‘You could have sold and left the district,’ said Stella.
‘So could he,’ replied Brandon. ‘Here.’
Stella accepted the grainy black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of a young woman. ‘Is this Hetty?’
‘No. That’s my stepsister, Maggie. She wrote to me from Sydney to tell me that it was her time. A time of wine and roses. We’d talked about it once, how our lives would improve. What we’d do in the future. Oh, you should have seen that letter, it was written in the finest copperplate. I scarcely believed it was from her. I read the damn thing so much that eventually it fell apart. I would sit at a table and fit the four pieces together along the original fold lines and wonder at her life.’ He ran a bony finger across the surface of the photo. ‘That dress was brown. With blue ribboned edging. She told me of it. The plainness of it would have made her eyes sparkle. The colour. It had a particular name. The Sargasso Sea. That’s what she’d called it. We were blown off course and ended up there on our way south to Australia. A sea with no land borders. Not a trace of country anywhere and certainly no glimpse of the old one we’d left. We were stranded for a week. Becalmed. Circled by stories of ships forever mired in the brown seaweed that threaded the ocean’s surface. The younger passengers grew fearsome. Not Maggie. She was spellbound by the blueness of the water and she’d stare into its depths, her arms dangling over the railing. Lost in her Sargasso Sea. She pined for it once the winds finally came, and the sails billowed, and a new ocean was reached.’
An insect had long ago decided to end its life on the photograph so that a dark blotch marked the image. Stella returned the picture to Brandon and he tucked it back inside the scrapbook.
‘You would think that age would have blunted an old man like me, but I can still recall those brown eyes. Sweet and fierce. If I could wish for anything, it would be to stand on the land that I’d travelled from all those years earlier. Her hand in mine. That last day was so crisp and clear. The land steaming with the heating of the sun. Blue-tinged mountains and the curls of smoke streaming from the farmhouses that stretched across the valley. It wasn’t to be. Maggie eventually left Kirooma and returned to Ireland and I never saw or heard from her again.’
‘It was your stepsister you wrote to at Kirooma,’ said Stella, recalling the contents of the letter in the Bible. ‘You were in love with your stepsister?’
‘Judge me if you choose to, girl, but I have loved her all my life. I can’t tell you why or how, only that from the age of ten or eleven I began to feel a special tenderness towards her. My stepmother was harsh and in those early years her expectations of Maggie as child-rearer and cook were high. There were lashings with a corded rope.’ He broke off at this memory, clearly finding it difficult to continue. ‘Her leaving for Kirooma fairly winded me, but what a thing to do, eh? Travel out through the wilderness with strangers to strangers. Ten years she stayed there. Ten whole years. She started a fine orchard. Helped birth children. Became a dressmaker to the lady of the house. I heard later from Mr Truby that the Handalays took Maggie under their wing, schooling her properly, so that by the time of her leaving the contents of the library at Kirooma was embedded in her brain. My Maggie, an educated woman.’
Stella thought of those books that she too had read. ‘And you never visited her.’
‘I considered it. Every day. But the thought of seeing Maggie, knowing that her feelings would be unchanged, stopped me.’
Brandon had reached an age where every emotion showed itself in the smallest of ways. He rubbed at a knuckle, slowly, pensively. ‘I was shocked she returned to the old country, but that was her place, that’s what called to her. So, she answered, and went home. Maggie was stronger than me. Stronger than the lot of us. And I have no doubt she lived well and fully. Believing that has given me some satisfaction. We lost so much saving her, my dear Stella. None of it would have been worth it if she’d stayed here with me under sufferance.’
‘So, Sean moved here with his family, accepted your generosity but you and he never reconciled?’
Brandon’s attention diverted to the garden. ‘We might have, except for that one afternoon beneath the cedar tree.’
‘Are you telling me that something else happened?’ asked Stella.
