Sunset Ridge by Nicole Alexander

‘Frankly, I don’t believe that Grand­father is a big enough name to warrant a state exhibition, especially when none of his work has ever been exhibited before. He was a damn fine artist, but I don’t imagine many people apart from serious landscape lovers even know who he is. It will be hard enough getting him into the Stepworth Gallery.’
    She didn’t want to verbalise her concern that if the retrospective was not successful it may damage her career at the gallery.
    â€˜Everyone says he was an excellent artist.’
    â€˜And he was. But in comparison to the Streetons and Boyds of the Australian art scene, he’s an unknown. That’s why we need archival material. If we can build a chronological history of Grandfather’s life, it will make the retrospective a far more interesting proposition for the gallery, as well as value-adding to the exhibition itself, especially if we can blend his life and work with the great period of change Australia went through from the 1900s to the 1950s. Heavens, George: two World Wars and the Great Depression! He saw it all, lived through it all – and Mum expects me to stage an exhibition comprised of the forty landscapes he painted after he returned from the war and a couple of sketches. It’s not enough.’
    â€˜So, do you think that there are more paintings?’
    Madeleine nodded. In spite of her misgivings she was beginning to sound like her mother. ‘There has to be,’ she admitted. ‘Jude has those couple of early sketches drawn before the war, so there must be more, and now we know he continued drawing in France. Did Jude tell you about what the War Memorial turned up?’
    â€˜Yes, amazing stuff. Mum was pretty excited by it.’
    â€˜So she should be,’ Madeleine agreed. ‘We now have the beginnings of Grandfather’s artistic career. Imagine if he had been an official war artist; that really would have been something.’
    â€˜But Grandfather was there, Maddy,’ George interrupted, ‘and he drew what he saw, what he experienced. Doesn’t that make his work just as important as an official artist?’
    Madeleine grinned. ‘Yes, it does.’
    George smiled back. ‘You don’t sound quite as uninterested in the exhibition as Mum insinuated.’
    â€˜I’m trying to be objective, George.’
    â€˜Fair enough. So what do you think they were like, the Harrow boys, and particularly Grandfather?’
    Madeleine considered the question, thinking of the photograph she studied when she arrived at Sunset Ridge. ‘Conservative, polite and well educated, I would imagine,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I can only assume they were a product of their time. It’s amazing when you think that they grew up in this house, slept in the rooms we now sleep in, and fished in the river like we used to.’
    George scratched his head. ‘Actually, it’s a bit hard to imagine.’
    Madeleine gave her brother a soft smile. ‘You’re riding in their footsteps every day, George, seeing the same trees and red ridges, looking up at the same patch of sky. I should be asking you what you think our grandfather and his brothers were like.’
    George gave a crooked smile. ‘Well, if they lived through a drought like this one, I reckon they would have been stressed.’
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    Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
August 1916
    The wool wagon was being pulled by a team of twenty-four bullocks. Unkempt, lumpy-looking animals with yellowing horns and shaggy coats, they shuffled restlessly, twisting their necks against their yokes as they snorted and bellowed. Dave observed old Harris, the driver, as he came around the side of the wagon, his fingers fidgeting with the buttons on his trousers. He was a short, plump man with shoulders the width of two axe handles and a personality not suited to people. Dave reached out to rub