The Cedar Cutter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘More like one of them rats that live out the back, I’d say.’ Elsie’s face wrinkled in distaste.

  ‘It’s not dirty.’ He stretched out his palm across the table. ‘It’s clean and sort of polished.’ He ran his little finger over the skull. ‘See it’s smooth, real smooth.’

  ‘I expect your skull’s smooth under all that hair.’ Roisin lifted the fall of his hair and raked her fingers through his silky locks. Paler than hers, more like his father’s. ‘Off you go, Ruan. Upstairs and put your treasure in your box.’

  Maisie heaved her bulk out of the chair and brushed her hands down her apron. ‘Can’t be sitting around here all day looking at skulls and skeletons. I’ve got live bodies to deal with. Me stew’ll be burning.’

  ‘And I’ve got deliveries to sort. Thanks for the tea, love. We’ll leave you to your business now. You’ll be setting up shop in the parlour, will you?’

  Roisin nodded, still incapable of framing any words, as the relief of having survived their examination turned her legs to jelly.

  ‘Those windows will need a clean.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve still got a lot to do. I have three trunks to collect from Morpeth. They’re coming on the steamer. I have to arrange someone to pick them up. All my materials and cottons and silks.’

  ‘Silk you say—well we’ll be calling this Maison Wollombi at this rate.’

  ‘Silk! No silk for the likes of me. I’m lucky if I can keep me pinny clean.’ A faraway look drifted across Elsie’s face. ‘Though when I was a girl I had a red flannel petticoat. Always wanted another one. Some bugger nabbed it at the female factory and I never saw it again.’

  ‘Get away with you—red flannel petticoat.’ Maisie chuckled. ‘I’ll put the word out and see if anyone’s going Morpeth way. Save you a bit if someone can pick those trunks up for you.’ She bustled out with Elsie following close on her heels.

  Roisin stood by the door swirling the tea leaves in her cup, as the two women strolled down the alley, heads close together.

  ‘See. I told you. Pure as the driven snow—sweet love. Widowed and so young and that boy he’s a pretty thing. Must have been a corker, her husband.’

  Letting her lashes fall, Roisin rested her head against the wall. At some stage she’d need to have a longer talk with Ruan and make sure they came up with the same story. No one had ever asked him about his father and he’d never questioned it. It would happen one day soon. Lies—that was the trouble; after the first one the net dragged deeper and deeper.

  Four

  Carrick made his way into the offices on the Queen’s Wharf at Morpeth, the last of the cedar unloaded from the dray, marked and ready for shipment to Sydney.

  He pushed open the office door and frowned at the clerk, who threw him an officious glance, then buried his head. ‘Next load’s in the yard ready for shipment to Sydney. Have you got the paperwork for me to sign?’

  The clerk peered over the top of his fine round spectacles. ‘Mr O’Connor. That was quick. Another load already. My paperwork says not to expect you until next month.’

  ‘Well your paperwork’s wrong.’

  ‘I can assure you it is not. I do not make mistakes.’ He inserted a new nib into the penholder and toyed with the totals on the white pad of paper. ‘You must have found an impressive stand.’

  Carrick grunted in response, his hand outstretched for the reckoning. He wasn’t falling for that. No bragging about the size of the stand, where or when it would run out. It was none of the bugger’s business. Knowledge like that was worth money and could cause a brawl. They were cutting on unallocated ground without a licence and there was a fifty-pound fine or the threat of the entire cargo being seized, which would make a God-awful hole in his profits. All he wanted was the signed bill of sale.

  The system worked, always had. Didn’t need some officious little rat, too full of his own self-importance, sticking his nose in. The regulations favoured a few wealthy merchants in Sydney who thought they had the trade in their pockets. Carrick wanted the timber shipped down to Sydney same as always, straight into the hands of his agent, no matter how long it was between shipments. He trusted Brinkworth. He’d dealt with him for the last five years, trusted that his money would be tied up tight in his account in the Bank of New South Wales, right there on George Street in Sydney. Trusted him to keep his mouth shut, too. Brinkworth got the cedar cheap because he didn’t ask any questions about licences and he made a nice tidy sum on the side. ‘And there’ll be more in the next month, too.’

  ‘Must be a big stand, then? Where did you say it was?’

  ‘Hunter cedar. It’s good quality and not for you to judge. Just give me the receipts and I’ll be on my way.’

  After a great deal of shuffling and sorting, all designed to make the job appear hard, the clerk handed over the paperwork.

  Carrick ran his eye down the neat list of figures, totalling them as he went. ‘You’ll be checking the addition on these totals before I sign it.’

  ‘I assure you, Mr O’Connor it’s all correct.’

  Lazy sod, and a cheater, too. ‘Check it. The total should read five pounds six shillings at twenty-two shillings per hundred foot. We just offloaded three hundred. That’s not what’s on the receipt.’

  ‘The conditions for purchase have altered, Mr O’Connor. Let me read the new conditions to you.’

  Carrick snatched back the bill of sale. ‘There’ll be no need to read anything. It says here that Brinkworth’s paying twenty-two shillings.’ He stabbed at the piece of paper.

