The Cedar Tree

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘To us,’ said Stella. ‘Heavens, that’s strong.’ She licked her lips.

  ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ And she was, as long as Joe was with her.

  They sat in threadbare armchairs sipping their sherry, staring at the rows of books that would take a lifetime to read.

  ‘A person could get a full university education in this room,’ said Joe. ‘New dress? I like it.’

  She patted the material across her hips, grateful for the girdle that held her waist in tightly, although she could feel herself spilling out from the top and bottom, as if she were overripe. ‘I bought it for our honeymoon,’ said Stella, giving him a suggestive smile. She lifted the folds of the full skirt and waved them sideways as if she were a can-can dancer, grateful for the cooling air.

  Joe sat his glass on a round table inset with tooled leather. ‘About that,’ he said leaning forwards. ‘We might have to wait a little longer before we go.’

  ‘But, Joe, we agreed on January. Everything’s booked.’

  ‘There’s a war on,’ he reminded her again.

  ‘That means we won’t be spending Christmas in Sydney either, or New Year’s Eve,’ Stella complained, her disappointment obvious. Joe had promised her a week by the seaside at Manly, allowing her time to visit her family. She’d hoped that by then their attitude towards her marriage might have thawed.

  ‘I doubt anyone will be moving anywhere for a while. Besides, this place is extraordinary, Stella, and we’ve only just arrived. I couldn’t possibly leave in six months. It’s too soon. There’s so much for me to learn. And you need time to get this mammoth old house sorted.’

  Stella rotated the stem of the sherry glass on the arm of the chair. She wasn’t immune to the implications of war, but their all-consuming three-month romance had rather obliterated the austerity of wartime Sydney.

  ‘Stella, darling. We will go. But not yet. I’ll send a telegram next time we’re in Broken Hill. Let the hotel know that we’ll have to postpone, for just a little while,’ he added.

  ‘For how long?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. This is our business now. We have to be on top of things.’

  He was right, she supposed, and the house did need a lot of attention. ‘Okay,’ she relented, trying to be mindful of the precarious state of world affairs.

  ‘I know you’re disappointed.’

  ‘I was looking forward to it. I’ve never really been anywhere,’ said Stella.

  ‘Well, you’re somewhere now. And isn’t this better than Sydney? There’s nothing there for a person. It’s soulless.’

  The wind rattled the windows. Something hit the glass, almost like a scatter of small stones, as if someone were trying to catch their attention. Stella rose from her chair and, moving quickly, shut the windows.

  ‘A dust storm,’ said Joe, twisting in his seat and peering into the night. ‘Buckets of the stuff, how amazing!’

  They watched as the earth’s layers pounded the house, the grit sliding down the windows. Stella couldn’t quite share her husband’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ll be heading out to have a drive around tomorrow,’ said Joe, as the storm rose in intensity.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Stella.

  He went to her side and cupped her chin. ‘Not this trip. I need to get my bearings and there’s no point both of us getting lost. Besides, I’m taking the motorbike and I’ll be away for a few nights, camping out. Roughing it. I think it’s too much of an assumption this early in the relationship to be expecting that of you.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t mind, really,’ said Stella. It seemed too much of an assumption on Joe’s part to believe that she would be comfortable staying in the house alone at this initial stage.

  As if foreseeing an argument, he rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’ve shown you how to start the generator and the stove’s working well now. There’s plenty of firewood. One thing we’re not short of is mulga to burn. You’ll be fine,’ he emphasised.

  ‘But I don’t really want to stay here by myself,’ said Stella.

  Joe frowned teasingly. ‘My Stella, afraid of the dark?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just a lot to get used to. And this place is so isolated,’ she explained.

  ‘Makes the off-chance of a visitor even more exciting, eh?’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Stella. ‘You never said I’d be by myself out here.’

  ‘Stella, honey, this is our property, for as far as the eye can see. There’s nothing to be worried about.’

  Stella shrugged off his grasp. ‘Fine. Go.’

  Joe backed away, his palms lifted in a gesture of surrender. ‘Everything will be fine, Stella. You’ll see, sweetheart.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’ she asked stiffly.

  ‘I’m heading out to find the main bore. Three days. Four at the most. Will you miss me?’

  She thought of the long hours ahead. ‘Yes,’ she answered honestly. ‘I already do.’

  ‘Then come here,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve a mind to start working on an heir.’

  Chapter 18

  There was a line of perspiration along her upper lip. Her neck was stiff with tension. Three days, he’d told her. Four at the most.

  The shock-induced composure Stella had experienced since their arrival was dulling under the strain of concern. It was impossible to believe that they’d only been on the property for seven days and Joe had been absent for most of that time. It felt like a month. A year. An eternity. The silence amplified even the slightest groan or rasp from the homestead. The sounds of traffic and typewriter keys were now ghosts from another age.

  The rooms angled out from the ballroom like an empty cobweb. The ceilings were twenty feet high. The floorboards misshapen through age and weather. She walked down one passage and into another, still trying to find her bearings in the barn-like structure, turning to glance behind her as the wind rushed around the corners of the house, causing things that she was yet to locate and batten down to swing and bang. She thought of Hansel and Gretel and their trail of crumbs and knuckled at the moisture gathering in her eyes. Something slithered across the floor and she gave a shriek and ran in the opposite direction, turning left and then right.

