The Cedar Cutter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘There we are,’ Elsie wheezed, her apple cheeks blooming with the exertion.

  The door sported a hefty lock and Roisin inserted the key and jiggled it a few times until with a creak and groan the door swung open. Catching a breath, she stepped over the threshold. For a moment she wanted to do nothing more than turn on her heel and run, run back to anything that was familiar. In the last few days since they’d left Sydney, she’d covered more miles and seen more than ever before in her lifetime. Gritting her teeth she stepped further inside. ‘Come on, Ruan. Let’s explore our new home.’

  The smell hit her first, dusty but not damp, as though the house had lain waiting for her to slip the key into the lock. A beam of sunlight infiltrated the narrow hall and she stepped inside where flecks floated in the stale air and her heels clicked on the wide timber floorboards. She eased open the first door on her left and peered inside. The front room, the parlour, was largish with a good-sized mullioned window facing the street; it would make a perfect place to conduct her business. At least it would when she’d given it a decent clean. The glass in the window was an unexpected bonus. She ran her hand along the mantle above the fire, thick with dust and ancient soot, and a shiver of recognition darted up her spine.

  ‘Someone dance on your grave, did they?’ Elsie asked with a smile. ‘It happens to me all the time. I put it down to all the history in these walls. All those stories aching to be told. This place has been here since the convict road gangs first came to build the road from Sydney.’

  What nonsense. It’s the last thing Ruan needed to hear, that their new home was haunted by an itinerant band of convicts. ‘No, just a little cold. I’ll be fine in the sunshine.’ Dark and musty, the air was redolent with the smell of vermin, and strangely, an overtone of something flowery.

  ‘You’ve got no kitchen as such. The room at the back’s big with a good fireplace. There’s a scullery outside, a privy and a woodshed. It’s pretty mucky. No one’s lived here for a long while. Not since the girls got sent packing.’ Elsie smothered a sneeze with her apron.

  ‘Sent packing?’

  Elsie cleared her throat, a long, drawn-out kind of snort. ‘It wasn’t the best sort of place.’ She wrung her apron in her hands and shot a quick glance at Ruan. ‘A place the men liked to visit.’ She raised her eyebrows and bobbed her head up and down. ‘That’s why you’ve got that window at the front. Not many can afford glass like that.’

  A bubble of laughter rose in Roisin’s throat and she swallowed it down. She’d leased a house of ill repute. She’d come full circle. The irony of it made her grin and all her fears floated away, scented by the familiar ghosts of the past.

  ‘I’ll leave you. I need to get back and mind the store. There’s no stove, just a camp oven, a billy and some old furniture out the back in the woodshed, couple of padded chairs and a few other bits ’n pieces you might be able to make use of. Sing out if you need anything.’ Elsie bustled out, leaving a gaping silence.

  Ruan tugged at her hand. ‘Come on.’ He clattered down the hallway, which opened into a bigger room and off that a door. ‘This is the bedroom. See, Mam?’

  In one corner stood a large stringed bed with a rolled ticking-covered mattress, big enough for both of them. Moth-eaten curtains dangled in one corner forming a cupboard next to a shuttered window. Only the front window of the building merited glass, its face on the world. Good enough. She pushed the hinged timber shutter wide and light flooded in.

  ‘A ladder, Mam, a ladder.’ Ruan pulled away and scampered up the rungs.

  ‘Take care …’

  His head disappeared into the small, shadowed hole. ‘It’s dark.’ He gave a loud sniff. ‘Argh! And smelly.’

  ‘Come down. We’ll look later.’

  Taking no notice of her, he clambered up the ladder, his body disappearing until only the scuffed soles of his boots remained, staring at her like upturned palms. ‘There’s another bed. Come and see.’ The ceiling creaked, marking his progress, and she scuttled up after him.

  The attic lay beneath the sharpest point of the roof, the steep pitch below head height for anyone except a small boy.

  ‘Got it.’ With a bump and a whine the shutter opened and Ruan turned his pale face, wreathed in a huge smile. ‘I shall have my own room. This is mine.’

