Sonia pressed her lips together in thought. ‘Sunset Ridge is not the best property in the district, Madeleine. Your father took on something he was not born and bred to because he loved your mother, and your mother made the best choices she could at the time. You should be proud of both of them.’
‘I am,’ Madeleine answered. She had already telephoned Jude and explained what she had learned about David Harrow over the past few days. Discussing her father proved to be more difficult, although by the end of the conversation her mother had sounded relieved and they’d parted on good terms.
Sonia looked around the bedroom. ‘George tells me you’re leaving soon.’ The housekeeper sat the bag and box on the end of the unmade bed.
‘It was meant to be this morning.’ Madeleine glanced at her watch. ‘I guess I lost track of the time.’ She eyed the bag and box on her bed. ‘You’re going?’
‘For the moment,’ Sonia told her. ‘I told your brother that I would stay on for another couple of days each week but he wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘That was generous of you.’ Madeleine thought it interesting that the housekeeper considered the job loss to be temporary.
‘Well, there have always been Jacksons at Sunset Ridge.’
Madeleine began to shuffle papers. ‘So I’ve been told.’
‘George tells me the exhibition probably won’t go ahead.’
‘It is looking doubtful, which is really disappointing. I’ve just received an email from another owner of one of Grandfather’s landscape paintings confirming that they are happy to loan the work for the exhibition. Now I’m going to have to contact everyone and tell them it’s on hold.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘What I don’t understand is why some people around here don’t want to see any form of commemorative event in recognition of Grandfather’s art.’
Sonia sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Am I right in assuming Horatio Cummins is against the idea? Wait, don’t answer that, Madeleine. Just tell me: why do you want the exhibition to go ahead?’
‘It was my mother’s idea. When she first asked me to investigate the possibility of a retrospective I didn’t want to be involved. I couldn’t see the point. Not when all those beautiful paintings, his legacy, were sold decades earlier and scattered across the globe. I was bitter, I guess. I spent three years at university with lecturers and classmates who were amazed I never knew him and also equally stunned at my lack of artistic talent, so for a time I was also angry at Grandfather, misplaced though it was. I wonder now if I haven’t just been angry with everyone since my father’s death, especially Dad.’
‘But why do you want the retrospective to go ahead now?’
Madeleine thought about the letter forwarded to the Stepworth Gallery; of Jude’s desire for recognition for her father; and of George and Rachael’s varied reasons. ‘I never knew him, and this will sound strange, but I miss not knowing him. Maybe I just want to believe that my grandfather was a great man.’ Madeleine tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘No, it’s more than that. I know he was a great man.’
‘Go on,’ Sonia enticed.
‘Being here, looking at the property through his eyes, I’m intrigued by what he drew from his surroundings. I don’t find it a very inspiring place and yet he found beauty in it. He loved Sunset Ridge, and you can see that devotion in his landscapes. He loved it in such a pure, almost religious way, and it’s that respect, that love that shines through in his work. Every twist in the river, every scent, every streaky golden dawn – my grandfather saw it, loved it and rendered it real for the world. I’m proud of him and in awe of his talent, and I’m just beginning to understand a little of his life, and somehow I think it was sad.’ Madeleine cleared her throat. ‘Then there’s my professional opinion. We have a number of sketches now, which I’m sure George has told you about?’
Sonia nodded. ‘Yes, he has.’
‘I still think there’s more of his work. There has to be more. I’ve even advertised in local French newspapers in the hope that someone may have one of his drawings tucked away following his time in France. When I think of Grandfather’s known body of work I feel the depth of his ability, his emotion, his struggle, and still I return to the beginning, to the sketches hanging in my mother’s apartment. This is the artist who piques my interest, the young man at the beginning of a career whose simple view of the world was limited to boys sitting on a river bank. These two early charcoal works suggest an artistic ability rare in one so young and they speak to me far more than the celebrated forty pieces that can be found on any serious landscape collector’s wish list.’ She glanced out of the bedroom window, stirred by her own emotion. ‘I understand form and composition, art history and acquisition, and I firmly believe that had my grandfather’s developing years not been cut short by the war, his work may well have developed into something unique. The two Cubist pieces I discovered are proof of this, but I don’t have enough material to convince the Stepworth Gallery to exhibit his work. And, Sonia, Grandfather deserves an exhibition, he really does.’
