The Frenchwoman’s gaze lingered on her sons’ picture. ‘I think you go soon, oui?’
Through the grubby window flashes of light haloed the horizon. ‘Oui,’ Dave agreed. ‘In the morning, I think.’ The Allied guns, which had been hammering away for a number of days, sounded as if they were only down the next road. There was a new offensive in the wind and although no one as yet knew the details, the whispers suggested a much larger push than that of Messines. Passchendaele lay on a ridge east of Ypres, and Thaddeus talked of a railway junction five miles away from this spot at a place called Roulers, a vital part of the supply system of the German Fourth Army. But first they had another work detail.
The Frenchwoman sipped her wine. Their raiding parties had produced two bottles of Scotch, a crate of wine and a side of veal. Combined with some potatoes and three chickens, which Lisette complained to Dave bore an uncanny resemblance to the hens from her father’s farm, the takings had been good. Madame Chessy was overjoyed with the shared hoard.
‘You come back, oui?’ the woman encouraged. ‘Then you draw Lisette.’
Dave longed for the opportunity, although the chance to sketch Lisette was secondary to his desire to touch the curve of a cheek, perhaps even press his lips against the redness of hers. It seemed such a small thing to want, yet it had become extraordinarily important to him since his receipt of Corally’s letter. He didn’t want to die never having kissed a woman.
‘Now?’ he asked hopefully, the charcoal warm in his hand.
The Frenchwoman twirled the glass on the table. Dave suspected that she guessed his motives. Lisette glanced at the older woman.
‘Why did you come here?’ Madame Chessy asked in French, gesturing with her hand for Lisette to translate. ‘You live so far away.’
‘To help. If the Germans were to invade France, where would they end up next?’
Lisette shifted forward in the chair. ‘My papa says we will be saved by the Allies, especially by Australie. You are very brave soldiers.’ She repeated the sentence in French for the benefit of Madame Chessy.
Dave sat the piece of charcoal on the table. ‘We are no different from the rest.’
‘My boys thought you were,’ the older woman disagreed. ‘They fought at Verdun.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘Young men die for old men’s mistakes.’
Lisette rose and, taking the picture from the mantelpiece, pointed out the Chessy twins to their visitor.
‘They say Antoine is missing in action, presumed dead. Francois is wounded.’
‘I’m very sorry.’ The Frenchwoman’s sons could not be much older than him. A distant memory interrupted his thoughts; a pile of bodies and a feral-looking dog. ‘Did you say Antoine? Your son is Antoine Chessy?’
Madame Chessy looked hopeful. ‘Oui.’
What was he to say, Dave wondered: that her son’s identity discs had ended up around the neck of a dog? ‘I think I met someone who mentioned him,’ he said slowly. ‘They said he was very brave.’ He felt Lisette’s eyes on him as she translated.
Madame Chessy sighed. ‘They say Francois may not survive. A nurse wrote to me from a field hospital many days’ travel from here to tell me of his wounds. He has lost a leg and there is an infection of the bone making his recovery difficult.’ She looked away while Lisette translated.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Dave repeated, at a loss for something more effective to say.
‘Your Captain Egan tells me there are still passenger trains running but there are also many delays due to the movement of troops and munitions and other supplies. I would visit him but I cannot be sure I would only be gone for one week, and if I went, what would I come back to? And I could certainly not expect Lisette to stay here alone.’
Dave waited for Lisette to translate and then agreed that the times were difficult. An empty farmhouse might well be stripped of its contents if word leaked that the owner was away. The Allied soldiers were adept at scrounging for small comforts. As for Lisette, while there was always the chance of a wayward soldier taking advantage, she was fortunate not to be in an area closer to the front. The Germans took their occupation rights seriously and were not averse to raping French women, although it was equally true that some women acquiesced to their advances in order to survive.
‘I have nothing except this farm.’ Madame Chessy’s hand trembled as she brought the wine to her lips.
