Sunset Ridge (37 page)

‘You w-won't have any joy there,' Luther advised, walking towards him with Thaddeus in tow. ‘The m-missus keeps her under l-lock and key.'

‘Very funny. Anyway, I'm hungry,' Dave complained.

‘Th-the kid's got worms,' Thaddeus replied.

‘Well, as long as he doesn't start dragging himself across the ground in front of Madame Chessy.' Luther's nose twitched. The door to the whitewashed farmhouse was ajar. Light struck the flagstone floor of the kitchen, highlighting the low wooden beams within. ‘I smell eggs.'

The crashing of pans and a male yelp was quickly followed by the appearance of Trip and Fall emerging from the farmhouse with Madame Chessy in pursuit.

‘Leave off, missus!' Fall complained. ‘We was only after a few eggs.'

‘No eggs for you.
Comprenez!
' Madame Chessy threw a rolling pin at Trip, striking him in the middle of his back; the missile off-balanced him, throwing him sideways so that he veered into his brother. Two sets of arms and legs twisted and fell.

Thaddeus and Dave flinched.

‘We should p-put her in the front-line,' Luther recommended.

‘You will eat me out of the 'ouse and the 'ome,' Madame Chessy responded to Thaddeus's attempts at placation, her floury finger waggling like a thick worm. ‘If you want extra food you must find it. I have no more to sell.'

Luther rolled his lips into a smile. ‘There's a nice little chateau on the edge of T-tatinghem village. Word is a bunch of Scots have set themselves up th-there for a fortnight.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘Anyone interested in a l-little reconnaissance mission t-tonight?'

‘Count me in,' Thaddeus answered. ‘We'll dine on meat and plonk tomorrow.'

‘Plonk?' Madame Chessy repeated with interest, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Yeah, plonk: wine, th-the grape,
vin blanc
,' Luther enthused.

Madame Chessy smacked a kiss on Luther's cheeks.

‘I think she understands what you mean, Luther,' Thaddeus told his brother. ‘But in the meantime we're going to need something to eat. It's nearly midday.'

Luther winked at his brother. ‘L-let's go fishing.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Temporary field hospital, France
August 1917

Francois sat on the edge of the bed massaging the thigh muscle above his amputated leg. At times he wondered what cruel tricks the saints played on him, for at night the phantom foot ached and his toes cramped horribly. At least today he could sit upright for more than the usual hour and his overworked lung was steadier, making his breathing more consistent. The improvements in his general health were excruciatingly slow yet they were visible and progressing. Three operations and a further six inches taken from the stump and the doctor seemed certain that the bone infection had been eradicated. For the past few weeks Francois had con­centrated on strengthening his remaining whole leg. The exertion he experienced initially from even the most basic exercises, such as pushing down on the floor while seated, was evidence of the long months spent inactive as he had lain caught between life and death. However, there was much to spur him onwards, for Sister Valois had agreed to his transfer to a ward for the living, once space could be found.

The cot next to his was vacant again; at least seven soldiers had come and gone from the bed to be interred in the cemetery at the edge of the woodland – and they were the ones Francois could remember. Yet he still remained struggling back towards life. He could taste his growing survival in the bread and soft cheese that liquefied softly in a grateful belly. A soldier's rations – biscuits and coffee tainted by the petrol cans the water was carried in – were gone forever. He had lost a leg, but his injury had set him free and he was far from being ashamed at his good fortune. As he plied the weakened tissue of his thigh, two young nurses moved around him checking on the day's arrivals. The empty cots that had given up their occupants so easily to the soil beyond the chateau now contained a new batch of maimed who were undergoing the usual routine of sharply folded sheets and the taking of weakening pulses. Francois wasn't sure who benefited the most from these simple tasks, but these procedures and the daily rounds undertaken by Sister Valois and the doctor broke the monotony of the long days. Watching the men and women work also took his impatient thoughts away from the set of crutches that leaned against the wall next to him. He had asked for the crutches and determined that very soon he would stand again, walk again. In defying the odds he grew more resolute.

The large double doors to the ward opened and Sister Valois arrived. She clapped her hands. ‘Out, if you please,' she said to the nurses.

They stopped their tasks immediately and filed down the middle of the ward, their intrigue evident. Once alone, Sister Valois stood at the foot of Francois' cot. ‘How are you feeling today, Francois?'

Surrounded by prone bodies, Francois felt little excuse to be miserable. ‘Better.'

‘Good. I don't wish to get you excited, Francois, however –' Her words were lost amid shouts of confusion and the sound of running feet.

Francois looked towards the door. An American captain strode towards him, weary delight evident on his features. Francois didn't recognise the man, indeed he was slightly alarmed by such a visitation. ‘
Le Capitaine
,' he said, snapping off a salute, the first in many months. The action off-balanced him and Francois struggled to remain upright, at pains to ensure both respect for his superior and his own dignity.

