The Cedar Tree

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘And we work in the Big Scrub,’ said Sean. ‘We don’t live there.’ There was an edge to his voice.

  She squinted at Sean as if not quite believing he’d spoken. ‘Irish. I wonder that we needed more.’

  Brandon was impressed by her confidence. Two women alone in the bush were a target if they met the wrong company.

  ‘I could say the same of the English,’ replied Sean.

  A look of deep indignation crossed the woman’s features. ‘You’re on private land.’

  ‘We’re aware of that, miss,’ said Brandon, desperation feeding his politeness. ‘But our timber speared off the top of that hill and landed just over there. We were hoping to retrieve it.’

  ‘Retrieve it,’ she repeated. ‘Hetty, we have educated Irishmen.’ She watched the falcon, who was partway through his meal.

  Her companion was short and slight with bulbous lips, but that was all Brandon gleaned of her appearance, fixed as she was on her feet unless her mistress addressed her.

  ‘You can fetch your wood, but when you have done that you will come directly to me.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the east. ‘It’s seven miles. I’ll expect you in a day or so. And if you find yourself lost, ask for the residence of Mr John Truby.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Because nothing comes free. And as I’ve done you a favour, I’m expecting you to do me one. Do we have an agreement?’

  Sean shrugged and Brandon inclined his head. The woman reverted to studying the falcon and the now-mangled parrot. Only the girl showed interest in their departure, watching as Sean commanded the bullocks to walk on.

  ‘We don’t have to do as she says,’ said Sean, when there was space enough between their two parties to ensure the women couldn’t hear. ‘In fact, I’d rather not.’

  ‘I think it’s probably best if we do,’ said Brandon.

  ‘And so it starts again. Us jumping to the wants of the English.’

  ‘What harm can come of repaying a favour?’ said Brandon.

  Sean regarded him steadily. ‘It depends what kind of repayment they want.’

  Chapter 13

  Brandon and Sean gripped either end of the saw. Its teeth bit into the bark, layers of chocolate brown falling away until they reached the pinkish-red tissue. As the sawyers settled into the task before them, the rhythmic singsong brought forth the scent of the cut wood. Red dust smeared their faces, mingling with their sweat. Still they kept working, drawing the saw through the thick timber, until they were past the halfway mark and then three-quarters deep in the tree’s red heart. They kept working until the final strokes struck a fragile hinge of wood. They sawed through it and then stepped back, smiling at their efforts.

  The trunk had splintered in the fall. A single fracture ran nearly the length of the wood. Nonetheless the damage was skewed to one side, leaving plenty of useable planks that could be sawn free. It was a good load. One that could be taken straight to the lumberyard on the river for sale. Although more money could be made from the whole cedar trunks that were favoured by furniture-makers and shipbuilders, there was a steady market for cedar boards.

  It was five days since their arrival at the base of the hill. They’d lived on fish from the river and a mixture of flour and water formed into little cakes and cooked in a skillet over the fire. That morning, Brandon had lain on his back, chewing on the tough bread, his body enclosed by tall, flowering grasses that waved about him like a golden sea. The birds had woken him at dawn with their loud calls as if amazed at surviving another night.

  Their long hours of labouring had been rewarded. The slide was now stacked with sawn timber. The rest of the cut cedar was piled a few feet away and, beyond that, the bullocks grazed.

  ‘We should get going with this lot,’ said Sean. ‘My feet are itching. A sure sign it’s going to rain up in the mountains. I want to be in the village when Malcolm Jack floats our logs in. They say he’s an honest man, but the chance of coin can make the best of us unreliable.’

  ‘You know we have to go to her house,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Why? Why do we have to go? She’s nothing to us but an Englishwoman intent on cheap Irish labour. You know that,’ argued Sean.

  ‘And what if she causes trouble for us, being on her land and all. Especially when we have to come back and fetch the rest of the timber. Anyway, we agreed on it.’

  ‘Actually you giving a bit of a nod is hardly a binding contract,’ challenged Sean. ‘All right. Go then. I’ll take this to the lumberyard and wait for you in town. And see if I’m not right about the rain.’ Sean lifted a finger, like a father warning his child.