  ‘No, Ruan. We’ll sleep downstairs.’

  ‘Mam. I’m not a baby. I’ve never had my own bed. Look.’ He crossed the floor and sank onto the bed, nothing more than a series of branches held together by rope ties, the lumpy, straw-filled mattress already unrolled. ‘They knew I was coming. See—they’ve left me a present.’ He waved three black-and-orange feathers bound with dried grass.

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose. ‘Put them down.’ It was all fanciful childish nonsense. There’d be a dead bird somewhere to account for the feathers and putrid smell.

  ‘They’re clean, Mam. All cleaned.’ He gave a bounce on the bed, swung his legs up and lay back with the feathers fanned out in front of his face. ‘My own room.’

  What could she say? Of course it could be his, though not until it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life, the same as the rest of the place. She pushed her sleeves above her elbows and tucked up the corners of her skirt. ‘Come downstairs and let’s see what else we have.’ She backed down the ladder. ‘Come on now. We’ll fix it later.’

  ‘But this can be my room. My very own.’

  ‘Yes, my darling. We’ll make it yours.’

  Satisfied, Ruan clattered down the ladder, the three feathers tucked into his back pocket, dark against his cord trousers. ‘What else have we got in our house?’

  The back room was the width of the house with a large, sooty walk-in fireplace. A huge black pot on three legs sat over the dusty remains of a fire. A far cry from the immaculate range Aunt Lil had installed a couple of years ago in Sydney. Never mind. She’d work it out and no doubt Elsie would be more than happy to offer advice.

  The walls were lime-washed, and bundled in one corner behind the rectangular table and a couple of mismatched chairs lay a pile of grubby rag rugs. She grimaced, lifting them with her toe, her flesh creeping at the thought of the rats’ nest she might unearth.

  A dresser stood in the niche between the fireplace and the back door, and around the knob a key hung on a piece of twine. She pushed it into the lock. It squeaked and complained and when she delivered a hefty wrench the door swung free. Two steps led down to a flagstone path and a small yard framed by the scullery and privy.

  Ruan gave a cursory glance and skipped outside. ‘There’s another house at the back.’

  By the time she’d left the kitchen and negotiated the sandstone steps Ruan had vanished.

  ‘Blah, it smells!’

  ‘Mind your manners and come here. Away!’

  ‘It’s a woodshed.’ His muffled voice drifted out of the dilapidated slab hut. ‘There’s wood and some old junk, chairs and stuff. We can light the fire and make our dinner.’

  ‘We’ll do nothing until this place is spotless. Now let’s go and get our bags and bring them in. There’s work to do.’

  A loud thump and a clatter echoed through the house, sending her back up the steps at a gallop.

  ‘Where would ye be liking these?’ Carrick grinned, her two carpetbags clamped in his enormous paws. With his shoulders as good as touching the walls he eased his way down the hallway and kicked the bedroom door open.

  ‘Oh, anywhere. Just anywhere.’

  He deposited them just inside the door. ‘Anything else I can do?’

  ‘Carrick!’ Ruan barrelled up the back steps and into the house. ‘Come and see my bedroom and you were right, there’s a woodshed, and wood.’

  ‘That’s men’s work, me boy. Come along.’

  Roisin opened her mouth to object, and then closed it with a snap at the sight of the pride beaming from Ruan’s face. He’d had so little contact with men, lived all his life within a tight circle of women, cosseted, pampered and hidd
en away from prying eyes. Perhaps it was time to set aside her fears. ‘You stay right here and don’t leave while I go and speak with Elsie. We need brooms, buckets and cloths.’

  ‘And that’s women’s work.’ Carrick threw the words over his shoulder and tossed another of his audacious winks, before walking away with Ruan clinging to his hand as though he’d evaporate.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Roisin held her breath and listened to the sighing of the house. This would be their home. Nothing as elaborate as she’d find in Sydney but she could relax, free of the constant need to guard Ruan’s every move.

  Clean first and then unpack. It would take several days, but what did it matter? She had all the time in the world. No need to look over her shoulder anymore. No need to worry that she’d turn and Ruan would be gone. No problems soap and sunlight wouldn’t cure.

