Joe ran his palm over the red-brick walls. ‘Sand mixed with cement and dried in the sun. Made right here on the property.’ Some of the mortar had crumbled away. He picked at the soft lump of sand. ‘They rebuilt the original pine kitchen with these after a fire that nearly destroyed the whole house.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Stella.
He appeared to be considering how to reply, for he spent more time than necessary studying the bricks.
‘Is there a history on the property?’ she asked.
‘No. It must have been the bank manager who told me about that,’ he said.
Orange curtains covered the casement window, which was situated above a wide sink. Stella leaned across the low timber benchtop and tugged at the material. The curtain rail clattered onto the sink in a flurry of dust and unused air. She stepped back in fright. Bright, harsh light filled the room and she blinked at the sudden contrast. Through the window was a narrow veranda looking out towards a paling fence. Beyond it, the shining corrugated roof of the distant woolshed was visible in the reddish landscape.
‘Joe, can you help me with this?’ She turned back to the room with its solid table and chairs. ‘Joe?’ There was no reply.
Stella entered the next room and the next, each dark musty space more cavernous than the one before. Instinctively she hugged her arms to her chest, her steps small, almost timid, as she examined the furniture left behind. Brocade sofas and armchairs, small round tables with carved feet, their tops buckled by heat. The statue of a fawn modelled in black and encased in a glass dome. She’d expected an empty house and it was disconcerting to find other people’s belongings there, as if the occupants were on a holiday and were due back at any time.
A dim passage led to another room with book-laden shelves. Stella drew the curtains and partial light shone through slatted louvres. The window-space was bow-fronted with an inbuilt seat and before it was a table covered with a dustsheet. Stella lifted the material and discovered a large globe sitting on a three-legged stand, a compass dish at the base of the slender legs. She spun the earth on its mahogany axis, watching as yellow, green and brown – a whole world – showed itself in a single rotation. She ran a finger across the tracks of celebrated circumnavigators, past mighty cities and great nations and rested on a mountain range.
‘Terrestrial globe noting all the latest discoveries and geographical improvements. Dedicated by permission of His Most Gracious Majesty George IV, 1825,’ Stella read aloud from the decorative medallion. Antarctica was missing. Yet to be discovered, she supposed.
The bookcase covered two walls, the contents facing each other like warring tribes across a field of burgundy carpet. She read some of the names on the leather spines. Tolstoy and Dickens, Keats and Wordsworth. Novelists and poets from another time. She wondered if the previous owners had used the books to transport themselves back into a gilded age while about them the wilderness circled.
There was something about the room that made her feel as if she were once again on that imagined ship, for she grew unbalanced and believed that she could almost hear the splash of waves. She leant on a row of books, blaming the drive for her disorientation until eventually Joe’s echoing footsteps drew her further on through a labyrinth of rooms. These fed from wide hallways and narrower passageways, each space containing furniture discarded by the previous owners. Stella found her husband in what she suspected was the middle of the homestead. Joe was looking up at twin chandeliers that, although layered in dust, still gave a lustre to the room that no amount of polishing could produce.
‘It’s a ballroom,’ he said in awe, turning on his heel. ‘An actual ballroom.’ He pulled on a sheet, uncovering a gilt-edged mirror.
‘How do you know?’ asked Stella. Chairs lined the walls. She brushed one of the seats and scarlet shone through the cloud of dirt.
‘Well, we know it’s not the dining room, there’s a great bloody table in there.’ He grinned. ‘Even Mr Wells’s homestead wasn’t graced with one of these.’
‘Why did they leave so much behind?’ asked Stella, drawing sage-coloured curtains that concealed no outside view, only tongue-and-groove boards. ‘I mean, some of these things are antiques.’
‘Three generations of the same family lived here. Apparently the owners had a spread of properties that stretched from Queensland into Victoria. I suppose they made so much money that they couldn’t see the point of carting all this furniture back to Melbourne. What normal-sized house would it fit into anyway?’