  ‘You’ll see Maggie?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Yes, but I hope the lass is friendlier. Last time she kicked me in the shin,’ said Sean.

  ‘You’ve always had a way with women.’ Brandon smiled.

  His cousin made a noise that sounded much like a growl. ‘First you can help me finish up the last of the timber then we’ll pack up camp and harness the bullocks.’

  They worked steadily, laughing and joking as they carried the last of the planks to the pile. Then they stamped out the campfire, gathered their few belongings and walked the bullocks from their quiet grazing to the slide. When the animals were finally hitched it was past midday. Sean threw Brandon his axe. He caught it one-handed.

  ‘You’ll be needing that. I’m betting you’ll be chopping firewood and carting water.’ He spat on his fingers and tried to smooth Brandon’s hair.

  ‘Get away from me, you big oaf, and don’t get into any trouble while I’m away,’ said Brandon, ducking out of his way.

  ‘Me? Of course not,’ said Sean with a grin.

  Chapter 14

  Brandon stopped on sighting the homestead. His destination was framed by cedar trees, which stood tall and prominent behind the house. Fanning out from the building, small paddocks of wheat were in various stages of harvest. In one, a team of bullocks were pulling a large box-shaped machine on wheels. The row of spiked prongs at the front of it appeared to pluck the heads of the grain as it travelled across the paddock. In another field, labourers were slashing the tough stalks of maize, while men raced through the crop trying to scare away the flock of cockatoos eating the grain. Nearby were cottages and stables, while in the distance another outbuilding sat long and low among swaying grass. Washing fluttered near one of the smaller dwellings and smoke hung above chimneys. Brandon was sure he smelt freshly baked bread. Not the teeth-grinding variety he’d eaten that morning, but the kind that warranted churned butter and perhaps a drizzle of honey. He thought of what it must mean to own such a holding. A property of green and brown and gold. Ripe with opportunity. The kind of potential that only came with rich soil. It was a place of wild beauty civilised by man.

  At the front gate to the homestead, Brandon paused. Not since his arrival in Sydney had he seen such a home. Had the sprawling, single-storey building been capable of movement, he imagined it would have flounced as it walked, lifting its cast-iron lacework to avoid brushing the dirt as it circled the picket fence that enclosed it. He was no architect, but he saw in the timber panelling and the stained-glass windows abutting either side of the front door the highest quality of workmanship.

  ‘You should go around the back.’ The girl Hetty was walking towards him. She stopped at the gate where he stood. Now that he could see her face properly, he guessed her to be aged in her early twenties.

  ‘You’re Irish,’ said Brandon.

  ‘And?’ she asked, flicking her blonde hair. She was no longer the meek servant of the other day. ‘Around the back,’ she repeated.

  ‘I’m not one of their domestics,’ replied Brandon stiffly. Opening the gate, he walked up the dirt path to the entrance, pleased to see that the girl hadn’t persisted with her advice but instead was returning to one of the cottages.

  The front door opened before he had a chance to knock. A young woman stood before him in a powder-blue gown, the skirt puffed out by a
fashionable crinoline. He recognised her instantly. The scratch on her cheek was scabbed and swelling slightly about the edges.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said politely, removing his hat.

  She tilted her head and widened already expressive eyes, her gaze falling on the axe he held. Brandon noticed her wariness and rested it against the wall. The woman instantly appeared more at ease. ‘The Irishman returns,’ she said.

  Unsure how to respond, he spoke quickly. ‘I’m here to see—’

  ‘Fancy, an Irishman keeping his word.’

  ‘What?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘To agree to an undertaking and actually do it,’ she replied.

  ‘Lizzy, who are you talking to?’ A man’s voice sounded from within the house.

  ‘An Irishman,’ she replied, ‘although of what make I’m not sure. What are you? Gambler, highwayman, educated, rich or poor?’