‘You can send him this drawing and perhaps the one of the farmhouse. Most of the soldiers I sketch send their portraits home to their families. You could do the same,’ Dave suggested.
Madame Chessy clapped her hands and replied in English: ‘This I will do. Thank you. Oui, oui.’
Lisette topped up their wine glasses and poured water for herself. ‘There were explosions last month. They were very big.’
‘Messines,’ Dave explained. ‘It was a series of underground mines. Tunnellers worked for months to lay the mines beneath the German trenches. The whole place lit up like a Christmas tree and the brass reckoned Fritz was blown to bits.’
‘Good.’ Lisette cupped the water glass between her palms.
Dave was no tactician, however it seemed silly to him that Messines hadn’t been followed up immediately with another major strike. Instead here they were, weeks later, twiddling their thumbs as their gunners bombarded the Germans. Luther furiously argued with anyone within earshot that Haig’s noisy calling card was allowing Fritz to muster their forces in anticipation of this next push. None could say he was wrong. While the usual brave faces were evident around the farmhouse, a sense of foreboding was building among the men. Fierce fighting had broken out again at Ypres and battles continued to be waged through an area collectively known as the Somme.
Madame Chessy clucked her tongue. ‘The rains will be heavy this year, I think.’
‘How do you know?’ Dave drained the tumbler of wine.
The woman rose. Only after she had rinsed their dishes in the simmering water and sat them in a plate rack to dry near the fire did she reply. ‘I know this land. It is a feeling I have.’ Navigating the cramped room, she rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. ‘You come back? Oui?’
It wasn’t like him to tear up. Dave blinked away the moisture and began to rip finished sketches from his pad. ‘Will you look after these for me?’ he asked. ‘If you are right and there is a lot of rain they will be ruined if they get wet.’ He would be sorry to leave them behind. The drawings spoke of better times and it was becoming increasingly difficult to draw beauty from memory.
Madame Chessy studied the collection. Among the drawings were Thaddeus playing cricket, Fall and Trip laughing at a shared joke, Captain Egan giving a VD lecture, Harold playing cards with Thorny, and Luther sharpening his tomahawk. ‘They are family,’ she stated.
‘Yes, family,’ he agreed.
‘It would be an honour,’ Madame Chessy placed a hand to her bosom, ‘and you come back and collect? Oui?’
He nodded. One sketch remained: that of the mangy dog who wore Antoine Chessy’s identity discs about his neck like a trophy. The ungainly animal was depicted sitting alone in the trench, the dead owner’s discs clearly visible. Dave shut the book quickly, loath to distress his hostess.
Madame Chessy examined the drawings. At the bottom of the pile was a geometric sketch of lines and boxes. She tilted the drawing left and right, held it to the light and then rotated it. Finally the older woman placed it back in the pile and pointed to her recent portrait. ‘Mieux,’ she said simply.
‘Yes,’ Dave agreed, ‘it’s better.’ His interest in that particular style, borne out of his hallucinations last year, had waned with the increasing time spent at the front. He was looking at fractured lives and landscapes every day; there was little appeal left in disassembling objects when life was as disjointed as the pictures he once toyed with.
When a knock sounded on the door, the last person Dave
expected to see was Captain Egan. ‘Sir?’
‘A word, Dave.’
Madame Chessy raised her chin. ‘We will never forget Australie. You tell your mama, we never forget.’
‘I’ll tell her.’
‘You’ve made a friend,’ the captain noted once they were outside the farmhouse.
‘She’s a good woman, sir.’
They walked to the edge of the farmhouse clearing. Beyond the willow trees and stream the blaze from the bombardment haloed the horizon in green and yellow light. ‘It will take much for the French to recover,’ Captain Egan shared as the bomb flashes reflected off thickening clouds.
‘Madame Chessy says it will rain, sir.’
‘I hope not, Dave,’ Captain Egan said stiffly. ‘Unfortunately the topsoils in this part of France are quite shallow and the water table very close to the surface. Our advisers tell us that the rain percolates through the chalk bed and underneath that is gluey clay. Well, you’re a farmer, Harrow, you can imagine what our artillery is doing to the countryside and what it will be like out there if we do get substantial rain.’