Sonia patted her hand. ‘I think you’ll find that there are a few people around here who agree with you, my dear. Not everyone is against honouring your grandfather’s life and work.’
‘Maybe not,’ Madeleine frowned, ‘but I’m not getting very far.’
‘Sheila Marchant is the descendent of a Mrs Ruth Marchant whose son died in the Great War. She was bequeathed two paintings by her great-aunt, who apparently became good friends with Catherine Waites, your grandfather’s governess.’
‘Miss C.!’ Madeleine gripped Sonia’s hand. ‘That’s the initial on the invoice. Where is she? Can you help me find her?’
‘Yes, my dear. I gave her a lift out here. She’s in the kitchen.’
Sheila Marchant sat at the kitchen table, her hand resting protectively over a ratty old blanket that was wrapped around an oblong object. She was a slight woman, aged in her fifties, with manicured nails and a mousy brown bob that suited her oval face. Madeleine noticed the white shirt-dress yet barely heard the introductions Sonia gave. Her attention kept returning to the rust-coloured blanket. Finally the housekeeper cleared her throat a couple of times and then pulled out a chair so Madeleine could sit down.
‘Where’s George?’ Madeleine asked. ‘He should be here.’
‘I really can’t wait, Madeleine.’ Sheila lit a cigarette, glossy pink lipstick leaving an imprint on the filter. ‘I explained to Sonia that I have to be back at the bank in a couple of hours.’
‘Thank you so much for coming. You don’t know how important this is to my family.’
Sheila took a number of long puffs of the cigarette and smiled when Sonia produced an ashtray for her. ‘I have a fair idea, Madeleine. If I had someone gifted in my family, I’d want people to know too.’
Madeleine beamed. ‘May I?’ she asked, gesturing to the blanket.
Sheila stubbed out the cigarette and brushed her hands together. ‘That’s what I’m here for. I should tell you first that one of them is damaged. It came to me that way.’ Unwrapping the blanket, she positioned the two paintings side by side. In matching gilt frames, both were under glass, slightly faded and marked by the odd insect spot. ‘The names are on the back of the mounts,’ Sheila explained. ‘This first one is entitled Then, the other, Now. Your grandfather even wrote a description on the back of each. That’s his governess, Miss Waites, who ended up working at the Banyan Post Office after the Harrow boys went to war.’
Madeleine looked gratefully at Sheila, lost for words, and then turned her attention back to her grandfather’s work. The first showed Miss Waites positioned in front of the blackboard in the Sunset Ridge schoolroom. She was an attractive woman, her slight figure accentuated by a long blue dress with puffed shoulders. Her blonde hair was upswept and there was somewhat of a beatific, Botticelli-inspired smile on her face. Scattered on the sch
oolroom floor were curled pieces of paper that appeared to be covered with drawings. The governess’s lone student, a young David Harrow, was depicted in profile. Although appearing to be listening to Miss Waites, his attention was drawn to the view beyond the schoolhouse window, the Banyan River and two figures, presumably his older brothers.
The second work was painted using the same mediums as the first, yet there all similarity ended. Where the first work radiated an almost dreamy quality, this one was stark. The governess wore a light-brown dress and sat stiffly in a chair by a window. Although her hair fell loose about her shoulders, she had become plainer, perhaps a more genuine version of the real person. A letter lay on her lap, while an envelope gave the appearance of having just been dropped to the ground. Outside the window stood David Harrow in a heavy overcoat. He appeared to be looking straight past the governess, a pained expression adding age and gravity to the face of an otherwise good-looking young man. On the left-hand corner of the painting a section had been torn away, leaving a pair of women’s lace-up boots as the only hint to what may have been painted there.
