‘Not one for a bit of blood and guts?’ McCauley came to his side and together they caught sight of Sean as he disappeared into the fringe of scrub that bordered the watercourse.
‘He’s never taken to being told what to do.’
‘A poor man can’t afford the luxury of being uppity. Unless he knows something more than the rest of us,’ said McCauley, sitting on a stump. He unfolded a chunk of damper from a filthy cloth, broke the bread in half with blood-wet fingers and offered a piece to Brandon.
‘Do you like it out here?’ asked Brandon. ‘And this work?’ He glanced at the blood-smeared bread and tried not to grimace as he took a bite, reluctant to offend the older man.
‘It’s what I’m good at. Taking life and making it into something else. I spent many years on whaling ships. Liked it, too. The profits were always split between the crew and every man was equal no matter where he came from. Dark-skinned or light. ’Course, I wasn’t always at my best.’ He straightened his spine, displaying the scars that lined his withered torso and back. ‘I wanted what others had. A knife with a carved ivory handle, a nice plate of beaten silver. You could say I’m a collector of objects. But it’s a small world on a ship. Eventually you have to pay for your takings.’
‘And now you’re here,’ said Brandon.
‘No one tells me what to do. Every day is mine. Except when the squatter shows up with a straggler,’ said McCauley, chewing on the bread. ‘I’m figuring it’s your mate that caused the trouble, you’re only here to be reminded of who’s in command of the ship.’ He finished the bread and, after drinking down water from a leather bag, gave a belch. ‘The squatter doesn’t take to any type of shenanigans. I saw him shoot a man dead once. He went down like one of them cows over there and never got up. Worth remembering.’
McCauley got up and shuffled back to the yards, leaving Brandon to ponder the man who he was so keen to be employed by.
Chapter 34
Brandon left his clothes on the grass and plunged into the water. He kicked out and then dunked his head, immersing himself in a sphere of yellow-brown light that dimmed in the further reaches. He recalled when Sean had pushed him into a stream near Sydney and he’d quickly discovered the difference between sink or swim. He was not a strong swimmer, but while working for Hackett he’d been forced to help chain logs after they were pushed into the river, and he’d grown used to water. Fish skimmed by, quickening at his presence – dark whiskered catfish and beak-headed silver perch. Spiny crayfish crawled in the shallows. He surfaced, blowing water from his mouth and rubbed at his skin with handfuls of sand, trying to rid his body of the stench of the tallow works. The site was downriver, the smell of decay gone from the air. Yet the odour remained entrenched in his pores, like the sight of those cows being bloodied with a hammer.
He clung to the riverbank, staring up into the interlaced branches of stooping trees as the afternoon shadows lengthened. The ache in his muscles eased with the coolness of the water and gradually his mood brightened, although he was still reeling from his conversation with Sean. There was a pile of firewood stacked near the vats and he’d left McCauley on good terms, even accepting a pouch of crushed tea-tree leaves that the slaughterer swore treated any number of ailments from scabby blisters to sore throats. He’d done what was expected and had not complained, which was more than could be said for his missing cousin.
Brandon ducked his head under the water again and when he resurfaced he was no longer alone. Miss Schaefer and Hetty were standing on the riverbank. Hetty had a stick, which she was using to poke at his belongings until his shirt was fixed to the end of it. She waved it in the air like a flag. As the women laughed he slowly sank further into the water and paddled across to where a large limb had fallen across the river, partially bridging it. He moved along the length of it, scuttling sideways like a crab, conscious of creating the slightest splash before lifting his head, his nose only just above the water.
‘There you are.’ Hetty was behind him, his clothes gathered in her arms. ‘You don’t need to worry. Miss Schaefer’s gone to find Glanville. He flew off after his supper and we’ve been searching for him.’
Brandon retreated from her. When standing, the water came up to his waist. ‘And she left you alone, having found my clothes. I could be anyone.’
‘But you’re not anyone,’ said Hetty, quite unashamedly staring at his body. ‘I’ve seen naked men before.’