  A grey-eyed, full-bearded man joined the woman in the doorway and met Brandon’s gaze with equal interest. Brandon presumed him to be Mr Truby. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘In return for allowing him to collect a tree that had fallen onto our land, I asked that he come here,’ said the young woman.

  The man’s shoulders relaxed. The cloth of his dark suit was scattered with wood shavings. ‘Of course. The Irish boys. I’m sorry, we’ve had some thieving going on and only yesterday ten head of our cattle were driven off. There’s talk of bushrangers. Have you heard?’

  ‘No. We’ve been in the forest,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Can’t you see how pale he is?’ said the woman.

  ‘I thought you might know something. Most of them that take up robbery under arms are Irish,’ said the man, quite unapologetically.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ said Brandon, choosing to ignore the insinuation.

  ‘Of course you can’t. I thought there were two of you.’

  ‘My cousin’s taking the timber to the mill.’

  ‘Oh. I was rather hoping there would be two of you so that you could start straight away.’ The man walked down the front steps, and behind him the woman closed the front door.

  Although a little startled by the informality of their meeting, Brandon kept pace with the property owner as they walked the width of the house. A long veranda sat empty, apart from a wire cage. It was installed on legs and raised to table height, and inside separate enclosures two falcons were perched, their heads covered by leather hoods. The largest flapped its wings as they passed. Brandon watched the raptors until they reached the corner of the homestead.

  The rear of the garden was unfenced and kangaroos hopped lazily from their path to graze in the shade of the trees. The centrepiece of the garden was a collection of large earthenware pots placed in concentric circles, filled with red and white roses and clumps of lavender. In the middle of this carefully laid-out arrangement stood a life-size statue of a woman. It appeared as if the flowers were planets and the woman the sun around which they revolved.

  ‘My niece’s addition. Quite fetching, isn’t she?’

  His niece. He’d thought her to be Mr Truby’s wife. Flimsy clothing had been carved over the statue’s figure, which did nothing to hide her womanly features. Brandon was unsure how to respond. It was such a thing of beauty that he felt unworthy of the statue’s presence. He rubbed at the growth on his unshaven chin and concentrated instead on the fifty or so cedar trees clustered around the house. This was the timber that had surrounded the homestead on his approach, and he saw now that they formed part of a much larger stand. A portion of it had already been felled, the timber lying on the ground.

  ‘I’d like them cut down,’ said the older man. ‘All of them. Once the second storey is built, they’ll block the view.’

  Brandon glanced at the house and then back to the man who he was now certain was Mr Truby, though he was yet to introduce himself. ‘You’d build a house out of cedar?’

  ‘We already have,’ said the man.

  ‘But it’s worth—’

  ‘A lot of money? Yes, it is. But it’s a ready-made supply and I own it.’ He gave a little smile at this important fact. ‘And all of the cutting can be done here. Which is why my niece, Miss Schaefer, was quick to take advantage of your presence on my land.’

  Brandon considered what it would mean to stay in one place for a time, then he thought of Sean. ‘I’m sorry but my cousin and I work for ourselves. Besides, why would you be wanting to cut down these trees? They must be a good windbreak and offer fair shade in the hotter months. A man is always angling for a cool place to sit once the heat arrives.’ He was aware of Mr Truby’s scrutiny as he walked a short distance away and surveyed the area. The silent cedars, the marble woman, the roses and low shrubs and, at the far side of the garden, a half-dozen trees whose branches littered the ground. ‘You’ll only have a few straggly gums left. And a big house like this – well, it’s like a painting. It needs framing.’

  The man studied the stand of eucalypts at the opposite corner of the garden. ‘You know, I’ve lived here for nearly thirty years and during that time I doubt anyone has spoken so plainly to me. I’m John Truby.’

  ‘Brandon O’Riain.’

  ‘You’ve had some learning regarding these things?’ asked Mr Truby.

  Brandon wanted to say yes, wanted Mr Truby to know that he was more than what he appeared. ‘No, but I’ve travelled some, worked odd jobs and I’ve spent a few years out in the Big Scrub. You see things after a while.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Mr Truby, with interest. ‘Don’t hold back, lad. Speak.’