He was right. Their new home was far from conventional. A single chandelier would have blinded her in her Sydney apartment.
‘It’s a bit big for us. We’ll never use all this space.’ She thought of the furniture they’d brought in the trailer from Sydney. There wasn’t enough to fill one room.
‘You’re not really going to complain about the size of the house, are you?’ asked Joe. ‘Not after that butter-box you lived in.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Stella, although her tone was defensive.
‘People in the city would give their eyeteeth for a place like this. It’s a mansion,’ said Joe, as he sat on one of the chairs, bouncing a little on the seat as if testing its workmanship. He lifted it, examining the carved legs, and nodded approvingly. ‘It’s probably a bit of a shock for you, coming from Sydney, but you’ll get used to it. That’s the thing about having nothing and then falling on your feet. It takes a while to appreciate the change in circumstances.’
‘I hardly came from nothing, Joe,’ said Stella tightly. Her husband’s words reminded her of Miss Vincent from the typing pool. ‘It’s not like I couldn’t afford my own flat,’ she argued.
‘Hey, sweetie, don’t be so uptight. I’m just saying it as it is. This is a massive change. For both of us.’
Stella was beginning to learn how good her husband was at diverting a conversation before it became an argument. She’d hoped he’d seen her as more than a city girl whose days were limited to a nine-to-five office job, a one-bedroom unit and the romantic hope of a boyfriend visiting from the north coast hinterland, but, sadly, she realised that she was wrong. Maybe he believed he’d saved her.
‘Your parents’ attitude would soon change if they saw this place,’ said Joe. He’d scarcely mentioned them since he’d learnt of their refusal to attend the wedding.
‘It’s difficult for them, Joe. They expected me to marry an Italian. It’s nothing against you personally.’
‘Really? They’ve probably got relatives fighting against us overseas,’ said Joe.
‘Don’t say that,’ replied Stella.
‘Anyway, you can’t put everyone into a neat hole and expect them to conform. You taught them that,’ said Joe, giving her the briefest of hugs. He circled the room, running a hand across the pine walls, feeling the notches in the timber.
Stella regarded her husband steadily. Joe’s shoulders appeared straighter, his posture more upright, as if a fizz of energy had concentrated itself in his body. In comparison, she felt like a wet towel wrung out to dry.
They ate their first meal in the dining room, surrounded by peeling wallpaper, at a table warped by heat. Joe sat at one end of the table and Stella at the opposite. Lord and lady of the manor, he’d said, pulling out her chair. There was enough space for fourteen people between them. Silver placemats, mismatched cutlery and wobbly candelabra completed the setting. The silverware was tarnished black, however Joe insisted on using the items after discovering them in a cabinet. They ate cold baked beans on bread, having accidentally fumigated part of the homestead with smoke from the old-fashioned wood-burning oven they attempted to light.
‘I’ll give the flue a good bash in the morning. That should loosen things up,’ said Joe, patting his stomach as if he’d consumed a feast. He fiddled with the kerosene lantern next to his elbow, throwing light onto the vacant spaces on the walls where paintings had hung, the once-protected wallpaper a vibrant, patterned green.
‘And the generator
,’ said Stella, as mildly as she could. Not only was there no gas but there wasn’t even normal electricity, at least not the kind that worked without an engine running in a specified outbuilding known as a powerhouse.
‘I’ll get it going. It’s like the old days, Stella, before the world got all modern with fancy contraptions. Out here in the bush you get up with the birds and go to bed early.’
‘But what are we going to do in the evenings?’ she asked.
‘I can think of a few things,’ he said with a wink.
Stella’s cheeks grew warm. ‘Seriously, Joe.’
‘We’ll sit in that library of ours. In his and hers chairs like an old married couple and read by the light of kerosene.’
Despite her unease, Stella relaxed a little. ‘And when will the overseer be arriving?’ There were few things that she knew about this life, but she was keen to show Joe that she was not totally ignorant.
The water Joe was drinking spluttered from his lips. He wiped his mouth dry. ‘Overseer? Wherever did you get the idea that we’d employ one of those?’
