‘I know. Harry told me.’
‘I was wondering when you were going to be ready to talk a little. You’ve been so quiet.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes. You’re in and out of this room as quick as can be, usually with barely two words to say. The rest of the time you’re either working or lapping the garden on one of your walks. Harry says you don’t speak much at breakfast either.’
Overhead, small insects were buzzing about the light. They dashed at the bulb, some flying away, others straying too close and, like Icarus and his fated journey to the sun, succumbing to the heat. Stella briefly pressed her fingertips to her lips in thought. She’d recognised that there was a wall between herself and Harry’s family since the day of her arrival but given no thought to the possibility of her having placed it there herself.
‘Grief is different for everyone,’ Ann went on. ‘When my sister died, I retreated into myself. The whole world changed for me. Friends told me that things would get better eventually, that it would become easier to live with the pain. Initially I doubted them. However, they were right. The loss never leaves you, but somehow each day becomes a little easier.’
On impulse, Stella drew a chair next to Ann’s bed and sat down. ‘I feel so guilty.’
‘Because you weren’t there for him,’ said Ann softly.
‘No. No, it’s not because of that.’ Stella touched her bare wedding-ring finger, wondering how much she dared share. ‘I didn’t want to go out there. Joe told me about the property the day after our engagement. If I’d been more aware, if he’d told me—’
‘You may not have gone,’ said Ann.
‘Yes,’ said Stella.
‘You can’t blame yourself for feeling that way. It was a very remote place to live. I may have felt the same way. But wives follow their husbands, we follow our hearts.’
‘Fools that we are,’ replied Stella.
They shared soft, almost conspiratorial, smiles.
‘What was it like out there?’ asked Ann.
‘Lonely,’ said Stella. ‘I thought there would be more staff.’
Ann hugged the novel to her chest. ‘You’re telling me that you had over one hundred thousand acres and not enough stockmen to help run the place? Even after the war ended?’
‘We had good years, but between the stock losses during the dry times, the mortgage and the operating costs, we struggled. And the wool-clip was always discounted because of the sand in it.’ She dropped her head into her hands. ‘The money we spent. One ram alone cost a fortune. Joe found him under a tree about twelve months later. The flies circling. That’s the thing about animals. The more expensive they are, the quicker they die.’
‘We never knew. We thought you were doing well,’ said Ann.
‘How could you have known the truth? As far as I’m aware Harry and Joe had no contact with each other once we moved to the property. Was their argument really about money? They were happy at our wedding,’ said Stella.
‘The occasion demanded it. Harry and Joe were never close. The age difference between them certainly compounded things, but when Joe turned his back on the farm, well, it devastated Harry. He’d done his best to raise his little brother,’ Ann told her.
‘I never thought about that. You and Harry being left to care for him.’
‘It was a big responsibility. Joe was only a teenager when Sean died, so Harry had to take over the property and look after his brother. Harry always believed that the two of them would run the business. That Joe would support him, as he’d stood by Joe when he was a kid. That sure didn’t happen,’ said Ann flatly. There had been a sudden shift in the air. She picked up the novel and opened it, adjusting the bookmark.
Stella was staggered by Ann’s attitude – and Harry’s, for that matter. She knew she should leave, however she resented the insinuation that all fault lay with Joe and that Harry was the wounded party.
‘So apart from Harry’s expectations, and the money owed to Joe, were there any other major disagreements between them?’
Ann’s face became drawn. She snapped the book shut. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’ asked Stella tentatively.
‘When Joe left you in Sydney to finish packing after the wedding, he returned here to see Harry.’ Ann was no longer the cordial sister-in-law of earlier. There was a bite to her words.
‘He told me he wanted to say goodbye to everyone,’ said Stella carefully.
‘He just used that as an excuse to hide the true reason for his visit.’ Ann leant forward, the movement showing itself in the flicker of pain on her face. ‘When he purchased Kirooma Station, Joe crossed a boundary. In more ways than one.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stella asked.