From the rear of the scrapbook Brandon pulled out a folded paper, which he handed to her. Stella took it, their eyes meeting briefly and then she opened the parchment. It was cracked and weathered, however the diagram of the house was quite clear. It was a roomy home with wide windows and high ceilings. The construction measurements were intricately noted and even the materials were listed: pine timber, kiln-fired bricks for the fireplaces, and pressed-metal ceilings.
‘Whose house is this?’ she asked.
‘I designed it for Sean.’ Brandon lowered his chin and closed his eyes.
Chapter 53
Richmond Valley, 1891
Sean hobbled down the hill early one morning, knocked on the door and then moved to stand in the middle of the garden. Brandon wasn’t surprised by his cousin’s aloof manner. It remained unaltered from the day of his arrival on the property a week earlier when they’d said each other’s name in greeting, and then acknowledged over two decades of estrangement with a brief handshake. Harry, the heir apparent of the land, had been duly presented: a swaddled, chubby-faced baby cradled in the arms of his careworn mother, Edwina, a woman of few words but whose grateful smile more than compensated for Sean’s unreadable expression. At the sound of Sean calling him, Brandon walked out onto the veranda, slipping his arms into his coat.
‘I’ve come about the house,’ said Sean.
‘Morning,’ Brandon replied cheerfully. ‘It won’t take Tommy and Geoff long to complete the frame.’
Sean had initially complained that the location of his home was too close to Brandon’s. He didn’t want to be living on the ridge overlooking the main homestead, however Brandon stuck fast to this single condition that came with the gifting of the land. He hoped for a reconciliation and having Sean close by was the one way he could ensure that they saw each other regularly.
‘Hetty’s old cottage is probably a bit cramped. You could move in with us while the house is being built,’ Brandon offered, not for the first time. ‘It’s up to you. The cottage is yours now. I have no use for it.’
Sean ignored him and, turning awkwardly, commenced walking back up the rise. For a cripple he moved efficiently, making the best of a leather-and-wood leg, which, combined with a walking stick, propelled him across the sloping ground. ‘Come with me.’
‘Should I bring the building plans?’
‘No need for that,’ called Sean.
Brandon followed, wondering what problem Sean had discovered with his new home. Maybe the rooms were too small, or another fireplace was needed, although he’d done his best to consider his cousin’s needs, even ensuring that the veranda was built flat on the ground so that Sean wouldn’t be troubled by steps. They made their way to where the lone cedar tree marked the boundary between their two properties, and it was here that Sean stopped.
‘I noticed that there’s a stack of unused cedar planks stored in the shed next to the steam engine,’ said Sean, slightly breathless.
‘There is,’ said Brandon, trying not to be offended by his cousin’s brisk tone. ‘They’re left over from Mr Truby’s time.’ He didn’t mention that the best ones had been burnt during Hackett’s attack, twenty-four years earlier.
‘I want to use that wood for my home,’ stated Sean.
Brandon thought of the labour involved in felling the pine and then carting it back by dray to the site. ‘But the pine is already cut,’ he reminded his cousin.
‘Yes. Pine. I can’t see why my boy has to have a second-rate house.’ Sean’s attention was centred on Brandon’s two-storey cedar homestead below. ‘Especially when there’s spare cedar lying about.’
‘Firstly, there’s not enough of it for the job and secondly, don’t you think it’s a waste, using it for
another house? Why don’t we sell it and split the proceeds? There’s still excellent money about for decent timber.’ Brandon emphasised the joint aspect of the venture, hopeful of easing his cousin’s agitation with the offer.
‘I’m amazed you haven’t done that already, but then I suppose you’ve never had to worry about a lack of coin,’ challenged Sean.
Brandon chose to ignore his cousin’s attempt to rile him. ‘The boards aren’t in very good condition. Quite a few of them are cracked. Mr Truby was very particular about the quality of the timber that was used in the renovations.’
‘That man had such a high opinion of himself that I wonder he even deigned to use wood that us Irish cut.’ Sean leant on his stick, his eyes blazing as they had when they’d both been younger men.