‘Really,’ said Brandon warily.
She moved closer to the water’s edge. ‘It’s your boots. You’ve got leather wrapped around them. That’s how I knew they were yours. Aren’t you getting cold?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t take long for the water to chill a person, especially when the sun starts to set.’ She looked to the hills, where sunlight already bathed the crowns. Then she sat down on the fallen tree limb with his clothes in her lap, rippling the surface of the water with the sole of her shoe.
‘Who gave you the tea-tree leaves?’ She held the leather pouch aloft.
‘Can you leave my clothes there?’ said Brandon.
‘Come and get them.’ Hetty clasped the garments to her chest.
‘Hetty . . .’ said Brandon, more forcefully.
‘You were with McCauley at the yards, weren’t you? I can tell by the stink of your clothes. Mr Truby doesn’t send many out there. It’s a dreadful business and for a man to spend his days—’
‘Hetty!’ yelled Brandon. ‘Could you please leave my clothes so I can get dressed.’
She ignored him and began dipping the tail of his shirt in the river. ‘I heard about the fight. You’d do better without your cousin. We all would,’ she told him, sinking the material a little deeper.
‘And you’d do better to leave me alone.’
‘Come now. I told you, I’ve seen a man in all his glory. Don’t be shy,’ said Hetty teasingly. She leant back on the log, her palms supporting her, as if she were enjoying a spectacle at a fair.
Brandon felt his patience give way. It was getting late and being accused of tardiness wasn’t a complaint he needed after Sean’s earlier actions. He measured his options and, lacking any other choice, waded towards Hetty, aware of the water level lowering along with her wandering gaze. He reached the bank and stood before her, his skin sheeny with water. Unexpectedly, he found himself meeting her stare. It was as if a line had been cast, connecting them in an inexplicable way. She was right in front of him now and Brandon saw the consuming interest she took in his body, felt her fingers tracing the flatness of his stomach until she was cupping his privates in her small cool hand.
He’d never actually lain with a woman. When he was young he’d taken to spraying the side of a ruined crofter’s house, marking the abandoned walls with his pleasuring. After a time he’d grown sore and sorry and decided to stop before he was caught or grew hardened skin from the friction. But this was different.
Brandon’s tongue touched hers. He heard her swallow. Knew his cheeks burnt red. He fixed on her ragged hair parting, where flecks of copper flared amid the blonde. His mind grew foggy with desire.
‘Stop,’ he said, when Hetty’s exploitations became insistent. He pushed away from her, disentangling their bodies and gathered his clothes, which had fallen to the ground. He had felt her need as strongly as his own. That was the trouble.
He waded back into the chill of the river, where he sloshed the garments up and down in the water to rinse them. Once his clothes were reasonably clean and he’d regained his composure, he draped the wet shirt over a shoulder, stepped out of the water and pulled his trousers on, conscious of his savings sewn within.
Hetty had returned to the bough. Already, the space between them had grown beyond the few feet that kept them apart.
‘I’m not one for taking advantage of a man,’ she said lightly.
Brandon knew she was trying to dispel the awkwardness.
She made a fuss of picking leaves and other debris from the hem of her dress. ‘
I’m not some ignorant girl,’ she continued, offhandedly. ‘I don’t want another baby. Miss Schaefer told me that a woman can use a sponge and—’
‘Can we not talk of it?’ Brandon pulled the shirt over his head and collected the pouch of tea-tree leaves from beside Hetty, the woman watching his every movement. He sat on the bank to tighten the leather thonging around his shoes, ensuring that none of the money stashed there was missing.
Hetty stood up. ‘All I was trying to say—’
‘I understand your meaning, Hetty,’ said Brandon, wishing she’d leave and save them further discomfort.
‘Is there someone else?’ Hetty asked. ‘This isn’t about your sister, is it?’
‘There you are.’ Miss Schaefer’s appearance was briefly foreshadowed by the snapping of branches and twigs. Glanville was perched on her gloved hand, hooded and peaceful, a far cry from a predator capable of tearing another bird to shreds. ‘And was the water refreshing?’
