetted against the reddening sky signalled his existence. On the plus side, the stranger’s presence had led Cook to consume the monthly supply of cooking sherry in three days, rendering the woman grumpy yet a touch more amenable to direction.

  ‘Of course, he’s a hard worker,’ Cook commented, ‘and he knows his stores, to be sure. Had the store house itemised within the hour. But, a man like that, well, you never know who they are or where they’ve come from.’ Cook tapped the side of her nose. ‘Or what they’ve done; if you get my meaning, Mrs Harrow.’ Cook spooned the lumpy potato beside the cold cuts of meat. ‘Down on his luck and all, looking like he does. I’ve been keeping the locks oiled and the windows bolted.’

  ‘I don’t believe that my husband would have employed Mr Taylor if he weren’t capable,’ Lily replied. ‘But I agree he can’t continue to sleep under the stars. It’s not as if we can’t accommodate him.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, missus, but where are you going to put him up?’

  Lily wiped splatters of potato from her blouse. G.W.’s frustration at his inability to hold a knife was growing worse. ‘The governess quarters.’

  ‘What? Just there? Not a wink and a step from me?’

  ‘Yes, Cook, just there,’ Lily answered, walking out onto the veranda. ‘There is little point employing a manager and having him camping out on the flat. I need to know what he’s doing every day. I need to be able to keep an eye on him.’

  Cook shook her head. ‘It’s more than likely,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘he’ll be keeping an eye on us.’

  Lily left the homestead and walked across the featureless house paddock as daylight began to slip over the horizon. She thought that dusk probably wasn’t the time for a social call. However, with no opportunity over the past week to discuss things with Taylor, there was little alternative. Oblivious to the red dirt gathering on the hem of her skirt, Lily headed directly to the clump of trees in the middle of the paddock. The countryside was strangely quiet. In the dwindling daylight a mob of sheep were feeding in the distance. With the resident top-knot pigeons, willie wagtails and soldier birds settled for the evening, a baker’s dozen of kangaroos bounding across the dry dirt of the property was the only sign of life. Lily breathed in the heat that shrouded
her every step and tried not to think about tomorrow. She had enough to contend with just getting through each day.

  A thin line of smoke crept into the air, marking the spot where Sunset Ridge’s manager camped. Lifting her skirts, Lily crisscrossed the grass and fallen timber until the smell of smoke and roasting meat directed her through the trees. The camp spot was deserted. Two horses whickered softly as they grazed nearby, while mounds of gear and supplies, intermingled with stacked logs, circled the fire. The manmade embankment almost resembled a defensive position. The fire was hot and an indecipherable chunk of meat was sizzling in a battered skillet. Lily surveyed the site for some minutes wondering what to do next. On closer inspection, she saw that the unfurled swag was neat in appearance and a book lay in the dirt to one side. Somehow, this link with the world of the educated unsettled her. She sighed irritably, and turned to leave.

  ‘Yes?’

  The man in question was but a foot behind her.

  ‘Must you sneak up on a person like that?’ Lily retorted, quite undone by not only Taylor’s sudden appearance but by his shirtless torso.

  ‘I’m camping here,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re the one doing the sneaking.’ He brushed past her. ‘Ever thought of knocking?’

  Disconcerted by his reproach, Lily stepped clear of the smoke, which he appeared to fan in her direction. ‘I wanted to ask how things were going.’

  He sat on a fallen log, one knee bent, the other leg flung out before him in the dirt so that the holey sole of a leather boot was visible. ‘Well then, ask.’

  She was sure that their conversation should not be conducted like this, she standing awkwardly and he partly unclothed and squatting in the dirt. With difficulty she recalled the garbled conversation she and G.W. had attempted to share. In the end, forced to make good with single words and confused snippets, she had decided on her own list of instructions, most of which were based on the information G.W. had chosen to share with her over previous years. ‘I’m concerned about the waterholes, if there is sufficient –’