To see Sean that way, still ready for a fight, unchanged in disposition, came as a deep disappointment to Brandon. ‘Mr Truby’s dead now,’ he replied. His deferential air provoked a grunt from his cousin.
‘I’ve checked those boards myself. There would be enough to build the house, if we cut down this tree.’ Sean lifted his walking stick and tapped one of the roots that twisted out across the ground like a massive tentacle. ‘This would finish the place off nicely. And once it’s gone we can erect a boundary fence.’
Brandon rested his palm reverently on the trunk ‘You want to cut this tree down?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Sean. ‘I can’t understand why you didn’t get rid of it with the rest of the timber years ago. I don’t see the point of keeping a lone tree.’
They stood there for the slightest of moments, gazing up into the branches.
‘When Mr Truby eventually had the rest of the cedars felled, I literally went cap in hand to him and asked him to keep this one. It’s a fine specimen,’ said Brandon.
‘It’s had its time. Lasted longer than most in these parts,’ replied Sean dismissively.
Brandon couldn’t believe what Sean was suggesting. The tree had stood for well over a century, witnessing the settlement of Truby’s property, surviving droughts and fires and the coming and going of those people who were dear to him. He’d sat beneath it after Maggie headed west and following Sean’s amputation and his eventual leaving. At Mr Truby’s death and the reading of the will, which left him a wealthy man, he’d spent many hours simply gazing up into the crown of the tree, contemplating his changed life. And finally, the day Hetty was buried, the tree stood guard at her wake. He knew the shade it provided, the birds that sheltered in its branches. More than that, the tree had watched him grow into a man of means, entrusted with acres, livestock, crops and labourers. If there was a shred of faith left within him, it was centred in the cedar tree. For it still stood. A silent observer to the folly of man.
‘It’s just a tree,’ said Sean tightly.
‘Maybe to you.’ Brandon placed his palms on the trunk. ‘We spent nearly three years of our lives destroying the timber in the Big Scrub. We’re finished cutting down trees. This one stays.’
They regarded each other with unflinching stares.
It was Sean who broke away first. He coughed and repositioned the walking stick in the grass. ‘I engraved my initials into it,’ he said. ‘Branded it. The day we moved into the house. So by law it’s mine.’
They walked around the base of the tree and Brandon followed his cousin’s gaze. A little above head height, in clear deep cuts, were Sean’s initials.
‘I can’t let you have it. I’m sorry. If you want to use the leftover cedar, you can, but this tree stays,’ said Brandon adamantly.
‘Oh, I see. We can’t have the poor cousin building anything that even remotely resembles your mansion.’ Sean’s face grew hard. A fan of wrinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes. ‘And here I was, thinking that you’d changed. That you were prepared to make amends for everything you’d done in the past. I should have known better.’
‘Sean, please. If you’re so desperate to build your house with cedar, we’ll go out and find another. There are still a few stands left on the property.’
‘No. I’m claiming a cedar-feller’s rights. It’s branded and I’ll be cutting it tomorrow. It’s the least you can do, considering everything that’s happened,’ said Sean more loudly.
Brandon was stunned. ‘You’d still be destitute if it wasn’t for me, Sean, so don’t stand there talking about what you intend to claim. I branded this tree the first year we came here. 1867.’ He stalked to the opposite side of the trunk and pointed to his own initials. They were large and clear. ‘If it’s the law of the axeman you’re keen to abide by then I’ll tell you straight. The tree is mine and it stands in the middle of the boundary between our two properties, so you best keep your axe away from it. I can kick you off this land just as easily as I’ve allowed you onto it. Don’t forget that.’
‘You bastard.’ Sean smacked his stick forcefully across Brandon’s shoulders and then drove hard and fast into his body so that Brandon unbalanced and rolled down the hill.
He sat up as the dizziness cleared from his head. On the rise above, Sean was waving his stick. ‘Don’t you dare cross this boundary ever again. Do you hear me, Brandon Ryan? You can keep your blasted tree, but I’ll be keeping Harry’s land. Maybe you’ve forgotten but possession is nine-tenths of the law.’
