The Quilt by Rochelle Carlton Read Free Book Online Page A

that led from the busy main road to the Shearers Cottage.  She planted one for each of her son’s.  To Mary, they signified permanence, stability and security in a world recently gone mad.
    The tiny cottage was cramped, damp and uncomfortable living for the family of four.  It snuggled almost on the edge of a clear cold river that looped lazily along the valleys of Twin Pines during its slow journey from the snow topped mountains to the fertile pastures below.
    Like many farms in the 1940’s the land had fallen victim to dense gorse, ragwort and secondary scrub growth.  The fight to rebuild fencing, clear pasture and reclaim usable land was long and physically punishing.  The two brothers launched an aggressive attack using heavy equipment and dedicating their life to establishing “Twin Pines” as a viable high country farm.
     
    Anne Saunders was the product of a normal functional local family.  She grew up surrounded by love and security.  Although not a stunning girl she was certainly attractive and could have had her choice from the many eligible bachelors in the area.
    Perhaps it was just normal teenage rebellion. No one could really understand why a popular, outgoing, pretty young woman would seek the company of a toxic and antisocial man like Allan Clarke.
    They had met when Allan made one of his infrequent visits to the local hardware store, which was owned and run by the Saunders family.  
    The world wa s an insecure place, people had become aware of their own mortality and vulnerability as war raged and horrific images sent shock waves through the populations’ basic belief in security.  It was not uncommon for romance to flourish quickly when the future seemed so unsure.  Anne threw caution to the wind and married Allan despite her parent’s desperate attempts to discourage the relationship.
     
    The cramped, damp, miserable conditions for the family in Shearers Cottage soon started to take its toll.  Allan and Anne shared one tiny room and Mary and Charles the other.  Without complaint James settled on the small lumpy couch, his long arms and legs trailing over its edges. Working on the farm was his only escape, a time when he could find peace and privacy. 
    Allan found his peace in a bottle.  He drunk hard liquor and it oozed from his pores and hung rank on his breath.  The demon that existed just below his skin started to make its way to the surface.
    Within a few months t he tension had become tangible in the little house thick and septic like a festering wound.  Allan’s alcohol-fuelled verbal abuse belittled, controlled and humiliated.  His drunken rages left holes in the walls, the table and the kitchen cabinets.  Eventually it left Anne with a blackened eye, broken teeth and a swollen cheek.
    That Sunday , James had stood silently, his broad frame filling the door way.  He stared at Anne’s ruined face and the ice blue of his eyes became pools of dark anger his mouth set in a long dangerous line.    When he connected with Allan he connected hard, his aim was calculated and sent the older larger man through the front window.
    The dawn chill had settled over the paddocks in a light damp mist when Allan regained consciousness.  He was lying alone in a pool of broken glass and stale vomit.
    For several months a n uneasy calm fell over the Cottage.  Allan barely spoke and when he did his voice was measured and careful.  Allan no longer drunk but his sobriety was more ominous than his unpredictable drunken rages had ever been. 
     
    Winter was hard in the High Country.  Not only was it hard for the stock but also for the people that chose to live in this special but wild countryside.  Snow often brought progress to a standstill for the Clarke brothers and tempers in the small cottage were increasingly frayed by frustration. It wasn’t uncommon for one or both of the brothers to work well into the night even when inclement conditions should not have been ignored.
    On one such