  The clerk flushed and pushed his glasses up above the bulbous lump on the bridge of his nose.

  Carrick took a step closer, his shadow falling across the desk. ‘You’d be new around here, would you?’ And thinking him blinded by the sawdust or the rum. Well, he was wrong. Idiot thought he was onto a good thing. The sooner they learned that just because men worked the forests didn’t mean they were all rum-swilling halfwits, the better he’d get on.

  The clerk flinched and cleared his throat. ‘There does seem to be a slight error here.’ He adjusted the totals. ‘If you’d like to make your mark we’ll confirm the transaction.’

  Carrick signed his full name with a flourish and dropped the pen back onto the desk. A blob of ink spluttered from the nib and landed on the clerk’s cuff. His face darkened. Serve the bugger right. Messing him about. ‘Now if you’d be telling me where I might find the luggage storage, I’d be obliged. I have some trunks from Sydney to collect.’

  ‘Passenger trunks?’ The thin eyebrows disappeared up into a moth-eaten fall of hair thick with pomade or some other affectation.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘They’ll be stowed at the Rose, Shamrock and Thistle. You will of course require some proof of identity to collect them.’

  ‘Rose, Shamrock and Thistle, you say.’ Carrick winked at the clerk. ‘Then I’ll be having a word with the lovely Nell. I’m sure she’ll not have a problem with me picking anything up. G’day to you.’ He rammed his hat back on his head and let the door slam behind him. Jumped-up little rat. The bigger and busier Morpeth got, the more like Sydney it became with its airs, graces and narrowed eyes that peered down on a working man.

  He waved at the bullocky and gestured across the road to the inn, nestled next to the quay, then whistling some long-forgotten tune he struck off up the street. Now wouldn’t it be a lovely surprise for the bonny Roisin Ogilvie if he were to turn up with all her chattels collected and nothing for her to worry about. That’d make those emerald eyes sparkle. He chuckled to himself as he swung through the door and into the taproom.

  ‘Well, Nell me darlin’ girl, just look at you. Lighten any man’s heart you would.’

  ‘Oh get away with you.’ The old woman’s face flushed, stripping away the years of hard work and disappointment, giving a glimpse of the lass she’d once been. ‘You and your Irish blarney. Now what can I do for you? I don’t want any of your roughhousing here. All my rooms are full and
they’re paying guests, so no nonsense from you and your cutters.’

  ‘Ah, Nellie me girl, would you not be having a bit of fun with us?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t, as you very well know. What do you want?’

  ‘A favour if you please. A favour.’

  ‘Why would I be granting you any favours?’ A blush spread across her wrinkled cheeks as Carrick leant across the countertop. ‘Get away with you.’

  ‘A little bird told me you had some trunks here waiting to be collected. Belonging to a Mrs Roisin Ogilvie.’ A bit of a gamble, though with luck they might have arrived.

  ‘And what if I have?’

  ‘I’m here to collect them.’ He stood back from the counter and folded his arms.

  ‘And how would I know that’s the truth? Have you got a letter authorising you?’

  ‘Come on, Nell. I’d be doing the lady a favour. You wouldn’t want to be spoiling a surprise now, would you?’

  ‘I can’t let them go without something to show.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You give me a piece of paper and I’ll be signing it to say I’ve received the trunks. If there’s a problem you know where to find me.’

  ‘If you think I’m crawling through some forest with all them snakes and spiders and the like to find you, you’re mistaken.’

  ‘You won’t need to and you know it. Come on.’ He reached across the desk and took a piece of paper and pen and scribbled a few words, then folded it and sealed it with a quick kiss. ‘There.’

  She opened the paper and scanned him up and down. ‘You could charm the birds from the sky, Carrick O’Connor.’ She unclipped a key from the bunch around her waist and held it out. ‘They’re in the luggage room. Three fine blue trunks. You can’t miss them.’

  Grand. ‘Thanks, Nell. You won’t be sorry.’

  ‘Get along with you.’

  A little bit of romance always found its way to a woman’s heart. Carrick grinned and swung the door to the luggage room. As Nell said, he couldn’t miss the three trunks, and they were very fine. Two good-sized travelling trunks and one smaller one. Leather and studded with brass rivets. The sort that belonged to an uptown lady, not a widow setting up business in an out-of-the-way township. He picked up the largest and shouldered open the back door. Good to his word the bullocky sat round the back, waiting. ‘Two more after this. Reckon we got room for them?’

  The bullocky eyed the empty dray and took a swig from the flagon of rum clasped in his hand. ‘Tie ’em up tight and we might manage to fit ’em in. Want a hand?’

  ‘Nay. The other two are smaller. Got to drop the key into Nell. Back in a tick.’

  Once Carrick had fastened the three trunks he swung up beside the bullocky. ‘Let’s be getting along, then.’ The sooner they got to Wollombi the happier he’d be. Even the thought of them, the boy and Roisin, brought a smile to his face and set his heart thumping.