‘I thought all sheep properties employed an overseer and a cook,’ said Stella, recalling her conversation with Miss Vincent.
‘We can’t afford one.’
‘Oh.’
‘As for a cook, we’d hardly need one of those when there’s only two of us,’ he continued, his forehead furrowed as if perplexed by her line of thinking.
‘Yes. You’re right, of course,’ Stella replied.
‘It’s different out here compared to closer-settled areas,’ said Joe, more patiently. ‘And there’s a war on. It will probably be hard to find staff at times. We’re in the Strzelecki Desert, you know.’
Stella took a sip of water. No, she hadn’t known. But she did now.
Chapter 17
According to some ancient bush tradition that Stella speculated was of Joe’s making rather than lore, they were to take sherry in the library before dinner on Friday nights. It was only their second day on the property and she was still to properly unpack, consumed as she was by cleaning the mouse-invaded kitchen and the bedroom, chosen because of its position on the eastern side of the homestead, which, Joe informed her, was vital during the summer months. The room was large and high-ceilinged with tall, louvred doors that opened out onto a veranda layered with red dirt.
She was due to meet Joe in the library soon, however she walked gingerly outside into the evening heat, the grit crunching beneath her feet. A brush fence, made dense with grasses and slim branches, skirted that section of the veranda. Joe advised her to throw buckets of water on the fence at night. If a breeze rose, the bedroom would be cooled as the air blew through it. That’s what it was built for, he’d said with authority. The top of the fence was irregular, handmade and old. There were gaps in some sections. Stella pinched the bridge of her nose and wrapped her arm about her body. Earlier, she’d walked the perimeter of the oblong-shaped garden. It was mainly dirt, tufted sporadically with grass. A grouping of shrubby trees grew at the far end, which rather lifted her spirits until she noticed that the branches had spikes for leaves. The orchard was even less enticing – the majority of the fruiting plants were dead.
Not one element of their new home was easy to grasp or accept. Not the dirt or dust, the smelly mice or the aching space, the lack of greenery or the basic requirements of life, water, electricity and gas. Everything was foreign and Stella felt her ignorance acutely. All she had was love. The deep love she felt for her husband. Stella hoped it was enough, for in comparison, Joe was supremely content.
Every time he set foot outdoors, he would let out a gentle sigh and gaze wistfully at the land beyond. Stella loved him for that. For his obvious delight, the pleasure every task gave him. No matter if he walked into the kitchen smelling of sewage after making a new seat for the outhouse or covered in dust from one of his yahooing motorbike rides, his face had the simple look of a man in his element. Her Joe almost appeared to have grown in size. As if the distance travelled marked the beginning of a metamorphosis from which a new man was emerging.
Stella knew that she too would have to find her place if she was ever to transition from city typist to country woman. Getting the house in order would help, but as she stood in the barren bedroom, the space only made habitable by a thin-mattressed iron-framed bed, she knew that letting go of her previous life would be difficult. She was already homesick for the conveniences of Sydney – the clean sanctity of her apartment, the corner shop and her church, which she attended faithfully every Sunday. She’d exchanged the knowable for the unknowable and far from seeing it as an adventure, she was scared.
Outside the sky grew blue-grey. There was a distant rumble and the generator came on, suffusing the room in a wan yellow light. Stella stared at the darkening horizon and then closed the doors, snaking rolled towels on the floor up against them to keep out the gathered soil. She lifted the lid of her suitcase and shook out the full-length teal chiffon halter-neck dress, purchased on a whim with the help of Angelina’s coupons the day before leaving Sydney. Other items spilt out onto the rumpled bed. Silk stockings and lacy garter belts, a draped and ruched knee-length dress – the kind Rita Hayworth might wear – and a number of scarves in vibrant colours. She shimmied into the chiffon gown, pulling the material up over her sweaty hips, wiggled the side zipper closed and slipped her feet into kitten-heeled shoes with an ankle strap. Overhead the light grew dim and brightened again. She held up a powder compact, dabbing at the perspiration on her nose, and applied a rose tint to her mouth, rolling her lips over so the colour would take.
