Sunset Ridge (4 page)

‘I see that you are determined to keep this dog . . .'

The twins waited for her to finish. ‘But you must be prepared to hand the animal back should he be claimed.' Her sons nodded in agreement. ‘And it is your joint responsibility to look after him, always. Not mine. And,' she added, ‘he must sleep outside.'

Francois and Antoine grinned, and despite her misgivings she splashed a little wine into their water glasses to celebrate as they laughed and thanked her and promised to look after their new pet. The discussion of a name for the dog started soon after, and by the time the wine was consumed and the table cleared they were still arguing.

‘Roland,' Francois suggested excitedly, as if having made a wondrous discovery.

‘Ah,' Madame Chessy nodded with a smile. ‘ “The Song of Roland”.'

Antoine looked perplexed. ‘Roland? What sort of a name is that for a dog?'

Madame Chessy waggled her finger. ‘You should have paid more attention during your lessons, Antoine. “The Song of Roland” is one of the oldest works of French literature.'

Antoine's face was blank.

Madame Chessy shook her head at her younger son. ‘About the Battle of Roncesvalles, in the eighth century?'

‘In 778, Antoine.' Francois jabbed his brother in the shoulder. ‘During the reign of Charlemagne. Don't you remember Mama telling us about it?'

‘Well, why didn't you just say Charlemagne?' Antoine com­plain­ed. ‘
Everyone
knows him. What?' he asked in response to his mother's smile and the raised eyebrow from his brother.

‘Nothing, my dear,' she said. ‘However,' she cautioned, ‘Roland was a fierce warrior, loyal and trustworthy, and I am not sure this epic name is suitable for your new friend.'

Antoine rubbed at the slight fuzz of stubble on his chin.

‘Perhaps with the times we live in, Mama, it
is
a worthy choice,' Francois suggested.

Habit led Madame Chessy's gaze to the vacant chair by the fire. ‘I think,' she replied slowly, ‘that your father would approve.'

‘Good, it's done.' Antoine stood and clapped his hands together.

Outside Roland barked.

‘More wine?' Antoine asked hopefully.

‘No.' Madame Chessy shook her head, concealing the smile that threatened to stymie her resolve. ‘No more wine.'

 

It was midnight when the squeak of the farmhouse door broke her dreams. She had been sitting by the stream with Marcel, throwing a rag ball at the ungainly dog that had appeared from amid the trees. He was a cumbersome animal; even the way he bounded across the field suggested he was at odds with his limbs. Yet despite the uneven gait and unkempt look, the dog was surprisingly agile and fast. Flinging his body some feet into the air, he caught Madame Chessy's ball with ease and, pirouetting, raced back to her side.

Pushing back the bedcovers, Madame Chessy sat upright and peered through her open bedroom door into the kitchen. The remains of the fire cast a faint glow about the room and revealed Antoine returning to the alcove on the far side of the kitchen table. He sat on his narrow cot, which was squashed tightly next to Francois', and his gaze met his mother's. The dog Roland was at Antoine's feet. Madame Chessy threw back the remaining covers readying to rescue her best-laying hen, her feet touching the cold floor, but the dog only sniffed about the flagstone, barely heeding the hen's presence, before returning to Antoine's side and jumping onto the bed where he pawed the coverlets like a giant cat readying to settle for the night.

She sensed Antoine waiting for words of reprimand, his defiance swelling across the small expanse of the farmhouse and as it grew her own anger subsided. She was weary of being the sole parent, weary of trying to retain a level of normality when only miles away the world was on fire. She lay on her side, one eye trained on the hen, the other partially obscured by the soft curve of the pillow. Finally Antoine slept, his soft snores filling the void left by her departed husband. Adjusting her position until her hip found some comfort, Madame Chessy concentrated on the dancing light thrown by the fire's embers. She had left the firebox door open, allowing the light to stretch along the floor and walls of the farmhouse, illuminating the dwelling with a golden glow. With a sigh she prayed aloud to the Saints, a muttering of blessings for home and hearth and protection for France and her two sons. Most of all she prayed for the Australian soldiers who would take up arms in defence of a country they had never seen.

Miles away a distant rumble, like faraway thunder, echoed across the countryside. The great guns were firing again. The eyes of Roland the dog met hers from across the room. One, she supposed, could never have too many heroes.

 

 

 

 

 

Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland,
Australia
February 2000

Bamboo flares wafted citronella as the day's remains cast a reddish glow through the garden. Madeleine followed the voices out onto the veranda. Two naps during the afternoon, interrupted by Sonia's mutton sandwich, had left her bleary eyed and restless. It had been years since her last holiday, and she felt strung out, especially after the altercation with her mother. Her brother and sister-in-law were sitting in front of the open French doors that led into their bedroom, where the cooling draft of the evaporative airconditioner made the environment almost liveable. George rose to his feet immediately and Madeleine smiled as they hugged. He pecked her on the cheek, settled her in a chair and poured her a glass of white wine. Rachael blew a kiss in Madeleine's general direction.