  Stella pushed at a door and it creaked on opening. The room contained a narrow four-poster bed. The remains of mosquito netting hung from a wire frame. She walked into the room and sat at a dressing table with an oval mirror. Just sat there, staring at her reflection in the half-light. The mirror was pitted. The timber surrounds cracked. The woman staring back at her wore a multi-coloured scarf on her head, tied at the top so that the ends stuck out like rabbit ears. She could drive out in search of Joe. Follow his tracks in the station wagon. Perhaps he was broken down on the side of the road and even now trudging home, the dog by his side. Perspiration coated her body. The idea of going out there alone made her bite at her nails. She was a child of bitumen and corner shops, pushbikes and park swings, of smart dresses and pretty gardens. This new place was beyond her. She pressed a palm to her forehead, recalling Miss Vincent’s cruel words. The woman would laugh in her face if she saw her now.

  Stella wiped away a tear and opened a drawer. The timber stuck a little and she pulled on the knob, the dressing table shaking with the effort. The drawer held an assortment of forgotten items: a silver-backed hairbrush; rubber bands; a pot of dried ink and a number of steel nibs, the type that were used for old-fashioned writing pens. She pushed her hand to the back of the drawer and her fingers closed around a book. It was a clothbound Bible, the brown hand-stitched covering worn by use.

  On the first page the name Hetty was written in an ill-formed hand, and beneath it was what she assumed to be a location, or perhaps a property: Mr Truby’s Run. The book was illustrated. Adam and Eve stood in a wooded glen at the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and on another page Judas betrayed Jesus. Stella flipped back to the title page and a folded letter slipped to the floor. She opened it
carefully. The paper was thin and the ink faded, and the writer’s hand, although readable, was poor.

  I know you had to leave. I understand. But try as I may I can’t help thinking that if things had been different, had we not been who we are, that we might have been together. I look back now and see how strong you were, to leave of your own accord, when I should have been the stronger one and sent you away sooner. But you were right. There never would have been any peace for either of us if you’d stayed.

  B

  Stella stared at the scratchy writing and searched the drawer for the rest of the letter. Surely there was a first page, with a name and date and perhaps an address. But the drawer held no more secrets and she again caught her reflection in the mirror, feeling a shiver down her spine. She understood very little of the history of Kirooma Station. Joe spoke knowledgeably about the property when he chose to impart information, and she wondered what other secrets were locked in her husband’s brain. Only one family had laid claim to the property they now inhabited, each term of possession decreasing in years as if the resolve that was required to live out here had lessened with each new generation. That she could understand.

  Replacing the note in the Bible, Stella picked up the hairbrush, pressing her palm against the bristles. Caught within the soft spokes was a long hair. She thought briefly of the woman it had once belonged to and the unknown difficulties the letter hinted at, and returned the brush to the drawer.

  ‘Stella, where are you?’ Joe called.

  ‘Joe!’ She picked up the Bible and ran from the room.

  He stood at the end of the hall, his face dusty and his clothes filthy.

  She rushed to him, hugging him tight. ‘Where have you been? You’re a whole day late. A whole day. I’ve been beside myself with worry.’ She started crying and then bashed at his chest. ‘There’s a snake in one of the rooms and the generator stopped working. I had no power last night.’

  ‘Hey, everything’s all right.’ He wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I lost track of the time. There’s so much to see.’ He linked her arm through his and together they walked down the hallway and through the house, Stella dragging her feet, Joe whistling.

  In the kitchen Joe gulped down cloudy water from a tap that fed from the outside tank, smacking his lips as if it were nectar.

  ‘I’ll have a look for the snake later. I found the main bore and camped there last night.’

  She had no interest in their damn bores. ‘That water is bad,’ she said, infuriated by how casual he was being.

  ‘It’s bore water, love. There’s water three hundred feet down. We’ll never run out. Boil it if you like. It won’t get the taste out of it but it’ll kill any bugs that might upset that city stomach of yours.’ He gave a wink and heaved himself up on the benchtop. It groaned under his weight. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ he asked, staring at the Bible in her hand.

  ‘Just a book.’ Stella placed it to one side.

  ‘Have you worked out a plan for the garden yet? I was thinking of replacing those dead fruit trees in the orchard. There’s an orange tree that I reckon would come good with a bit of pruning. And the eastern side would be best for a vegetable garden. The hoe’s in the shed next to the laundry block.’

  Stella thought of the boxes of dry groceries that still had to be unpacked, and their own belongings that they had piled at one end of the dining room until the rooms that they’d decided on placing them in were clean of dust. Walls had to be brushed, cobwebs removed, floors swept, washed and swept again such was the dirt in the homestead.

  ‘I haven’t been able to do any laundry. There’s no hot water,’ said Stella miserably.

  ‘Sure there is. You just have to load the wood box under the boiler and light it up. I cut plenty. The pile’s out the side of the meat-house,’ he said helpfully, as if she’d forgotten.