Dave was flummoxed. ‘Sir, I’ve got no idea. I only know about sheep.’
The captain snorted. ‘Sheep? I can’t imagine you Harrow boys being content with sheep.’
‘It’s the land, sir, as wide and as red and as quiet a place as you could ever imagine, and the sheep dust the countryside like clouds.’
For a moment they both stared out at the trees blistered white by streaky jolts of light.
‘Well, you remember that when you get to the front, son. That’s what you’re fighting for.’
Their conversation conjured visions of red ridges and the lanolin-smooth boards of the wool shed, fishing trips and the hint of green after rain. Dave yearned to be back at Sunset Ridge, cosseted by the great sweeping bulk of country that had always protected him in the past.
‘Anyway, Harrow, I have a request and it’s a simple one. In May this year Will Dyson was appointed the AIF’s first official war artist. It’s taken some time for agreement to be reached regarding the way in which the war should be documented but it seems General Birdwood is happy enough for a record of sorts to be made. Now, it’s not in my power to give you some sort of special commission at the moment. However, you should be aware that I have sent word higher up with regards to your abilities. In the near future I hope you’ll be documenting the war, not fighting in it.’
Surprise was quickly overtaken by anger. ‘I suppose you talked to Thaddeus about this and he was keen for me to do it?’
‘Of course,’ Captain Egan agreed. ‘Very keen.’
‘Well, it certainly gets him and Luther out of a tight spot, sir.’
Captain Egan raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t understand. You’re extremely talented, Dave. I’d liked to see those talents made use of for the benefit of the war effort and the nation.’
Dave focused on the words that closed every letter they received from their mother.
Look after your young brother, Thaddeus and Luther. He is your responsibility now.
‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I signed up as a soldier and I’d rather stay as that.’
Captain Egan turned to him. ‘You’d still be in the thick of things, son. You can’t document the war from the rear.’
Dave hesitated. He wanted to draw and the chance of being a commissioned war artist was more than he could have hoped for, yet the need to prove he was just as capable as his brothers was more important. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, sir.’
‘It would be pretty close.’
Dave shook his head. ‘No, sir. No, it wouldn’t. They’d be charging across no-man’s land and I’d be watching from the trench. It wouldn’t be the same at all, sir.’
‘You’re a bloody stubborn lot, you lads from Banyan,’ Captain Egan chastised.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dave agreed.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel. But I hope you change your mind.’
‘Anyway, if it does rain like Madame Chessy says, there won’t be much drawing going on.’
‘We’ll see. Roll call at six am in Tatinghem,’ Captain Egan reminded him before walking away.
Dave watched him go, his knuckles clenched. He knew he’d made the right decision. He could still draw at the front even if his pictures were only for the benefit of the men he fought with. As for documenting the war, Dave wondered why anyone would want to remember it.
‘You said n-no, didn’t you?’ Luther slunk out of the shadows, the tip of a cigarette glowing in the darkness.
‘Of course I said no.’ Luther seemed older than all of them now. Caution framed his movements, making him resemble a coiled spring. Dave was pleased he was on their side. He dared not imagine the horror of facing the tomahawk-wielding soldier that his brother had become.
Luther offered a cigarette and struck a match, cupping the flare of light with a palm. ‘I told Th-thaddeus you would. Anyway, th-there are more drawings scattered about here than you can poke a stick at, and I’ve never gone m-much on this p-painting caper of yours.’
‘I can look after myself, you know.’
‘I know th-that,’ Luther agreed, ‘but Thad? Well, he’s always had a m-misplaced sense of authority. It comes with b-being the eldest.’
Dave felt a little better. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Depends,’ Luther answered, picking tobacco from between his teeth.
‘Do you know what happened between Thaddeus and Harold? I’ve asked both of them but neither are talking and you always change the subject.’