‘My mother says that your grandfather is wearing his army-issue great coat in that painting. As for the part that’s missing, no one in my family has any idea who it might have been.’
‘These are incredible. How did you come by them?’ Madeleine asked.
‘They were part of my great-aunt’s estate and she left them to my brother. Harry passed away a couple of years ago and he willed them to me.’ Sheila accepted Sonia’s offer of coffee and lit another cigarette. ‘I only came back to the district to go through Harry’s things, but I liked the place and decided to stay. Anyway, I dug these two paintings out of the spare room a couple of days ago. Some of the bank’s customers have been talking about the possibility of a David Harrow exhibition and that’s what reminded me about these pictures.’
‘They’re marvellous,’ Madeleine told her. ‘Do you know anything else about them?’
Sheila took a sip of the black coffee Sonia handed her. ‘Only what Mum told me yesterday. A few garbled stories have been passed down through the family. Whether there’s any truth to them is another matter. One story is that Miss Waites died of a broken heart; another is that she left Banyan in the 1920s after your grandfather married. She was engaged at one stage, but I don’t think she married locally. She did live in the Banyan boarding house for quite a while and it’s said she kept to herself and didn’t have many friends, except for a young girl by the name of Corally Shaw, whom she taught for a couple of years.’
‘What happened to Corally?’ Madeleine asked, aware of Sonia’s eyes on Sheila.
‘Who knows? That’s about all I can tell you, Madeleine, but I would like to loan these to you for the exhibition if it goes ahead.’
Madeleine walked around the kitchen table and hugged Sheila. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
Sheila grinned and lit another cigarette. ‘Send me an invite to the opening night. I love a good party.’
They shook hands. ‘You’re on,’ Madeleine promised.
Chessy farmhouse, ten miles from Saint-Omer, northern France
August 1917
Thaddeus and Dave stood at the edge of the pond, camouflaged by the drooping branches of a willow tree. It was cool beneath the canopy and they waited patiently, enjoying the soft feel of the air and the scents of still water and stacked hay.
‘How come you and Harold aren’t mates anymore?’ Dave could tell that the question caught Thaddeus off guard. It wasn’t the first time he had broached the subject. ‘You barely talk to each other, and the other day in the trench I thought you two were going to have another fight.’
‘It’s a bit hard for him, I expect. We’ve always been –’
‘Competitive?’ Dave suggested.
‘And now I outrank him.’
That didn’t seem to be a good enough reason for Dave. ‘But you were friends first.’
There was a scuffle to the left of them and the brothers squatted at the tree’s base, expecting an angry Frenchman to appear. Branches rustled and Dave reached automatically for his pistol. Thaddeus placed a hand over the barrel and lowered the weapon to the ground.
‘We’re not at the front now, Dave,’ he said gently, as Luther and Harold appeared through the tight knit of woodland.
‘Anything?’ Thaddeus asked once Luther and Harold joined them.
‘Nothing,’ Harold replied. ‘Not even a farmer.’
They were half a mile from the Chessy holding, on land belonging to another farmer. ‘It beats me how they manage to produce so much off such small acreage,’ Thaddeus said as they looked across the surface of the pond. The water was pale green, with a third of its surface covered in water lilies. Birds darted across the water to the far bank, where thick trees fringed the lush herbage leading to the water’s edge.
‘It seems a pity to ruin it,’ Dave observed as they walked free of the willow tree. ‘It’s so peaceful.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ Harold agreed, ‘but I haven’t had a decent feed of fish since I arrived over here.’
‘It’s a bit different to th-the B-banyan River,’ Luther admitted. ‘Prettier. I bet th-they don’t have floods and droughts here.’
‘No, they’ve got wars,’ Dave reminded him.
‘I still l-like it here,’ Luther argued, ‘war or no war.’
‘That’s because you’re good at it,’ Dave told him.
‘Good at what?’ Luther replied.
‘Killing,’ Dave said softly.
