The Water Diviner (5 page)

‘Mr Connor . . . Joshua. You have been through a difficult time. These things are sent to try us.’ He shakes his head. ‘However, you can’t just come here and start digging in the churchyard without so much as a by-your-leave.’

McIntyre swirls his hand in the water of the baptismal font. He wrings out his handkerchief and mops his neck.

‘You understand, my son, in all conscience, I cannot bury your wife if she took her own life. Our Lord is the giver of life and He alone can take it away. Consecrated ground is His promise to the faithful.’

Connor scoffs, hands fixed defensively on his hips. ‘She fell in the dam and drowned. So your conscience is clear.’

The priest has seen enough of human failing over the years to doubt Connor’s story. Besides which, one of the few indulgences he allows himself in this hellhole is to participate fully in the very fertile local gossip circle. And it didn’t take long for word of the true cause of Eliza Connor’s demise to become the focus of many a hushed conversation over morning and afternoon tea. He’s determined to make sure that Joshua Connor knows he can’t pull the wool over his eyes.

‘Three sons killed. That’s quite an ordeal for her – for both of you. But as the book of Job teaches us, God sets us these trials for a reason. Many families in the parish have made similar sacrifices for King and Country.’

Momentarily distracted by a locust picking its way across the lectern, McIntyre turns back to see the flush of anger in Connor’s face.

‘Father, we’ve had our fair share of trials. You owe her this much.’

Incensed, Father McIntyre straightens his back and rises to his full height. He places his bible on top of the locust and presses, listening for the crunch of its armour and the soft pop of its belly.

‘You know, you have some nerve coming in here and making demands. You haven’t stepped inside this place for four years. No confession. No communion. You are all but lost to God.’

‘Yes, and when my time comes you and God can feed me to the pigs for all I care. But this woman, Eliza, you knew her. She was here every Sunday, listening to your preaching. Don’t damn her for my failings.’

There’s no hiding the fury in his voice.

‘I’ve dug the grave, I made the coffin. All you need to do is say some words and throw some dirt.’

In spite of his anger, Father McIntyre knows this is not a man to cross. He decides to change tack. He looks out to the graveyard where Connor’s horse stands, hitched to the cart.

‘That cart out there – paint it and it would make a useful benefaction for our community. As an offering to God, you understand.’

McIntyre can tell the message isn’t lost on Connor. The pound of flesh. Connor smiles wryly.

‘He’s taken everything else. He might as well have that too.’

An unspoken deal done, the two men meet at Lizzie’s graveside later in the day. A group of locals turns out to watch as Father McIntyre races through the burial rite: Lizzie’s older sister, Ivy, and friends who understand her grief firsthand. His duty done, the compromised priest hurries away with almost indecent haste, clutching his censer. The musty tang of incense lingers in the air as the mourners drift from the graveside.

Not ready yet to leave Eliza’s graveside, Connor watches a swarm of young children dressed in their Sunday best, blissfully unaware of the solemnity of the occasion. They play hide-and-seek amongst the gravestones as their mothers stand together and converse quietly in the shade of the gnarled peppercorn tree. For ones so young they have donned mourning black far too often. Their fathers now exist only as stern-faced, uniformed men in black and white photographs, their loss ever-present as a faint yet unrelenting sense of anxiety.

Rainbow is now a town of widows and old men and wraiths in greatcoats with dead eyes and hair grey too soon. Absent is the banter and idiotic laughter of young men, the reckless canter of their horses or the shrill tweet of an umpire’s whistle on Saturday afternoons. When the faces began appearing in the local paper surrounded by wreaths, the town fell silent, the joy bled away.

An old man struggles to his feet from one of the chairs arranged by the side of the grave to salute a young soldier who limps past, leaning heavily on his wife’s arm. The veteran nods his head, acknowledging the tribute, but averts his face, ashamed of the disfigurement that is only partially disguised by an unconvincing tin prosthetic device.

Connor watches him pass, and remembers the young man as he was before the war. He feels a gentle touch on his arm. Edith, the girl who would have been his daughter-in-law, follows his gaze as the veteran continues his agonising struggle across the cemetery.

‘Anytime I feel my heart breaking, I think of what could have been – what Art might have been like if he’d come back to us like that. Sometimes, I think it is better that he died at his beautiful best.’

She shuts her eyes and murmurs a prayer, then kneels and places a sprig of something green and fragrant into Eliza’s grave.

‘Rosemary. To remember.’ She looks up at Connor, her bright blue eyes shining with tears. ‘We’ve made scones and tea for everyone. Will you . . .?’

‘You’re very kind, Edith. But I think I need to sit with Lizzie a while.’

She smiles sadly. ‘Soon, then?’

Connor nods vaguely. Edith reaches up and gives him an awkward hug, then slowly walks back to the path to join the other mourners as they leave the churchyard.

Connor kneels by Eliza’s grave, head bowed.

‘I will find them, love. I’ll bring them home to you. I promise.’

Back at home, Connor sits in the darkened room, furniture shrouded in sheets, curtains drawn. Motes of dust sparkle in the narrow shafts of sunlight shining through chinks in the blinds.

Ivy and her sons helped him pack up the house. He has given her all the things Eliza held dear: the blue and white willow-pattern china; a ruby cut-glass vase; the delicate porcelain figurine of a shepherdess with cupid’s-bow lips; her sterling silver–backed mirror and ivory hair comb.