‘The fence. The garden fence. The one where the cedar tree stands at the bottom of the garden.’
‘I don’t really understand what that has to do with the argument between Joe and Harry,’ said Stella.
‘It has everything to do with it. No member of this family has deliberately crossed that border for years. At least that’s what we all thought.’
‘I see.’ Stella was beginning to wonder if her sister-in-law’s medication wasn’t making her a little confused. ‘We are talking about a garden fence,’ she clarified. The kelpie came to mind. Harmless and friendly.
Ann’s expression was steely. ‘None of us were aware that Joe had gone straight over to that house the last afternoon he was here until the next day. We were standing near the garage, ready to wave Joe off when he announced to us what he’d done. Harry was stunned. I have never seen my husband look so devastated, and I hope I never do again. Of course, Joe tried to justify the visit, and he went on and on about it being time to put the past behind us, as if we were the ones that required a lecture on forgiveness.’
These were muddy waters that she was being dragged into. Stella wanted to ask who the neighbour was and what argument had led to the animosity towards the two households. Crossing a dividing fence, talking with people when it wasn’t allowed – surely these weren’t the issues that caused irreconcilable disagreements.
‘A person remembers someone as they behaved in life. Joe was never like my Harry. In the end, he placed his own desires above everyone else, and that included you. He abandoned his family and dragged you with him, and what have you got to show for the last seven years? You lost your child. You’ve got no house. No money. Nothing.’ Ann punched each word out.
Tears came to her eyes, for all that she had lost, but also because Ann was right. ‘He was my husband,’ replied Stella.
‘Yes he was. And I’m sorry to say it because obviously you loved him, however Joe was also a troublemaker and, in the end, a coward. But I think you realise that.’
Chapter 29
Kirooma Station, 1946
If it weren’t for the tin pannikin in the sink, she’d never have realised that Joe was home. He was usually so careful to tidy after himself, almost as if the slightest remnant of his existence might leave a trail, exposing him to the demands of everyday life that he was at such pains to avoid. She rinsed out the mug and sat it in the drying rack, her palm tapping the stainless steel, the wedding band clinking. She rotated the ring, once, twice, and then went in search of her husband. She moved through the homestead, opening and closing doors with more force than necessary, and then pulled on a pair of boots, tied back her hair and donned a wide-brimmed hat and went out in pursuit of him.
‘Gone again, gone again,’ screeched Watson from his cage.
‘Actually he’s back,’ said Stella.
The bird ceased scrambling along the perch at this news.
It was early. A coolness ruffled the breeze. The sky was yet to turn bright and, in its absence, the red of the land seemed harder, darker, pressing in on her like a stranger trying to catch her attention. She skirted the homestead. Trickling water ran from a hose onto the original orange tree. She noticed a boot print in the freshly tilled earth at its bas
e. Stella went out through the back gate to the work shed. The wooden benches were piled with old farm equipment that Joe was refurbishing: spring-loaded rabbit and wild dog traps, a piece of corroded copper pipe and a length of rubber belting used to drive the overhead gear in the woolshed. Countless other unrecognisable items lay in the dirt.
The motorbike was halfway between the house and the woolshed. A pool of oil stained the ground and a carelessly flung spanner suggested the owner had grown impatient with repairs. The crate tied to the rear of the bike held two jerry cans of fuel and a water bottle. Nothing unusual. A mile away, sheep called to each other from the yards. She may not have heard them were it not for the wind blowing steadily in her face. She supposed Joe would be nice to her. The dust hanging above the pens suggested it was a fair mob, which meant he would need her help today.