‘Good trip?' George asked. He was dressed in beige shorts and a striped white and pale blue t-shirt.

‘Not bad. I forgot how far it was, and how hot,' Madeleine replied. It was good to see her brother. Although she couldn't understand George wanting to live out here, she respected his decision. This was his career choice, while she had her own profession and there was no way Madeleine ever would have felt comfortable living out here where their father had died.

Rachael gave a nod. ‘If you don't move from the house you'd almost think that life was civilised out here.' Her tone was clipped as she re-tied her long red hair into a ponytail.

Madeleine took a sip of wine. The condensation dripped from the glass onto her sleep-crumpled shorts. ‘You've done lots to the house and garden since I was last here.' A fine layer of red dust glazed the rattan chair in which she sat.

‘Sorry about your bedroom, sis,' George apologised. ‘Rachael packed your things into boxes.'

‘There wasn't much,' Rachael replied quickly, ‘a few old work-clothes, jeans and stuff and some certificates from school.'

Madeleine wanted to complain about not being told in advance of the renovations, however this wasn't her home anymore, it was her brother's and Rachael's, and her sister-in-law had a tendency to overstep boundaries. ‘The nursery looks nice.'

A muscle in Rachael's cheek twitched. ‘Unfortunately, Maddy, we're not having much luck on that front.'

‘It'll happen when it happens,' George placated, pouring his wife more wine and downing his next beer in a couple of mouthfuls.

‘I just feel like everything is drying up, Madeleine,' Rachael continued, ‘including me. It's this shocking drought.'

‘We've had a bit on our plates,' George agreed. ‘Luckily we had that one barley crop last year; it eased the sheep-feeding regime, and all the cattle were sold about eighteen months ago.' He looked at his wife. ‘We're still going, just.' He squeezed Rachael's hand. ‘At least we're not trying to find feed for the cattle. The stock routes are buggered.'

‘But you've done so much to the old house,' Madeleine said. ‘And the garden. How could you afford it?'

Rachael plucked at her pink skirt. She still wore makeup from lunch, although her lipstick had long worn off, leaving an outline of pale pink. ‘We had to do
something
– the house was falling down around us, and at least the garden is now manageable. It makes such a difference seeing green grass when everything else is brown or dead.'

Madeleine admired the freshly painted veranda. ‘And the house?' There were numerous paint catalogues on the table.

‘Insurance payout,' George replied. ‘Wind storm.'

‘Which we added to the extra funds needed for our project. It's been keeping me busy, what with painters and plasterers taking over the place.'

Rachael's skill at avoiding paid employment left Madeleine wondering at her own excessive work ethic. Since university she had immersed herself in her career. She knew it wasn't healthy but work helped to stop her from dredging up the past. ‘What project?' she asked.

‘Our main concern is ensuring that Grandfather Harrow doesn't appear as if he painted in poverty. We can't have visitors travelling out to the sticks and finding a boring old room with nothing more than a bed, a desk and a cupboard.'

Madeleine shook her head. ‘Excuse me? I'm not following you.'

‘Well, once the retrospective opens there will be huge media interest. After all, forty works on show that haven't been seen in a single exhibition since the fifties is quite a coup. Naturally the renewed interest in Grandfather Harrow's life,' Rachael continued, ‘will extend to his home and upbringing – where he got his early inspiration from, that sort of thing.'

Madeleine held out her glass for a refill.

‘When your mother first told George she intended to approach you about holding an exhibition of his work, we jumped to it straightaway. We'd already started the reno, but we knew we'd have to be pretty organised to get things up and running in time.'

Madeleine took a sip of wine. In spite of her earlier hangover she was enjoying the acidic taste. ‘Up and running for what?'

‘Well,' Rachael replied enthusiastically, ‘we thought Sunset Ridge could be promoted during the retrospective as a further area of interest that fans and artists – even critics – could visit.'

‘Sort of like a home-stay situation,' George added. ‘We could easily accommodate six people in the homestead.'

‘The old schoolhouse and governess's room is a bit rustic, but we could certainly fit another four in there,' Rachael said. ‘And of course there's ample room for caravans. George and I think we should form a committee to get the district involved. There are so many things we could do: visiting art lecturers, artist-in-residence programs and concerts.'

‘My, you
have
given this some thought,' Madeleine said, wondering if she should reveal that the exhibition was barely at the conceptual stage. She knew, however, that the decision would not be hers to make for long: after last night Jude was sure to be on the phone to her son any minute complaining about her attitude to the project, if she hadn't already. ‘And you're happy to have strangers living with you, George? When this is a working property?'

‘Of course he is,' Rachael answered. ‘So, what date came out of the board meeting?'

Madeleine sat the wine glass on the table. ‘None. The concept was bumped off the agenda until next month.' It wasn't really a lie.