He stands, turns and looks around the room one last time, then pushes open the screen door and farewells the only home he has known for twenty-five years.

Connor looks at the pits on either side of the path where the ladies from the church have claimed the rosebushes. Edith is going to plant one of them at Eliza’s graveside. Connor knows those roses were the only things left that had made his wife smile. The dog sniffs at the ground and cocks his leg on the upturned earth.

‘It was the only sensible thing to do, old fella. They won’t last long out here without me to look after them.’

He bends down and scratches the dog roughly behind his ears.

‘C’mon mate. Let’s get you some dinner.’

The dog looks at Connor quizzically. He knows the daily routine and the sun is still high in the sky – much too early to be eating. But never one to turn down a meal, he trots after his master to the back of the house, tail wagging.

Connor throws some offcuts from a sheep carcass he butchered a few days ago into the dog’s bowl.

While the dog tucks into the unexpected bounty, Connor walks to the small shed near the tank stand and fetches his rifle. Sitting on the back steps, he loads it – slowly and deliberately.

He stands and walks over to where the dog is licking the bowl clean. Connor bends and gives him one last scruff on the head.

‘You’re a good fella. It’s a bit like the roses, you see. Except you’re not much use to anyone other than me. Never were any bloody good as a sheepdog. You understand, don’t you, mate? There’s no place for you where I’m going.’

He places the barrel of the rifle against the dog’s head, looks away and fires.

Connor hears the thud as the dog’s body slumps into the dust. Too shell-shocked to grieve another loss, he drops the rifle and walks away without looking back.

A
n open horse-drawn carriage bumps across undulating ground towards a military checkpoint. Major Hasan and Sergeant Jemal are seated in uncomfortable silence on the bench seat, jolting and knocking awkwardly against each other. A third man, Lieutenant Greeves, sits opposite Jemal, wearing the distinctive slouch hat and khaki uniform of the Anzac troops. Sergeant Jemal is wearing a traditional cloth
kabalak
on his head and the brass Arabic numerals of the 47th Regiment on his lapels. For the duration of the trip from Kelia Bay, he has been flicking black agate
tesbih
beads with one hand and tidying his prodigious moustache with the other. His brooding brown eyes do not leave Greeves.

At the barrier, a uniformed soldier draws himself up and raises his hand, signalling the driver to halt. As the two Turks watch on, Greeves alights from the carriage and salutes, his softly corpulent belly straining at the gilt buttons of his tunic. The man at the barrier returns the greeting and introduces himself as Sergeant Tucker.

‘Lieutenant Greeves, Sergeant. Here to escort Major Hasan Bey to Lieutenant Colonel Hilton at the War Graves Commission.’

Greeves’ flat vowels betray his New Zealand heritage; Hasan has learned to recognise the accent. Greeves passes a sheaf of official papers to the sergeant.

Sergeant Tucker narrows his eyes and glares at Greeves’ passengers. ‘I know who he is.’ He hawks a sticky gob of phlegm from the back of his throat and spits it into the dust. Jemal rises in his seat, indignant, but Hasan places a calming hand on his arm and speaks in Turkish. ‘No need. We have already beaten them once.’

Tucker examines the paperwork, his dark eyes darting between the typed document and the Turks in the cart.

‘Right. Everything seems to be in order.’

After Greeves heaves himself back into the cart, Tucker jumps in and sits opposite Hasan. Struggling to retain his military bearing as they make slow and ungainly passage across the uneven ground, Hasan fixes his sight at some point in the indeterminate distance, avoiding Sergeant Tucker’s unwavering and antagonistic stare.

Jemal is less diplomatic. He glowers at the angry sergeant and grumbles to Hasan in Turkish under his breath, ‘So we need an escort in our own country now. This is madness. Why bring us back here?’

Hasan makes no attempt to answer. After all that passed four years ago, he never thought he would return to this accursed place.
All that remains here is death
.

The good-natured Lieutenant Greeves tries to ease the palpable tension between his fellow passengers. He flicks open a silver cigarette case and offers it to the Ottoman soldiers. Jemal raises an eyebrow and takes two, slipping them into his breast pocket without thanking him. Greeves extends the cigarette case to Hasan.

‘Cig-a-rette?’ He mimics lighting and smoking a cigarette. ‘You want smoke, sir?’

The carriage hits a pothole, and the cigarettes become airborne.

‘Damn. Sorry, sir.’ Greeves scrabbles to retrieve them as they roll and bounce across the floor. He abandons his efforts when he realises that the majority of the cigarettes have landed in Hasan’s lap.

Hasan contemplates the well-meaning lieutenant coolly and does nothing to assist him.

The carriage continues its progress across the broken earth. They pass over a ridge and despite himself, Hasan is taken aback by the beauty of the Aegean shore that stretches out before them, heavily wooded islands visible in the far distance and sunlight reflecting on the gentle waters. During the many months they spent entrenched on this hideous escarpment, he rarely had the opportunity to appreciate the view.

Shouts and the clatter of equipment draw Hasan’s attention to their destination, a makeshift encampment on the side of the ridge. Village labourers lead trains of donkeys to tents where soldiers unload supplies and equipment. Clerks officiously check off lists as uniformed men struggle past, heavily laden with picks, shovels, buckets and timber.

As the cart slows, Sergeant Tucker vaults to the ground and Hasan watches him make his way towards an officer who is directing the bustle in the camp like a ringmaster.