Brandon tightened the leather about his shoe and got to his feet, hurriedly tucking in his shirt.
‘Hetty, will you fetch the horses,’ said Miss Schaefer.
‘Yes, miss,’ said the girl obediently. She gave Brandon a soft, confused look, and left.
Miss Schaefer waited until they were alone before she next spoke. ‘Did Hetty help dress you as well?’
Brandon stuffed the small bag of tea-tree leaves in a pocket. He had no idea how long Mr Truby’s niece had been present. Perhaps she’d watched from the safety of the trees and witnessed Hetty’s wantonness and his own brief pleasure. It would be his undoing if Mr Truby discovered the liaison. ‘I should be going.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Miss Schaefer. ‘It is too late in the day for Hetty and me to be out here alone. You must escort us home. That is where you’re headed?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Brandon.
‘Good. There are boundary riders and other workmen as well as the natives to keep clear of and I would be loath for Hetty to fall foul of some torrid individual. I, of course, have Glanville for protection. And this.’ From a small bag secured at her waist she showed him a pistol.
Brandon should have been taken aback by the sight of a lady with a firearm, but the bush was no place for unpreparedness, although he rather thought that Mr Truby’s niece would be capable of handling any situation, with or without a pistol. They walked from the river through the timber, Glanville’s head pivoting left and right as they disturbed blue-tongue lizards and mottled ground-dwelling birds that scattered across the grass. On the edge of a cleared paddock they stopped to wait for Hetty, who led two horses towards them.
Miss Schaefer appeared to be consumed by the scenery ahead. ‘Did you know that the peregrine falcon mates for life? The courtship is quite exciting to watch. There is much anticipation and a degree of uncertainty but there is also the most marvellous display of precise spirals and steep dives. Aside from this mix of aerial acrobatics, I always imagined that there must be something else that leads to such bonding. An affinity that can’t be explained. Something that makes one bird catch another’s eye.’ She gave him a crooked smile. ‘Perhaps it is the falcon’s fine plumage that attracts the female. Once displayed, it is not so easily forgotten.’
Brandon nearly tripped on a log at this remark.
Chapter 35
Kirooma Station, 1948
Stella walked around the side of the homestead to where she’d planted the orange and lemon trees the year of their arrival. They were reasonably healthy this season, thanks to the sheep manure she’d carted over in the wheelbarrow from the woolshed and shovelled onto their roots, and the water she’d bucketed onto them during the sweltering summer months. There were twelve trees in Joe’s orchard, some of them already bearing fruit. The grove had been planned with the original orange tree at its centre and had benefited greatly from Joe’s pruning. Stella ran her hand through the soft leaves of the plant and then walked to the garden shed. She selected a tool from the mass of old implements stored there and returned to the copse. Had she tried swinging the axe five years previously, she would have failed miserably. But her arms were now toned from working in the garden, chopping firewood and struggling with unruly sheep when she was called upon to do a man’s work in the yards. She stared at the orange tree and then swung the blade.
In the library Stella consumed the histories of the world. The same unbalancing sensation she experienced on her entry into the room years earlier struck her every time she sought refuge within its walls. She would walk about the room holding a book in one hand, the other absently brushing the volumes as she circled. It was while reading a history of Egypt that she realised her Joe was like the Great Sphinx of Giza. A pharaoh surveying his domain. The statue had been standing for over 4000 years. Her husband would be the same. Unbending. Defiant. It would take a storm of great proportions, the force of wind and sand, to wear him down.
Stella waited patiently for Joe to say something about the mangled orange tree, but months had passed without a comment. She hoped for an argument. A quarrel rank with bitterness that might finally dredge up the issues that were close to breaking them and provide an opportunity for them both to explain how they felt. About each other. And about the all-consuming business of grazing, which once again was losing money, causing them to clash with the god who fed, clothed and housed them: the bank.