‘Bumped off?' Rachael repeated. ‘We've invested a lot of time and money in this project, Madeleine, and I was under the impression that you'd been working on it for a while. Jude said you'd been tracking down the owners of the landscape paintings.'

Madeleine wanted to tell her sister-in-law that she shouldn't have assumed the exhibition would automatically go ahead, but instead she said: ‘And I have been, but these things don't happen overnight, Rachael.'

‘Do you have any idea of timing, sis?'

‘No, George. I don't.'

Rachael turned to her husband. ‘I told you, George, that an event of this magnitude should have been offered to a state gallery. I should have taken on the project myself instead of –'

‘Instead of what?' Madeleine asked, looking squarely at Rachael.

Rachael sighed dramatically. ‘I just feel that Grandfather Harrow deserves something a little . . . grander than a
suburban
art gallery.'

‘I see. You know, I never realised you were so interested in him, Rachael.'

In the silence that followed, Madeleine watched creamy moths bash against the veranda gauze. ‘Anyway, with
your
art background I'm sure you understand the intricacies that go into mounting an exhibition of this scale.'

Rachael narrowed her eyes. She had been a primary school art teacher prior to her marriage, a fact George felt compelled to mention on the few occasions that he and Rachael were present when Jude and Madeleine chatted about art.

‘There's some steamed chicken for dinner if you're hungry,' George offered. ‘Sonia cooked it up especially for Rachael.'

Madeleine thought of the mangled chook on the sandstone pavers. ‘I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll turn in.' She left the couple sitting in silence on the veranda.

 

The following morning Madeleine was up early. She could have sworn that the telephone woke her, yet the house was quiet. A soft breeze travelled along the hallway from the open double doors as Madeleine walked the length of the homestead, passing bedrooms, bathrooms and the station office. With the improvements already completed she was unsurprised by the rattan-weave flooring in the now open-plan dining and lounge rooms. The grey fleur-de-lis patterned carpet she remembered was gone, as was the dip in the floorboards and the gap between wall and floor in what was the original sitting room. A deep skirting board now collared the large open space and the floor was level. Madeleine knew that re-stumping houses was a major undertaking, which added to her suspicion that Rachael must have recently received some money from her family. She couldn't believe that George would have borrowed money from the bank for the renovations, not with the drought. The furniture, however, had not changed. It was still a mix of nineteenth-century hardwoods, some art deco-inspired pieces her grandfather had purchased, and a number of shabby-chic chairs and bow-fronted cabinets that oozed Rachael but didn't blend in.

The combined dining and lounge room had two doors on the opposite wall: one led to the old music room, which was empty except for a stack of paint tins and sheets; the other to the kitchen. At least this part of the house was still familiar. Mustard-yellow linoleum squares covered the floor and the cupboards were the same off-white. The rain-water tap in the sink still squeaked on turning and the familiar sound of rattling pipes preceded the red-tinged water. Madeleine drank thirstily, the faint taste of grit on her tongue. Helping herself to Rachael's gourmet muesli, she saw that the fridge was stacked with containers filled with leftovers. Either Sonia over-cooked or George and Rachael were fussy eaters.

Madeleine wandered around the kitchen, bowl in hand. The old Aga still stood at one end of the room accompanied by a gas stovetop and an electric wall oven. She had a vision of her parents dancing to a song on the radio; of George with a paper hat from a Christmas bonbon stuck rakishly on his head. The tall grandfather clock, which once held pride of place in the lounge room, chimed six-fifteen from the corner of the kitchen as Madeleine crunched muesli, the lost family scene melting away.

Inside the pantry the shelves were brimming with tinned goods and a container filled with homemade biscuits. Built on the eastern side of the house, the pantry was a surprisingly cool spot. Madeleine and George had often hidden there in their youth when their father was having one of his rants. The wooden shelves were long and deep; curled up behind a hessian bag of potatoes and their father's wicker-covered demijohns of rum, it had been easy to stay out of sight.

Looking back, it seemed that anything could annoy Ashley Boyne: bad commodity prices, his noisy children, the weather, the men he and Jude employed to help on the property. Even the most senior of the station hands they were fortunate enough to hire didn't last long. They soon walked under the tirade of abuse that could accompany the smallest error on their part, usually the result of scatty instructions, or after daring to make a management decision in conflict with their employer's less-experienced demands. Madeleine reminded herself, with little comfort, that these days her father would probably have been diagnosed with a mental-health problem, and that this knowledge, had it been available, might have saved his life.

Madeleine's attempts to discuss her father with Jude after they relocated to Brisbane were usually blocked. And for some time George was uncomfortable talking about him as well. Looking back, she guessed his death had been too painful and awkward for her mother and brother to address, yet it was different for her. Madeleine yearned to hear his name, to talk about the happy times before his suicide. She needed to come to terms with why he had taken his own life and in doing so deserted his family. However, as the years passed, their mother only mentioned his name at Christmas and on birthdays, adding to Madeleine's sense of loss.