  ‘Colours, for a start. When I first arrived in the bush, the only thing I saw was a tangle of brown. A scrubland seared by the sun. Now I see silver and white, blues and reds, grey and brown. It’s as if everything’s been tinted in a particular way. And the sounds. A soft wind in the cedars is like a lullaby.’

  Mr Truby gave an indulgent laugh. ‘I’d take you for a lover of nature, Brandon, except for one significant flaw. While you’re obviously not inclined to cut my trees, you’ll happily fell others.’

  He was right. Brandon appreciated nature, but this man’s trees were another matter. If he was going to be felling timber he wanted all of the money from the task, not a small pittance. Besides, he doubted very much that he could convince Sean to work for an Englishman.

  ‘I understand that cedar-getters make a lot of money,’ Mr Truby said. ‘I’ve also heard that it’s gambled away or spent on rum.’

  ‘Some do that,’ agreed Brandon.

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘I have a young stepsister to care for.’

  ‘Ah. And does she travel with you, this stepsister of yours?’

  ‘No, she’s in the village,’ said Brandon.

  The Englishman assessed the cedars and then Brandon. ‘It must be trying for her with you boys spending most of your time away cutting. If you took this job, you’d be closer to her. You’d have a place to live. I have a mill and men ready to saw the trunks into planks. We only need cedar-cutters to begin.’ When he noted Brandon’s hesitation, he held up a finger for emphasis. ‘And we’d only cut down half the cedars to start with. We’ll leave the ones that are most beneficial in terms of shade and test your theory before we proceed further. How would that be?’

  ‘I’m hoping for something more permanent,’ replied Brandon, although the offer of housing was appealing.

  ‘Are you?’ asked Mr Truby thoughtfully. ‘What else can you do? Can you ride a horse?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you worked with cattle?’

  Brandon shook his head.

  ‘Can you repair a wagon wheel? Mend a harness? Winnow grain?’

  ‘No,’ said Brandon, his hopes of permanent employment fading with every passing second.

  ‘Well, what can you do apart from cutting trees?’

  ‘I was a shepherd in Ireland. I know a lot about sheep.’

  ‘Pity,’ Mr Truby sniffed, ‘I don’t have any.’

  The opportunity was s
lipping through his fingers.

  ‘I’m willing to learn.’

  ‘Cut my trees and I’ll have one of the men teach you how to ride.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Then we’ll see if you’re worth employing,’ said Mr Truby.

  Three years earlier, Brandon had watched as Sean hid Mr Macklin’s mare in a ruined cottage. That was the first and last time he’d had anything to do with horses. But to learn to ride one, to own one, well, here that meant something. It was the dividing line between the rich and the poor, between a man of ability and a drifter still seeking reward. In this country, the average man went through more leather soles than backsides of trousers.

  ‘I’ll have to speak to my cousin first.’

  ‘You do that. And then come back with him,’ said Mr Truby.

  ‘And my sister?’ asked Brandon hopefully.

  ‘Let’s see how the felling goes first. No point moving the whole family if things don’t work out.’

  They walked back past the roses and statue. Brandon spun on his heel, catching a final glimpse of the semi-naked beauty, before following Mr Truby around the side of the house. As they passed the birdcage, one of the falcons made a clicking noise.

  ‘My niece’s pets.’ Mr Truby stopped in front of the enclosures. ‘Magnificent specimens, aren’t they? But I see that you don’t care for them. You should make a study of birds, as you have with the colours of our bush, Brandon. They imitate our human lives almost exactly with their courtship and nesting, and the flashing of plumage to ward off competition. And yes, some also kill to survive.’

  ‘It’s the killing for sport, I don’t agree with. That and allowing things to die through indifference,’ replied Brandon.

  ‘Indifference. A great many things in this world suffer because of indifference. I would hazard that many an Irishman would be quick to blame the English for the difficulties that have beset your people.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to Ireland,’ said Brandon, concerned at having caused offence. Working the previous season with Hackett’s men had by necessity boosted his confidence, but he was aware that it had also made him outspoken at times.