  Armed with mops and a bucket, soap, brushes, cloths and most importantly tea, Roisin nudged her way back through the front door. She’d begin in the bedroom and work her way through, leaving the parlour until last. Until her trunks arrived from Morpeth she couldn’t even start to think about setting up shop; making a home for Ruan was more important. But first she needed water.

  She dumped everything onto the kitchen table and peered outside into the garden, where Ruan was busy stacking a pile of freshly chopped logs against the wall.

  Carrick, shirtsleeves rolled up revealing his strong, pale forearms, raised the axe as though it weighed nothing more than one of Ruan’s black-and-orange feathers, and brought it down, splitting the log into two neat pieces. Ruan waited for Carrick’s nod and rushed in, picked one up and deposited it on the growing pile. Grasping the bucket, she set off in search of the water pump.

  ‘We’ve made a wood pile here.’ Ruan pointed to the rows of wood stacked against the woodshed wall just inside the door. ‘Then we can light the fire and make some tea.’

  She ran her hand over his head. ‘I’d love a cup of tea and I expect Mr O’Connor would, too, but first I have to find some water.’

  ‘It’s over here.’ Ruan led her to the side of the woodshed and sure enough, lurching against the lopsided timber wall, stood a hand pump. She placed the bucket underneath and lifted the handle. The pump wheezed and coughed its belligerent response.

  ‘Let me.’ Carrick’s big hand came down on her shoulder, easing her aside. ‘I should have thought to check it.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m sure I can do it.’ She heaved the handle again. ‘I think something might be blocked, or maybe it’s just because it hasn’t been used.’ She wiped at her forehead with her arm.

  Carrick stepped closer. ‘Move away.’ He lifted his booted foot and slammed it against the casing, making the whole woodshed rock and groan and threaten to topple.

  ‘Stand back.’ Using both hands, he raised the lever then slammed it down, not once, three times in rapid succession. The pump coughed, spluttered and finally a few desultory drops hit the dirt. The dribble grew until a rusty stream of foul-smelling water ran and puddled at their feet.

  ‘Water’s been sitting for a while. Give it time to clear then I’ll fill the bucket. We need to be lighting the fire before we can put the billy on.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for chopping the wood, too.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep up with the thanks. I’ve time to do the work. And I’ve got a good little helper.’ He slapped his hands together and wiped them down the back of his trousers before retrieving his vest from the log pile and shrugging it over his chequered shirt.

  ‘Mam?’ Ruan’s head appeared in the doorway of the shed, his hair standing up like a cocky’s crest. ‘Can I stay outside?’ She nodded, wiping a smudge of dirt from the bridge of his upturned nose and he was off like a shot. ‘He’s a good lad.’

  ‘He’s only six.’

  ‘He’ll grow up fine and strong. Guard him well.’ Carrick walked into the kitchen carrying an armful of logs.

  Guard him well. She had every intention of doing that. Ruan was the reason she got up each morning, the binding that held her together.

  Within moments Carrick had smoke billowing from the fireplace, filling the room. She threw open the shutters and the doors. ‘Oh dear. I think I may have taken on more than I bargained for.’

  ‘We’ll have it spick and span in no time. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘I can’t impose on you any longer, Mr O’Connor.’

  ‘Just Carrick’ll do. And like I said, it’s my pleasure. We’ll be heading off later this afternoon. Until then me time is yours.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘You can repay me with a cup of tea. I’ll sort out the chimney and bring in some water for you. It’ll be running clear by now. You’ve got a decent pile of logs. Should keep you going for a few weeks, until I get back.’

  In a matter of moments a cheery fire burned in the fire place and Carrick had set the billy to boil. Roisin opened the bag of tea from the store, added a handful to the billy and took two cracked cups down from the mantelpiece and rinsed them in the bucket.

  ‘Tell me about these trunks Maisie’s on about. Coming to Morpeth, she said.’ He righted the two wooden chairs stacked in the corner and brought them to the table.