Chapter 54
Richmond Valley, 1949
They were in the kitchen waiting for her; Harry and Ann sitting at the table, and John and Bill leaning on the bench together. Stella noticed the way the twins fidgeted, and their proximity to the door, as if they were hoping for the possibility of a quick escape. She lingered in the doorway, the diagram in her hand. Being stared at was far from pleasant, but then silence was a state that she’d grown used to. She thought of Kirooma and the still air of the homestead. The surrounding, ceaseless dunes. If the O’Riain family hoped to intimidate, there would be disappointment. They were yet to realise that she could summon the hardness that came with desertion.
Dirty plates were stacked on the sink. The rings from the tea and coffee mugs stained the surface of a table that usually shone from the daily rubbing she gave it. They were an untidy lot. Used to being cared for. It was the first time she’d seen these four members of the family together and the differences were plain. Bill, stout and broad-faced like Harry, had stayed clear of the house since her arrival. His brother John favoured his mother, but while Ann was pleasant but prone to argument, he’d proved to be open and interested. She hoped John might offer reassurance. A nod, perhaps. Some gesture of solidarity, for he had been aware of her visits beyond the fence before she’d told Ann about them. Across the room, John rubbed a socked foot on the rear of his calf. Like Bill, he was concentrating on his father’s profile. Waiting.
Ann noticed Stella’s arrival and reached for her husband, lightly touching the back of his hand. Harry barely registered her gesture, concentrating instead on ignoring Stella completely. It was a wasted exercise, for the family had obviously gathered for her benefit. It was late afternoon. A whole day had passed since Stella had told Ann that she’d been visiting Brandon and that she was partially packed and ready to leave.
‘It’s difficult to understand why you’ve purposely gone against my wishes,’ said Harry finally, folding his large hands and resting them on the tabletop.
Stella had to stifle a laugh. It was not what he said, but the condescension that laced his speech that made the situation so absurd.
‘You think it’s funny,’ said Harry. ‘We invite you into this house and the one thing I ask you not to do . . .’
Stella leant against the cupboards, closing her mind to the words tumbling out of her brother-in-law’s mouth. She was so weary of this family, with their resentments and cloistered existence. Even the Valley with its sweet greenery and chain of hills had lost its allure. It was no longer a safe haven. It had become like Kirooma – small and stifling.
At some stage, Harry noticed that she wasn’t listening, and he stood rather abruptly. Stella imag
ined the fury Harry yearned to wield. He was Joe’s brother, after all. There was only so much backing away he could withstand before his need to assert superiority would present.
‘You think you know a story, but you have to go back to the beginning to truly understand it. Now I do, and you should make the effort to as well,’ said Stella.
Harry gave her a withering gaze. He’d obviously not expected her to speak so plainly. Not when she was a guest in his home. Ann and the boys were like circus clowns, mouths open, swivelling from left to right.
‘I’m sure there are differences between Brandon’s version of events and that of your father’s, however regardless of Sean’s Fenian leanings or Brandon’s involvement with Mr Truby, the fact remains that the loss of your father’s leg was an accident.’
‘Grandfather was a Fenian?’ said Bill.
‘Shh.’ Ann glared at her son.
Harry’s eyes grew as small as currants.
Stella knew it was a mistake to show contempt, although perhaps it wasn’t contempt, more disappointment at Harry’s steadfast refusal to budge from the past. ‘It was Ann who made me curious about your neighbour. She was the one who told me that Joe had visited his house. And, as none of you wanted to talk about Joe, I needed to speak to someone who’d known him. Someone who might have been able to explain his personality. You can’t blame me for that.’
‘I knew it would upset you.’ Ann’s attention was directed at her husband, who refused to meet her gaze.
‘Well, that’s the reason I visited him. Anyway, as far as the disagreement between the two families, it was between Brandon and Sean. One that was based on a stupid argument. Surely after all these years it’s time to let go and move on,’ argued Stella.
The Cedar Tree Page 34