Free Sunset Ridge by Nicole Alexander Page A

potatoes, burned carrots and a ladleful of cabbage. The end of shearing and the subsequent loading of Sunset Ridge’s wool clip should have been cause for celebration; instead the business of eating the unappealing meal merely eased the burden of conversation.
    â€˜What happened to your hand?’ Lily noticed the bandage on David’s palm.
    â€˜It’s nothing, Mother. I cut it.’
    â€˜You better have a look at that, Lily.’ G.W.’s cheek bulged with food. ‘A cut’s the quickest way to get blood poisoning. You know that, Dave. Your fingers could swell up, and then –’ he slapped his hand on the table so that everything rattled, ‘you’re dead.’
    â€˜G.W.!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘There’s no need to be quite so brutal.’
    G.W. served himself another chop and hacked into it as if he were sawing a piece of wood.
    Undoing the bandage, Lily examined the wound. David’s palm was pitted by grazes while a jagged cut stretched the length of the soft flesh. ‘It appears to be quite clean, G.W.’
    â€˜Well, then all is right with the world, David. Your mother clearly believes she has a doctor’s perspective.’
    Lily dabbed at her mouth with a linen serviette. ‘Here’s to another fine wool clip and to a fleece that will win the Champion Fleece.’
    The boys looked to their father in anticipation.
    G.W. raised his head. ‘Yes, yes, it may well; the length of staple, the brightness.’ He visibly cheered. ‘Yes, I do believe it’s our best yet.’
    By the time Cook’s warm custard was consumed, the Champion Fleece trophy was won and G.W. was pouring two glasses of Madeira. Music from the organ and Thaddeus’s harmonica filtered through the homestead from the music room as Lily hid a mutton belch with a sip of alcohol. The warmth of the liquid seeped through her like a soak in her precious hip bath, and she wondered briefly at their weekday abstinence until a memory of her father, collapsed over his broken violin, reminded her of the perils of the bottle. The sitting room was a little stuffy tonight. Thick damask curtains were tugged partially across the permanently closed windows and the faint scent of smoke hung in the room. For as long as she had lived at Sunset Ridge these windows had been closed. The red dust was simply too invasive.
    G.W. contemplated the oil painting above the fireplace. Years of heat had left the painting’s idyllic rural scene strewn with miniature cracks. It remained in pride of place, however; a link to the mother country, Great Britain, home to the Harrows before their emigration in the 1870s. If Lily had her way she would replace it with an ornate framed mirror; it had been thirty years since her parents sailed from London, and they were happy not to harbour keepsakes of the dirty, overcrowded city. Her mother’s family had once been wealthy land owners in Devon, until Lily’s uncle died and the estate had passed to a male cousin. Lily’s mother had never got over the loss of the family seat and the subsequent dwindling of income. Marriage to a financier seemed a good offer, and she was pleased to leave England.
    â€˜We’ll place the trophy right here in September,’ G.W. stated, moving a vase from the centre of the mantelpiece. ‘Things are going to be better from now on, Lily.’ He joined her on the couch. ‘The British Government has finally agreed on the flat rate for the year’s wool clip.’ He took a breath. ‘It’s fifteen and one half pence per pound of greasy wool, which is nearly double compared to what they paid us last year.’
    Lily clasped her hands, then forced the smile from her face. ‘Oh, but I’m forgetting myself. It’s for uniforms.’
    G.W. patted her arm. ‘The Great War machine must be clothed and fed, my dear. With the extra money I’ve decided to increase our cattle