  Maisie hadn’t wasted much time in broadcasting the chitchat. ‘Yes.’ Roisin swallowed and looked away. Being without all their belongings still made her feel something of a fugitive. She’d write to Aunt Lil tomorrow and ask her to forward them on as soon as possible.

  ‘They’ll be wanting collection, then?’ He lifted the billy from the fire and banged it against the side of the table then poured the tea into the cups.

  ‘I have to arrange it.’

  ‘You let me know if I can help.’

  The man made everything sound so simple, yet there was something about his familiarity that made her uneasy. She sipped the scalding tea, sneaking a look at him over the rim of the cup. He appeared so relaxed, so at home with his long legs stretched out in front of him as he rested against the table. ‘I’ll manage. Thank you for the offer.’ Her taut tone sounded stiff and unfriendly, although he didn’t seem to mind. He just grinned, downed the rest of his tea and stood up.

  ‘Thanks. I better be off.’

  Ruan appeared and his face crumpled when he realised Carrick was leaving. He propped his elbows on the table and groaned, a picture of abject misery. ‘Can I come with you?’ His voice caught in his throat, a familiar precursor to tears.

  ‘You must stay here with your mam and protect her. She needs a man about the place.’

  Why did Carrick always manage to say the right thing? Just the words to keep Ruan happy, more than happy, puffed up and full of pride.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you both next time I’m coming through town.’

  And with that the cedar cutter was gone.

  The room seemed suddenly empty and Roisin swirled the remains of her tea in her cup. Ruan sighed heavily and pulled the three feathers from his pocket and smoothed them. ‘They’re black cockatoo feathers, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You’re a very clever boy.’

  He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like man. ‘Carrick told me.’

  ‘I might need some help.’

  Ruan stomped his way outside and slammed the door behind him. She picked up the teacups and put them in the bucket for later. She didn’t seem to have the right words to keep Ruan happy, not like the cedar cutter.

  Three

  Slinger’s abusive shouts bounced down the street, telling Carrick it was time to leave. He’d sorted most of the lass’s problems. The rest she’d manage herself. Despite her fragile looks and fey face, she was stronger and more capable than he’d given her credit for.

  ‘We sure as shit gave those Paterson boys a run for their money.’ Slinger sniffed dismissively and slumped down next to Carrick, reeking of stale rum and something he’d rather not dwell on.

  ‘Took all their money, cleaned them out. And you won fair
and square.’

  ‘They can have the title next year. We’ll be out of the Hunter by then.’ For the first time Carrick could remember, he didn’t relish returning to the Yarramalong. The job was as good as finished and once they’d cleared the last trees he’d call it quits. He’d long become used to the festering damp and incessant insect attack of the forest, it was not seeing the sky for weeks on end that caused him grief.

  The heavy canopy of vines, some thicker than a man’s wrist, clung to the treetops and blotted out most of the light. They turned day to a miserable twilight and left a man’s skin pale and wan. After a time the touch of the sun on his face meant more than any stand of cedar trees. ‘Red gold’ they called the cedar; he preferred the warmth of the sun. Was it too great a price to pay? No. The red gold was worth the days of sacrifice and soon they’d be finished.

  And he’d be on his way home. There had to be a decent sum sitting in the pile of drafts at the bank in Sydney. Almost enough for his passage back to Ireland.

  Carrick resisted the urge to hurry the bullocky—there was little point. The animals set the pace regardless of the weight they were carrying on the dray. It would take them the best part of five days no matter how much he complained. And that was without rain. He leant back as the incline increased and a thud echoed. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. ‘G’day, Billy Boy.’

  ‘Boss.’ The man hung over the back of the seat between him and the bullocky.

  Carrick reached into his pocket and dragged out a plug of tobacco and tossed it back with a grin.

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘How’s the old man?’

  ‘Old. He get lazy. Sit by the brook and dream his stories.’

  ‘You give him my best.’

  ‘Will do, boss. You go cutting?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Be seeing youse.’ As quickly as he had appeared, the native left, his narrow, agile limbs blending into the tangled bush lining the road.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother with ’em,’ Slinger grumbled, hoicking a glob of spit onto the road to emphasise his displeasure.