The orange tree struggled on, though she refused to tend it. Its amputated limbs shot, but it never quite managed to thrive. Eventually, a section of it became gnarled and the wood split from the main trunk and died. Stella considered trimming the lifeless portion, but she knew tidying the plant wouldn’t change anything.
One evening she went to water the orchard and found the battered remains of the original tree missing. The only evidence of its existence was a roundish hole, where the ball of roots once sought moisture and life. She felt a presence and turned around to find Joe standing behind her.
‘I’m assuming you don’t want to replace it,’ he said dryly.
Finally, he was acknowledging her vandalism. It had only taken months. She felt a sense of superiority and readied herself for the argument she’d long waited for.
‘It’s a pity you took your anger out on it. It was a very old plant. The things it would have seen. Horse-drawn carts and carriages. Men in top hats,’ said Joe.
He moved about the grove, toeing at the freshly watered soil, pinching off yellowing leaves with quick movements as if he were the head gardener in a botanical park, when for the past few years it had been her dedication that ensured the plants survived.
‘Sweet orange – Citrus sinensis,’ said Stella, as if to prove her cleverness, gleaned from a gardening book in the library.
Joe came to stand quite close to her. Clearing his throat, he removed his hat and twiddled the brim in his hands. The expression on his face suggested that he too practised looking contrite in the mirror. ‘I can stay home this week, if you like.’
That was it. After all that time and now with one brief conversation he held out a meagre excuse of an olive branch and expected her to take hold. It was a pathetic offering. Stella began to laugh. Slowly at first and then louder, until she gasped.
‘I am trying, Stella,’ said Joe.
‘It’s a bit late,’ she replied.
He took her hand but Stella shook him off and began to walk away. He reached for her again. This time his grasp on her wrist was painful, but she said nothing, surrendering herself to yet another iteration of the hurt that she already suffered. She turned and kicked him in the knee. He buckled slightly, his mouth drawing together and then he began to drag her away from the garden towards the house.
Stella fought back. Pounding at his arm, kicking his legs.
‘Let go. Let go!’ she yelled, repeating the words. ‘I hate you.’
Stella matched each of their steps with a kick or punch, but Joe’s progress only became more determined. His pace never varied, nor the strength of his grip. Eventuall
y she began to grow weary of the struggle. They were unmatched opponents and Joe’s resolve unnerved her. This wasn’t her husband. This was not the man she knew.
In the bedroom Joe led her to the bed and pushed her down onto it by her shoulders. He squatted on the ground and calmly took off her shoes. Then he looked at her, as if expecting an invitation. Stella pushed her lips together and scrutinised the man before her. His face was crinkled. Deep lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. Dirt-filled contours were etched in his neck. His hair was thinning. She calculated his age and with a sense of shock realised that Joe was now in his early forties. He was heading towards middle age. His youth was gone, and so was the man she once knew.
He removed his shirt and then undid the buttons on hers. He slid the sweat-crusted material from her shoulders and nestled his face in the side of her neck, as if her scent meant something to him. Stella stayed quite still. They’d not slept in the same bed for over two years. Not made love for so long that when their skin met, she shivered. She’d forgotten what it was like to want a man and to be wanted in return. There had only ever been Joe, fool that she was.
When Stella tried to recall how it had once been between them, her traitorous mind could only replay images of them in the library that first Friday night, dancing to the scratchy record on the gramophone. The bottle of sherry consumed after the disappointment of the honeymoon that never eventuated. The chiffon folds of her dress pushed up to her waist. Her buttocks pressed hard against the library shelves and Joe so intent that at the end when he drew away from her, he’d been dark-eyed and panting.
But that wasn’t all Stella recalled. During their lovemaking she had fixed her gaze over her new husband’s shoulder on the sepia globe and it wasn’t her love for Joe that she’d thought of, but rather what she’d considered in her apartment months earlier. That Joe’s aspirations had indeed led her somewhere and she’d ignorantly followed.
The Cedar Tree Page 22