‘Corally Shaw happened,’ Luther revealed. ‘I didn’t b-believe it at first but th-that’s Harold’s story.’
Dave was gobsmacked. ‘So the fight –’
‘Yep, all over a g-girl.’
‘Bloody hell. That’s just stupid.’
‘Especially as women are such ch-changeable creatures,’ Luther answered. ‘Harold thinks he’s engaged to Corally, and I guess Th-thaddeus reckons he has a chance with her. I don’t reckon either of th-them have asked Corally what she wants.’
Dave took a long drag on the cigarette. ‘But at the courthouse she helped you.’
Luther whispered conspiratorially. ‘We shared a kiss, her and m-me, in the Banyan cemetery. And we write t-to each other.’
‘Well, I’ll be.’
‘Don’t b-breathe a word. The thing is, it’s me she’s keen on, but I th-think it’s better if we don’t tell the others, not with another p-push coming.’
Dave couldn’t help but laugh. ‘So, all this is because of Corally Shaw? The fight between Thaddeus and Harold at the show; you chopping off Snob Evans’s finger, which led to all of us being locked up and eventually running away from Sunset Ridge? All of us ended up fighting someone else’s war on the other side of the world because of a girl?’
Luther sat on the grass. ‘I hadn’t th-thought about it that w-way.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Dave repeated, joining his brother on the ground. ‘Why?’
Luther gave this question considerable thought. ‘B-buggered if I know.’
‘This is too good,’ Dave chuckled. ‘You know, I never even liked marbles that much.’
A greenish light filtered the clouds. ‘Th-hat girl’s like a piece of candy to l-look at.’
‘More like trouble,’ Dave argued, thinking of the letter received from her.
‘Well, if she is t-trouble, she’s my trouble,’ Luther replied confidently.
‘I don’t get it. Why Corally?’
‘I just l-like her, Dave, I always have. She’s different, I guess, really p-pretty, and Corally has something th-that no other girl I’ve met has: spunk. Now I’m over here she’s even more important to me. Corally Shaw is w-what I’m fighting for.’
Dave thought back to the conversation with Captain Ega
n, about remembering what he cared about when they returned to the front. Dave knew he was fighting for a good cause and the constant hope of returning one day to Sunset Ridge. But it was different for his brothers and Harold. While they too were fighting for a future, fighting to protect each other and their comrades in order to put an end to the war so they could return home, it seemed they were also fighting with a woman in mind. The same woman.
‘I’m going to g-get some shut-eye. Th-thaddeus tells me we’re on work detail again.’ Luther ruffled his hair. ‘And you’re wr-wrong, you know, Dave. This isn’t someone else’s war, it’s ours too.’
Dave thought of Corally’s letter as the ominous rumblings of the big guns filtered through the night. They were already in one war, he mused, and he didn’t want to be part of another. Retrieving the envelope, he struck a match and held the flame inches from the girl’s brief words. Dave wanted to burn it. He knew he should burn it. Instead he blew out the match and tucked the letter away.
Temporary field hospital, France
August 1917
Francois leaned heavily on the crutches and stepped out from under the portico of the chateau. The cobbled driveway was difficult to navigate and more than once the wooden tips of the walking aide became lodged in the rocky crevices. He headed towards a stone bench, his swinging stride gathering momentum on the soft grass. The weather was fine today and patients were strewn about the garden. Those who could walk strolled about the grounds as if on holiday; others lay on blankets reading and dozing in the sun. Convalescing soldiers lolled in deckchairs or sat in wheelchairs, their faces turned towards the sky like sunflowers. Stippled light filtered the stone bench as Francois leaned his crutches against the wide girth of a tree. Directly before him, the chateau rose proudly. The temporary field hospital had been his home for so long that the prospect of leaving it unnerved him.
Hopping on one leg, he landed heavily on the stone bench. He still had some way to go before his movements became more fluid, although Sister Valois continued to be pleased with his progress. Roland ran through the trees bordering the edge of the chateau’s grounds and came to a panting halt at Francois’ foot.
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