The Water Diviner Page 4

  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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  An 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.

  Tall, broad-shouldered and suntanned, Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Hilton is just thirty years of age. He directs the local workers in broken Turkish, switching quickly to English to fire off an order to one of his men. It’s unusual to find such a young man in command of such an important commission, but his aptitude and intelligence marked him for early promotion.

  Hilton oversees the hive of activity on the hillside and asserts his authority gently but firmly to ensure the organised chaos does not descend into utter bedlam. He strides purposefully towards an open area where two paint-spattered soldiers are hard at work, painting hundreds of wooden crosses white and, by default, half the hillside. Neither Private Dawson nor Private Thomas notices the approach of their commanding officer.

  ‘God Almighty, Dawson!’ marvels Thomas. ‘Could you be more cack-handed? How you managed to survive four years on the front I’ll never know.’

  Dawson puts down his brush and strikes a pose. ‘I put a lot of it down to good looks.’

  Lieutenant Colonel Hilton coughs, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners and his mouth hiding a smile beneath his militarily precise moustache. ‘I take it neither of you were house painters back home?’

  Dawson laughs. ‘It’s hard to believe, I know. But no, sir. Never lifted a paintbrush i
n my life till now. Thinking about taking it up when I get back home though.’

  ‘When they’re dry, send them up to Baby 700 in the cart.’

  ‘How many are you wanting, sir?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got.’

  A puffing Sergeant Tucker approaches Hilton and salutes. ‘We’ve got company, sir. It’s him.’

  Hilton watches as the horse-drawn carriage draws to a halt. An uneasy quiet settles over the Anzac soldiers who have gathered around to inspect the new arrivals. Hasan stands, arranges his sword and belt and alights from the cart, brushing cigarettes from his lap.

  Tucker glowers and murmurs under his breath to Dawson. ‘Four years ago they would’ve given me a bloody VC for shooting that bastard.’

  In contrast to the Anzacs’ angry reception, the Turkish villagers throng around Hasan, doffing their hats and bowing, awestruck to find themselves in the presence of a celebrated war hero. Hasan nods his head, acknowledging their greeting.

  Hilton approaches Hasan. Even if the Turkish major was not wearing polished black boots, a dress sword, and a breast full of impressive medals, his dignity and noble carriage would mark him as a man of high rank.

  Lieutenant Greeves stands at the major’s side and salutes. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Hilton. May I present Major Hasan Bey? Major Bey was commander of –’

  Hilton corrects Greeves. ‘No, Lieutenant. It’s just “Major Hasan”. “Bey” just means “Mr”.’

  Greeves’ round cheeks flush. Embarrassed, but seeming not to comprehend Hilton’s explanation, he continues. ‘Right. Yes. Thank you, sir. So, Mr Bey here was in charge of the 47th Turkish Regiment. Apparently he gave our boys what for at Lonesome Pine, sir.’

  ‘We all know who Major Hasan is. Thank you, Lieutenant.’ Hilton turns to Hasan.

  ‘Merhaba. Hoş geldiniz.’

  Hasan smiles, his eyebrows raised, clearly taken aback by the greeting in his own tongue. ‘Hoş bulduk. Türkce biliyor musunuz?’

  An uncomfortable silence descends as it becomes apparent that Hilton has exhausted his conversational Turkish. Hasan holds his gaze. Hilton is forced to break the deadlock.

  ‘English?’

  ‘No, I’m Turkish. But I speak French, German, Greek and a little English. What would you prefer?’ Hasan replies.

  Hilton swallows. ‘Let’s stick with English for now. How was your ride out here?’

  Hasan ignores the question. He looks across the desolate ridges and deserted beaches. ‘I see you have finally taken the peninsula.’

  Hilton smiles. ‘Yes. Lost the battle, won the war. Chai?’

  The two men perch on folding canvas chairs inside Hilton’s tent. They have little to say to each other as they drink tea and swat flies. Looming above them, pinned to a board, is a large map of the Gallipoli Peninsula.

  Hilton coughs, businesslike. ‘We’ve started working this area . . .’ He gestures at the map with his teaspoon. ‘From the Nek to Hill 971. I assume they briefed you fully at the War Office in Constantinople? We would appreciate your help locating our dead.’

  Hasan raises an eyebrow. ‘Your dead?’

  ‘We lost ten thousand Anzacs here at Gallipoli. We still don’t know where half of them are.’ Hilton’s voice betrays his anger. ‘Some were buried properly but a lot of the graves have been lost or washed away since we evacuated . . .’

  ‘You didn’t evacuate. You retreated,’ Hasan corrects the Anzac officer. ‘So now you build your cemetery on our soil?’

  ‘I have a duty to honour them, and that’s what I’ll be doing – with or without your help.’

  Hasan studies Hilton. ‘You were here?’

  Hilton answers with a brusque nod. ‘First Light Horse.’

  Hasan seems to hesitate, to relent. ‘What do you need of me?’

  Hilton draws a deep breath and returns to the map, taking advantage of the detente born of shared experience. ‘The land has changed, but you know this area better than any of us. I’m hoping you could help us locate the units we lost track of.’

  ‘I’ll need a horse.’ Hasan finishes his tea and stands, moving towards the tent’s door. He pauses. ‘You know, we lost seventy thousand men here . . . at Çanakkale. For me, this place is one big grave.’