‘Stop talking.’ Harold pointed over the water. ‘Did anyone hear that?’
Thaddeus scanned the far bank. ‘It could be an animal.’
Harold looked doubtful. ‘Something is moving over there.’
‘There’ll be hell to pay if we get caught.’ Thaddeus sounded testy.
‘Spoilsport,’ Luther scoffed. Taking two grenades from a haversack, he walked to the edge of the pond and, after briefly checking the surrounds, pulled the pins and threw them into the water. There were consecutive bangs and then two great plumes of water broke the surface and speared the sky. The men watched as birds took flight and the liquid arced upwards and then fell back to land with a loud splash. The water rippled in concentric circles as dead fish rose up to float on the surface.
Luther turned to his mates, clearly pleased with himself. ‘D-dinner is served.’
From across the water they heard a series of yelps and then a group of naked men ran out from between the trees and dived into the pond.
‘Bloody hell,’ Harold complained. ‘They’re Aussies.’
‘Well, come on, th-then,’ Luther yelled, pulling off his boots, ‘they’ll be nothing l-left!’ They dived into the water fully clothed and swam towards the floating fish.
‘Grab as many as you can!’ Thaddeus spluttered, shoving a fish down his shirt front.
Great splashes of fragmented silver sprayed up into the air as the men tried to rescue their catch. Shouts and laughter sounded as fish slipped from lunging hands, until finally a punch was thrown. Harold emerged from the water with his slouch hat filled with fish. The other boys pulled fish from inside shirts and tunics, letting them drop at the edge of the pond.
‘You b-buggers!’ Luther yelled at the retreating men. ‘You’re m-meant to be on our side.’
‘Thanks, cobber!’ a voice called from the far bank as five skinny buttocks disappeared into the foliage.
‘B-bloody Australians,’ Luther muttered, before he burst out laughing.
Dave sat at Madame Chessy’s kitchen table and deftly added a number of strokes to the defiant jawline. The Frenchwoman sat perfectly straight, her fine patrician nose and clear oval eyes immobile. A fire crackled in the hearth. Water bubbled in a pot swung across the flames. The room, although clammy, smoky and claustrophobic, was warm and safe. It was with reluctance that Dave
added the finishing touches to the portrait. On the other side of the kitchen, Lisette sat quietly in a faded floral chair. There was a laying hen in a box at the girl’s feet and although she pretended not to be interested Dave knew she examined him. He added a little shadowing, an effect that gave further contour to Madame’s face.
Dave still wondered at the few brief lines recently received from Corally Shaw. He had written back immediately, assuring her of his wellbeing and thanking her. Although unexpected, it was nice to receive a letter from someone other than his mother, with content that didn’t need to be shared. Both his brothers had received mail the day Thaddeus made sergeant, as well as Harold, and although Dave longed to query who their letters were from, a sense of privacy stopped him. They lived their lives like rats only feet from men who wanted to kill them; every day was spent in the company of others where nothing was private and life was a game of chance. Corally’s note reinforced and fed his need for normalcy, and Dave silently thanked her for that.
David,
I wanted to tel you that I wory for you. I care for you.
Plese rite, Corally
‘Fini.’ He slid the sketch across the table as the vibrations from the Allied bombardment continued to shake the few possessions on cupboards and shelves that encircled the room. Madame Chessy admired the work, pouring him a second glass of wine. Dave waved away an offer of more eggs and potato but drank the wine gratefully. It had surprised him how quickly he had developed a taste for alcohol. Despite his age it was accepted that he would drink as much as the rest of the men.
‘You are very good,’ Madame Chessy announced in her heavy accent. She sat the sketch on the kitchen cupboard next to a picture of two boys in French uniforms.
‘Not so good.’ Dave wiped slivers of charcoal from table to floor, recalling the day on the veranda at Sunset Ridge when Miss Waites had explained how to stop the fragile charcoal tip from falling to pieces. He had not thought of the governess for many weeks. ‘I’m still learning.’
Sunset Ridge Page 34
