The Water Diviner Read Online Free Page B

in the same day,’ they boasted, without a skerrick of proof. When challenged Art would retort, ‘Well, I’ve never heard of any others, have you?’ as if that should be verification enough.
    In Lizzie’s eyes, her boys died perfect. But Connor prefers to remember them warts and all, and enjoy their imperfections. Arthur, the eldest, would be twenty-five years old now. He inherited his father’s stubbornness and sense of honour along with his mop of brown hair. As his son matured Connor wondered if the boy’s bull-headedness would ever evolve into the kind of perseverance and backbone a Mallee farmer needs. Not that it is of any consequence now, but Connor had looked forward to seeing what sort of man Art would become.
    Henry was two years younger than Art. Sandwiched between his brothers, he’d always fought fiercely for his fair share of attention and approval. More solid and muscular than Art and Edward, Henry was their enforcer on the football field, rushing to his brothers’ defence if they caught a stray elbow or fist from an opponent. He was fearless. Connor would never forget the day he found Henry, aged about twelve, standing on the shed roof preparing to jump down into a dray full of hay. It had to be a twenty-foot drop; at least four times his height.
    ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Connor yelled. ‘You’ll break something.’
    ‘No I won’t,’ Henry cried as he launched himself. ‘I’ve already done it four times!’
    He knows it is irrational, but Connor runs his fingers over the photograph, imagining the light stubble on his boys’ cheeks and their coarse hair. He recognises the glint in Edward’s eye, the cheeky little bastard. When he enlisted at seventeen he lied about his age. Lizzie threatened to write to the army and report him but he talked her round.
    ‘Mum, don’t bother. By the time you write to them and send it, and then they write back, I’ll be eighteen anyhow.’
    For Connor age means nothing. Seventeen or seventy, Art, Henry and Ed are still his unruly, wilful, larrikin boys who were going to follow in his footsteps and work this farm. That had been the plan, anyway. Until they were shot dead somewhere called Gallipoli.
    He has become accustomed to feeling their loss as a sharp pain that pierces his gut. It’s too much to bear. Connor slips the photo back into the body of the diary and turns to the front page.
    He reads the inscription:
Arthur Connor: My Grand Tour, 1915.
Connor will never forget waving them off, young bulls in spring, like it was a holiday. A restrained hug, a scant few words and Privates Art, Henry and Edward Connor pushed and shouldered each other as they mounted their horses and then raced each other out of sight and over the horizon, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
    The early diary entries are detailed, expressive. A letter slips from between the pages along with a small photo of a pretty girl with long brown hair, happy eyes and a bright smile. It is Art’s sweetheart, Edith. On the next page, a pressed gum leaf.
    Connor flicks to the end of the diary. The entries become briefer; cursory. Going through the motions. The page falls open at the final entry.
    5 August. Lone Pine. Hot as Hades but maybe worse.

C HAPTER T WO
    P
urple thunderheads roil shorewards. Sheets of lightning strafe the gloom. Or are they flashes of shell fire?
    A young man lies wounded amongst hundreds – perhaps thousands – of bloodied combatants. Around him mud and gore spatter in gruesome clumps. The battle rages; a deafening clamour. Shattered nerves, shuddering. Thunderclaps, or mortar rounds? Impossible to know.
    Wasted limbs seized by uncontrollable tremors. His face bloodied, he winces in agony.
    Rifles repeat and flash. Bayonets clash and then disappear inside khaki and skin. Dying screams cut through the bedlam. Bullets whistle, thwacking into flesh like stones hitting water. Incendiary devices flare. The muddy ground shakes from the thud of artillery shells as they