Ready, she decided. Stella ran down the long hallway, passing the closed doors of rooms barely investigated, willing herself not to look back. Her shoes reverberated on the floorboards as the power fluctuated. Next time she would leave a lantern in the bedroom, she decided. The dark unnerved her. This was a very recent understanding, thrust as she now was into a place where streetlights no longer shined comfortably through curtains and electricity wasn’t controlled by the simple flick of a switch. Stella headed in one direction and then another. Finally she stopped near the library and walked on at a steadier pace.
‘There you are.’ Joe pulled a record from its paper sleeve. ‘How about “Crazy Blues” by Mamie Smith. 1920.’ He held up the recording for inspection.
‘Where on earth did you find that?’ asked Stella.
Joe blew dust from the gramophone and inspected the stylus. ‘It was sitting next to the piano in the music room, but I figured we could use it here instead.’
A photograph had been placed next to the globe on the table. Stella picked it up.
‘That’s my father, Sean, when he was a young man. I made the frame at school the year before he died.’
Joe’s father was barrel-chested with wavy hair and a short scruffy beard that ringed a square jaw.
‘What was he like?’
‘He grunted a lot instead of saying yes or no. Never spoke much, really. It was like he had a knot inside him that couldn’t be undone. But every Sunday he’d sit in the shade and watch us play cricket. Keep the score. I think he added a few runs to my tally because I always came out better than what I should have. Made Harry furious.’ Delight shone in Joe’s eyes. ‘Of course, Dad was pretty old by then. He was already in his late sixties by the time Harry went to war.’
‘Was it difficult having an older father?’
‘I didn’t know any different, although I suppose Dad’s age combined with the gap between me and Harry meant I was a bit of a loner,’ admitted Joe. ‘When I turned ten, Harry was twenty-six.’ He took the image from her, placing it back on the table.
‘Why did your parents wait so long to have you?’
‘There were other babies, but they didn’t survive,’ Joe said matter-of-factly.
Stella thought of her parents and her Italian heritage that had shaped her life. Difficult though they were, she couldn’t imagine losing them, as Joe had lost his over twenty years ago. Fir
st his mother from cancer, followed by the death of his father in a cane fire.
‘I wonder who the other person was that’s been cut out of the picture. You can just see a coat sleeve,’ said Stella.
‘It could be anyone, I guess, but Harry said the photo was taken here in Australia so it’s possible it was his cousin, Brandon. They came over from Ireland together. Were as thick as thieves for a long time. They went into business as cedar-cutters. I had a conversation with Brandon once. Years ago now. He asked me what the one thing was that a man could never hope to regain once he’d lost it.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Honour. I couldn’t think of any other answer. I figured that once a man lost his honour it could never be restored. But Brandon told me I was wrong. That honour could be salvaged through regret and a good deed,’ he replied.
‘So what is the one thing that can never be restored to a man?’
‘Time. Time is the greatest loss of all,’ said Joe.
Stella recalled a day a few months ago when they’d sat side by side on a beach in Sydney. Joe was unsettled on the towel, his brown face, neck and arms contrasting against his white torso and legs. He concentrated on the clouds bubbling on the horizon as the sea moved towards them in foaming curls. She’d thought it a glorious day however after only an hour Joe complained that they were wasting time. They’d departed soon after. Brandon appeared to have left an indelible mark on her husband.
Joe placed the disc on the record player, positioned the needle and then wound the handle on the side. Immediately the library was filled with the sounds of jazz. He approached Stella and bowed, then, placing an arm around her waist, whirled her about the room, flurries of dust rising as they danced. The tune was scratchy and occasionally the record skipped a beat as they pounded across the floor, however she couldn’t help smiling. When the tune finished, she flopped into one of the chairs. Joe handed her a glass of sherry.
‘To us,’ he said, raising his glass.
The Cedar Tree Page 11