‘Relax, son, I've brought a friend,' the captain said in stilted French.

Gripping the sides of the cot, Francois waited. There were any number of soldiers who might appear, yet uppermost in his mind was the possibility of Antoine walking through the door. ‘Have you found him? Have you found my brother?'

The American captain and Sister Valois exchanged a brief glance.

‘He is missing in action, Francois, presumed dead, and with the time that has passed . . .' She placed a hand on Francois' shoulder. ‘We've talked of this. Your mother received notification of your brother's death last year. She has spoken of this in the letters she writes to you.'

Francois' eyes glittered. ‘You think me wrong to hope?'

‘Only when desire clouds reality,' she replied softly.

Francois fingered the edge of the blanket beneath him.

‘We have your brother's identity discs,' Captain Harrison explained, waiting for Sister Valois to translate.

‘So then, he is gone.' Francois looked at the empty cot next to him. ‘I knew it, Sister.' He wiped a tear from his eye. ‘I just didn't want to believe.'

‘There's more.' The captain's voice brightened. ‘As I said, I've brought someone to visit you.'

It was then that Francois heard the noise. The sound of running, the sound of an animal, the sound of –

Roland tore through the ward door and slid across the parquet floor, slamming into a soldier's cot. The wounded man moaned as the dog regained his footing and in great lumbering strides headed for Captain Harrison.

‘Roland!' Francois called, his voice muffled by emotion.

A few yards from the American, Roland slid to a halt and began to keen softly, his shaggy head lolling from side to side as he realised who sat before him. Moving tentatively towards his wounded master, Roland jumped on the bed beside Francois, shaking the cot so violently that Francois fell sideways onto the blanket. The dog barked excitedly and covered Francois with noisy saliva-filled licks. Those among the seriously ill who could, looked across to see what the commotion was about.

‘I told you,' Francois said breathlessly to Sister Valois. ‘I told you. It's Roland, he's come back.'

The captain wiped a hand across his nose. ‘Highly irregular, eh, Sister?'

Sister Valois stared at the scruffy animal, recalling what this ugly dog had done. ‘If Roland is to visit with the patients,' she cleared her throat, ‘then he will have to have a bath.'

From a cot in the ward came the soft sound of a breathless whistle. Roland pricked up his ears.

Captain Harrison smiled at the sister. ‘Well, I think Francois will have some competition for Roland's attention.'

‘Thank you, Captain, thank you.' Francois buried his face in Roland's shaggy coat.

‘After what this dog has done,' Captain Harrison said, ‘well, I can honestly say it's my pleasure.' He watched as Sister Valois patted Roland, speaking to the animal in French.

‘I remember you, Roland,' Sister Valois said. ‘I remember you from Verdun.'

The dog gave a single bark and then cradled his head beneath Francois' arm, his body quivering in excitement.

 

 

 

Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
February 2000

‘Y
ou made quite an impression at the museum the other day.'

Madeleine stopped tapping at the laptop keys. She had been so engrossed in her work that Sonia's entrance had come unannounced. The older woman carried an empty string bag in one hand and a collapsed removalist's cardboard carton in the other. Saving her work, Madeleine swivelled in the rickety wooden chair and greeted Sonia, a little embarrassed at the messy state of the room. After yesterday's negative response from the gallery and the resulting argument between husband and wife, Madeleine had elected to spend the remainder of her time on the property secluded in the bedroom. There was a half-empty bottle of chardonnay on the roll-top desk, along with the partially eaten remains of last night's dinner. The rest of the space on the desk was covered with paperwork while a fan of material formed a circle at her feet.

‘Well, I thought a visit to town might help with the research into Grandfather's life, which it did, especially when added to what Ross Evans told my brother yesterday.'

Sonia raised a wiry eyebrow. ‘Ross Evans spoke to George?'

‘There's far too much cloak-and-dagger stuff going on, Sonia. George and I know that your aunt, Julie Jackson, as well as old Mrs Evans, benefited from my grandfather's compassion, and it would appear that that kindness came in the form of money. How the Cummins family got caught up in all of this is beyond us, and whether or not this turn-of-the-century drama involved Germans in some way is unclear. What I can't understand is why in this day and age you all still feel so compelled to hide the truth.'

Sonia twisted the string bag. ‘I'm sorry you had to find out about your father the way you did, Madeleine. That was wrong.'

Powering off the laptop, Madeleine felt inclined to tell the housekeeper to mind her own business. ‘Well, now I know,' she replied tersely, ‘although you can imagine how I feel learning that the district knew about my father's drinking problem and I didn't. Anyway, are you going to answer my question?'

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 schoolroom 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.'