En route to the woolshed Stella stopped to pick up a stone that lay on the red soil. It was small enough to fit in her cupped palm and its jagged edge was sharp against her flesh. She made a fist and continued on, her boots scuffing up the soil. She walked up the ramp used for rolling newly pressed bales out of the shed and into the dark space, becoming instantly overwhelmed by the sweet scent of lanolin mixed with manure. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she moved past the slatted tables and timber bins to where the dog slept in a wicker basket of wool. Joe sat on an upturned drum at the far end of the board, hunched over a letter.
She moved towards him, squeezing the stone in her palm. ‘Hello. You’re back.’
‘Stella,’ said Joe, as if she were the last person he expected to see.
‘When did you get home?’
‘Last night,’ he replied.
‘Is there mail?’ She stopped in front of him.
‘The usual,’ said Joe. He folded a letter.
‘What’s the usual?’
‘The bank’s given us a serve about the late payment of interest,’ he told her, although he couldn’t meet her gaze.
‘Why was it late?’
Joe stuffed the letter into his top pocket.
‘Is it because you were out driving around instead of attending to the office work?’
Stella noticed the compactness of his body. Like her, he’d grown lean over the four years since their wedding. There was not an inch of fat to live off. They had become like desert creatures, scrawny and furtive. Hiding. Surviving. Tolerating. He rose and took her in his arms. She knew this for what it was: an attempt at atonement. He wanted her understanding, but she felt stifled. Trapped. She pushed against his chest and he freed her.
Stella walked across the board and rested her arms on the frame of the window. The sheep were bulging against one of the gates that had not been closed properly, and it swung open. She watched as the animals began streaming away from the shed, following a hoof-trodden track to the north. ‘If you let me go through the mail and occasionally manage the accounts, this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘I can handle it,’ said Joe.
‘I suppose they penalised us because of non-payment,’ she said. ‘More expense.’
‘I said I’ll handle it.’
‘Can you?’ She faced him, hearing the bite in what she said. ‘Because it seems ludicrous to me that over the time that we’ve been here, you’ve always collected the mail. Always made a point of reading everything first. I rarely even see a bank statement.’
‘Every time we go to Broken Hill you complain about the gates. So, what? Now you want to collect the mail? Anyway, you have access to the station ledgers. I’m not hiding anything.’
‘Then when you go back to the house, leave the mail on the kitchen table, including the letter from the bank. I don’t need you to vet our correspondence. And nor can we afford to miss a bank payment through mismanagement.’
‘Me getting the mail hasn’t bothered you before. And it wasn’t mismanagement, it was a timing problem,’ answered Joe. She could sense his anger was building.
Stella gave a short harsh laugh. ‘A timing problem. You wandering around in the desert isn’t a timing problem. It’s childish.’
‘And how would you understand anything about children?’ he yelled at her.
Stella gave a rueful shake of her head. She clutched at the stone. ‘What child would want to be born in this vacuous place,’ she said sadly. ‘To a father who doesn’t care enough for his own wife to stay at home. The Handalays must have thought they’d been born under a lucky star the day you agreed to buy this property. And I wondered why it was on the market for so long.’
‘It was an opportunity,’ argued Joe through gritted teeth.
‘Not a very good one. At least, not for us.’
‘You haven’t helped.’ Joe shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Look what you expected me to adapt to,’ replied Stella.
‘Plenty of women do.’
‘They probably have a husband that comes home every night. The only thing I ever wanted was for you to come home to me. To me. The woman you married.’
‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,’ he said finally.
Stella decided to leave before either of them said anything else. How Joe treated her was intolerable, but still he managed to make her feel guilty, as if he were the injured party and she the sterile, ungrateful wife.
‘By the way,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘You left one of the gates open. The sheep are getting out.’
Joe swore and ran past her, whistling to the dog who pricked his ears and bolted down the ramp, closely followed by his master.
Left alone in the woolshed, Stella opened her hand. A thin line of blood spread across her callus-thickened skin. She held the rock to her chest and squeezed harder.