  His expectation was so great Stella thought she might scream. ‘Can you at least help me with the garden?’

  ‘When?’ He slipped from his seat and checked the calendar, which he’d nailed to a cupboard. He hitched his trousers up and turned back to face her. ‘The sheep are due to arrive tomorrow. I’m not sure how many of the drivers will be staying with us but you best have a half-dozen beds made up for them just in case. I can’t put them up in the men’s quarters. The building isn’t habitable.’ He was still smiling, as if they had lived this way all their lives.

  ‘You never said all these people were coming, Joe! Apart from a couple of the rooms, the rest of the house isn’t liveable yet. And what about bedding? I don’t have linen for all those men.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Most of them will have their own swags.’

  ‘And food?’ said Stella. ‘What am I meant to feed them?’

  ‘Potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and a couple of good-size legs of mutton. That’ll hit the spot. Meat and vegetables. A hearty Irish–Australian meal.’

  ‘And you expect me to cook all that? By myself?’ she asked, stunned.

  Pasta, that was Stella’s specialty. She’d prepared it on Saturday nights in Sydney when Joe had visited. The rest of the time eggs, mince and baked beans formed the basis of her evening meals.

  Joe came to her and lifted her onto the bench. ‘Stella. I know this is new for you. It is for me as well. You must understand that I’m going to have my hands full on the property. The house and garden, that’s your domain. I can’t be expected to do your share as well. And it won’t be so difficult, once you get the hang of things. Make a list of all your jobs and then do as much as you can each day. Before you know it, you’ll have everything under control.’

  Stella wanted to complain, however she felt physically flattened by his calm, rational approach. There was no argument that she could mount that wouldn’t reinforce how she was feeling – like an incapable female, alone and out of her depth.

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll make the old orange tree my special project,’ Joe said. He reached for the Bible and read the name written there before unfolding the letter. He looked at her questioningly and then read it.

  ‘I found it in one of the bedrooms,’ Stella explained flatly.

  ‘That’s it?’ asked Joe, turning the page over. ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Were you expecting something else?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s like a letter of apology,’ said Stella. ‘It’s important, don’t you think, to apologise when you do something wrong. Like being late coming home.’

  Joe reread the letter. The lines between his eyes creased. He wasn’t listening to her.

  ‘Do you know much about the previous owners?’ asked Stella. ‘Did any of them have a name like Hetty? That could be short for Henrietta.’

  Joe placed the Bible on the sink. She thought for a minute that he was avoiding an answer, but then he patted the book thoughtfully. ‘It could be anyone.’ He pulled the scarf from her hair and then rested his hands on her thighs, firm and possessive.

  ‘I feel sorry for her, and whoever B is,’ she said. ‘The person who wrote it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Joe edged his fingers under her skirt.

  ‘Aren’t you intrigued?’ persisted Stella.

  ‘Not really,’ said Joe, probing an ear with his tongue.

  She was intrigued. The letter and Bible presented her with something else to think about other than wood or water or lonely nights.

  . . . if things had been different, had we not been who we are, that we might have been together.

  Those were not the words of a parent to a child. Or of one sibling to another. They were lines of love, filled with regret. Stella couldn’t help wondering who the parted couple were. She assumed the letter was addressed to Hetty, the owner of the Bible. Perhaps one of them had been rich, the other poor, or the union simply not deemed suitable by their respective families. She could relate to that.

  Joe cupped her chin. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I feel
like my whole life has been turned upside-down.’

  Joe wasn’t interested in talking anymore. His mouth was on hers and although Stella hated him for leaving her alone, she was aware of a hollowness within her that needed to be filled, and she hated herself more for that. She lifted her skirts and tilted her hips, wondering if this time a child would come of it.

  Chapter 19

  Kirooma Station, 1943

  Stella followed the dry creek bed, a braided channel of fine sand and silt-sized particles that slipped beneath the wheels of the car like rusted silk. All around her, a palette of red and coppery hues spread their rippling folds, the variation broken only by mulish trees and shrubs, and animals smart enough to take cover from the heat. She drove onwards, one hour merging into another, her view blighted by the ruddy sand, which bounced towards her like a playful child. The remains of rocks corroded by air and water buffeted the vehicle before eventually falling to earth. Deep-rooted mulga trees, their needle-like leaves standing erect to avoid as much of the midday sun as possible, clung to the wide, weather-scoured passage. She imagined water rushing along the hollow, which, to the uneducated mind, may have simply been another depression among the sandplains. But the creek did run. Roughly once every twenty years.

  The work truck stalled climbing the side of the hummocky waterway and Stella swore softly. She hit the steering wheel in frustration and then reversed the vehicle back onto the familiar track. An eight-mile walk home was hardly an enticing thought yet nor could her nerves stand another minute of not knowing whether Joe was all right. Why did he keep doing this to her? She complained and worried and begged him not to go bush for long periods and still he kept up his wanderings as if her objections were unimportant. As if she were unimportant. But two days ago it had been her birthday and Joe had promised to return in time. They’d planned a celebration and she’d made him swear on Hetty’s Bible to keep his word. How could he have forgotten about it, when the occasion was a single bright spot in a calendar of blank squares?