  Before Hilton can reply, Hasan turns and walks out into the daylight.

  Hilton rides on horseback along the ridge, at the head of a trail of mounted soldiers. The view across the Dardanelle Straits, the gateway to Constantinople and the Black Sea, is idyllic. Gentle waves glitter as a cluster of small, brightly painted fishing boats bob in the wake of a white steamship bound for the city.

  Behind Hilton, Greeves urges his horse into a trot and draws alongside Sergeant Tucker and Privates Dawson and Thomas. He throws his left arm out in an expansive gesture, indicating the perfect panorama below.

  ‘Dunno what you fellas were belly-aching about. It’s the Garden of bloody Eden here!’ As one, Thomas, Dawson and Tucker give him a dead stare and keep riding in a grim procession.

  Hilton reins in his horse briefly, allowing Hasan to catch up with him. Hasan indicates the summit.

  ‘If your troops had taken this hill we would have been finished. You nearly did it on the first day. It would all have been over so quickly.’

  ‘How close did we get?’

  Hasan points to a spot some fifty yards away. ‘Here.’

  Hilton shakes his head incredulously.

  Hasan continues, ‘When you landed there were only two hundred of us here. There were two thousand of you.’ He stops for a moment. ‘But we had more to lose.’

  As they speak they nudge their horses on towards the crest of the hill. They halt suddenly. To a man, no one utters a sound.

  In stark contrast to the lush approach, spread out below them is a nightmarish landscape. Barren and pockmarked with shell craters, the scorched terrain is knee-deep in the detritus of war: used shells, fraying and faded packs, shattered ammunition boxes, rusting cannon and skeins of barbed wire. But the most unsettling aspect of this surreal and apocalyptic tableau is the endless and tangled harvest of sun-bleached bones protruding from a field of rotting, shredded khaki uniforms.

  The unmistakable pall of death drifts towards them on the warm Aegean breeze as a murder of crows takes wing.

  Sergeant Tucker turns to Greeves.

  ‘There you go, sir. Your Garden of Eden.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The boy teeters on the edge of a vertiginously steep dirt mound. A rough and rutted path leads down the hill, dropping away beneath the front wheel of his rusty bicycle.

  Long brown hair falls across his brow. He sweeps it aside. Glacier-blue eyes squint. He looks down to where his brothers wait on either side of the path below: Henry on the left, Ed on the right.

  Braced and ready. In neat piles at their feet, sticky clods of horse shit.

  ‘C’mon, Art. No more muckin’ around. It’s time,’ Henry shouts.

  ‘Ready . . . Steady . . . GO!’

  The boy smiles and launches himself over the edge of the mound, careening down the hill at breakneck speed.

  Ed and Henry whoop and laugh, chucking their ammo with deadly accuracy.

  He picks up momentum as he flies down the hill. Darts, weaves, tries to duck, but his brothers chalk up more hits than misses.

  ‘Woohoo!’ A war cry. Victorious. ‘Six! I got him! Art – you’re a goner!’

  Freckled from head to toe with shit, the boy laughs, throws his hands sky high. The bike hits a small, rickety ramp.

  The boy and the bike part company, airborne.

  He spreads his arms and legs, cruciform against the cornflower-blue sky. His brothers cheer, a new volley of dung flying his way. A sting and slap to the guts as he belly whacks into the murky waters of the dam.

  His brothers’ peals of laughter ring even underwater.

  The cloudy water reveals nothing . . . He feels around . . . mud . . . Is that . . . ? Yes, feels like a bottle . . . more mud . . .

  T
hat’s it. The handlebar.

  The boy emerges from the water, fist raised in victory. He drags the bike with him, laughing so hard he nearly chokes.

  Ed and Henry roll on the muddy bank, laughing fit to split.

  The water laps at the shore.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An insistent clanging, clear in the morning air, summons the passengers on deck. The engine chugs, sending vibrations shuddering through Connor’s corner of the four-berth cabin. The ship dips and rises, waves slapping against its sides as it drives through the choppy swell.

  He sits on a small bed, flicking through Art’s diary. Gently, he takes the photo of his three sons from between its well-worn pages and slips it into his jacket pocket. He presses the book between his palms; the leather is now warm and yielding. Connor has come to know every crease and fold better than he knows his own hand.

  Beside him sits his small, neatly packed brown suitcase. He is travelling light. Besides the clothes he is wearing he has a pair of trousers, two spare shirts, underwear and socks and a handkerchief. His personal effects are equally scant: a leather toiletries bag containing a comb, a razor and a shaving brush. He has also packed Lizzie’s gold locket, inside which is a lock of her hair. At the beginning of the journey it still carried her scent and Connor opened the clasp in the mornings and took a deep breath so he could rise with her. Now, after six weeks, all he can smell below deck is bilge water and coal. He places Art’s journal carefully on top of his clothes, next to a small blue book, its boards tooled and inscribed with the familiar elaborate gilt lettering, The Arabian Nights. He closes the case and snaps the latch.

  From a distance, Connor hears the mournful low call of a foghorn, and wheeling above, the now familiar cawing of sea birds.

  But today, cutting across the sounds of life at sea to which he has become so accustomed, there’s something else. A melodic yet discordant trill. Not quite music, yet still musical. A voice . . . perhaps hundreds of voices.