Chapter 30
Richmond Valley, 1867
By chance it was Hetty who saw them first. She was sitting with her children beneath the same tree that Brandon had camped under when he was last there and she rose on their approach, brushing her skirts and shading her face from the sun. Sean steadied the team, bringing the bullocks close to the rear of her cottage and Brandon went to greet her, expecting a response that was unlikely to be warm with Maggie in their company.
‘You’re back,’ said Hetty. She clasped her hands together and then let them fall by her side, before checking on the child, who was plucking at the dry grass, and the baby, who lay asleep. Her gaze took in the four bullocks and slide, Sean, and then Maggie. ‘Who’s that?’
‘My stepsister.’
Hetty drew her eyebrows together. ‘She can’t stay. I told you the rules about women.’
Brandon removed his hat. ‘I couldn’t leave her alone in the village. There’s been trouble there. Some Protestant farmers have been attacked, their homes burnt.’
She considered this. ‘Well, you’re here now. I suppose you best bring her to me then, while you see Mr Truby. You’ll have to tell him about her.’
‘I will.’ He waved to Sean and Maggie and soon the four of them were grouped awkwardly together by the tree, the sun spearing down through its leaves.
Hetty gave Sean a half-hearted hello before beginning at the hem of Maggie’s skirt and working her gaze thoughtfully past her waist to the freckled skin and unbrushed hair.
‘You’ve been told how things stand here? About women?’
‘I thought—’ Maggie’s friendly disposition disappeared. ‘Brandon dragged me here. I didn’t want to come.’
‘The reasoning doesn’t make any difference to the fact of how things work,’ concluded Hetty. She gathered the baby in her arms and then took the little boy’s hand. ‘Still, you better come with me while they do their business with Mr Truby. No point standing out here getting faded by the sun.’
Maggie looked to Sean and Brandon for guidance.
‘Go with her, Maggie,’ Brandon told her, and then he and Sean headed towards the homestead.
‘Not particularly friendly, that Hetty,’ said Sean.
‘I did warn you.’ Brandon opened the garden gate. ‘Both o
f you.’
Sean gave his standard response when an answer didn’t suit him: a single grunt.
They walked up the dirt path and knocked on the front door, Sean running a thumb across the deep-red portion of the stained-glass window as they waited.
‘Could we hide Maggie here while we do the job?’ said Sean.
‘What? And you think someone wouldn’t see her?’ said Brandon.
Miss Schaefer came to the door. She was dressed in slate blue, the colour of her falcon. Brandon took in the slight waist, bounded by whalebone, and the way the silk bodice slid across the curve of her chest up to her narrow neck. He realised that his interest was cause for amusement, for her mouth formed a pretty bow.
‘You’ve returned sooner than expected.’ She spoke only to Brandon, as if Sean were not even present.
‘Is that a problem?’ asked Sean.
She continued to focus on Brandon. ‘Mr Truby is in the garden. You’ve been there before so I won’t bother with directions. You’ll find him playing patience.’
‘Thank you, Miss Schaefer,’ said Brandon.
She hesitated a brief moment, then closed the door in their faces.
‘Another friendly one,’ said Sean, as they walked around the corner of the house.
Glanville cocked his head on their passing. The adjoining cage was empty. It seemed that Athena had not survived her companion’s attack.
The statue was as beguiling as when Brandon first sighted it. He observed Sean standing wonderingly before the semi-naked woman, staring openly at her curves and indentations, before lifting a tentative hand and reaching for a gauze-covered breast.
‘Don’t,’ said Brandon.
Sean retracted his hand, but took a step closer to the statue.
A cough sounded. Mr Truby was sitting at a table covered with green felt, a black-and-white collie at his feet. Brandon led the way to the older man until they could clearly see the playing cards spread out before him: seven columns of cards alternating in red and black, the lengths of each column varying. The Englishman placed a card at the end of one of the columns and then sat back, clearly satisfied. ‘Good. You’ve returned. And this is?’
The Cedar Tree Page 19