  ‘You’re sounding bloody chirpy. All that whistling, ’nough to drive a man to drink. Here.’ The bullocky thrust the flagon into Carrick’s hand. ‘Have a swig of that and calm yourself. You’ve got a day or four to wait.’

  Carrick shook his head; the lure of the rum had paled. He didn’t want to see the world through the haze of oblivion. Today he wanted to see it in all its glory. The winter sky was as blue as a parrot’s wing and the grass, after the rain, as green as … the eyes of the lad and his mam. It had been a long time since a woman had caught his fancy, and for the first time since he’d left Ireland, his heart didn’t ache with sorrow. Little Ruan reminded him of Liam sure enough. In daylight hours it was a bittersweet memory and not the agonising pain that burned his gut and rendered him half a man.

  After five days on the road Carrick’s patience had worn to a thin, taut string. ‘I’ll be spending the night in Wollombi and then we’ll head back to the Yarramalong bright and early on the morrow. Does that suit?’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss. I’m not going to knock back a plate of Maisie’s stew and a decent night’s sleep free of the bugs and biters for the sake of a few hours. Missed it on the way to Morpeth.’

  With any luck he’d not be eating a plate of Maisie’s stew, he’d be sharing a mug of tea with a beautiful lass, making those green eyes sparkle and her pretty cheeks dimple. She’d cut a mighty fine figure when she’d stepped off Davy’s dray in that dazzling green jacket. There couldn’t have been a man there who’d missed her.

  The sun was still high, it wouldn’t be much longer. Maybe if there was a bit of light left he’d take Ruan down to the brook and show him that fishing hole. A boy needed to learn to fish, and then he’d never go hungry.

  ‘You’d think these animals of yours would move a bit faster without a load.’

  ‘They’ll get there in their own time. Patience, man.’

  ‘Give me a crack of the whip, that’ll get them moving.’ He reached across the bullocky and got a clip around the ears for his trouble. The bullocky rarely used his whip; his charges responded to the tone of his voice.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. My bullocks, my dray. Settle down.’

  Carrick slouched on the seat and gazed up at the sky, drumming his foot. The trip never took this long, least not in his memory. He let out a long sigh and took to counting the bullocks’ steps.

  It took another godforsaken two hours before they reached the outlying farms. Already the tall eucalypts cast long shadows across the track. There was at least another mile or two to go. His feet just wouldn’t keep still. Maybe he’d get out and walk.

  ‘When we get there pull up outside the General Store.’

  ‘That’s not going to please Elsie. She’ll be shouting about bullock crap on the road and her customers’ shoes.’

  ‘It’ll only take a moment. Just tell your bullocks to keep their legs crossed. Promise them something fine for their tea.’

  Finally the trees cleared, the track widened and the flourmill on the pond came into view. The dray slowed as it passed the cemetery and Carrick swung down well before it came to a halt outside the General Store. He jumped up onto the back and hefted the largest trunk onto his shoulders ready to leap off as soon as the bullocky brought the animals to a standstill.

  He hit the ground running. ‘Just leave the other two outside the store. Won’t be long.’

  With a careless toss the bullocky dumped the two smaller trunks onto the flagged footpath.

  ‘Gently does it. They’re not a length of timber.’

  The bullocky wiped his hand across his face and winked. ‘Wouldn’t be wanting to upset your lady friend, then?’

  ‘Get off with you. I’ll be catching you later.’

  ‘Unless you get lucky.’ The bullocky let out a belly laugh and clambered back onto the dray, cracked his whip at Carrick and moved off.

  ‘Bugger off.’ Carrick grinned and turned sideways to ease down the alley to the gate, his heart beating a tattoo inside his chest. Ahead of him the door stood open and a pool of light shone right down to the back of the house. The smell of baking scones made his stomach growl and he lowered the trunk to the floor. ‘Anyone home?’

  ‘I’m in here.’

  Through the front window the sight of Roisin with her head half up the chimney and her backside stuck up in the air made him want to laugh aloud. She was as right as rain and all his worries had been for naught. Stepping over the trunk he ducked inside.

  ‘And a very good afternoon to you, ’tis a lovely sight to greet a man.’

  She whipped around, as good as flying to her feet, and then wiped her hand across her face, leaving a sooty streak from the end of her upturned nose to her right ear.

  Her cheeks pinked and she tugged at the piece of green material she’d wrapped around her head and her glorious mass of red-gold curls tumbled down below her shoulders. His heart gave a thundering hammer and his mouth dried.

  ‘I look a fright. I’m trying to get the chimney to draw. It’s …’

  She held her arms wide, palms up, a picture
of dishevelled loveliness. In three swift strides he covered the space between them and she was in his arms. Soft and supple beneath his hands. For a fleeting second she relaxed against him, then her body stiffened and she uttered a sharp cry and jerked away from him. Holy Mother of God, what had possessed him?

  ‘Mr O’Connor …’ She turned her back on him, her shoulders lifting and falling as though she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  He couldn’t either. Couldn’t even get his tongue to work, couldn’t say a thing. He shook his head to clear the fog. ‘I’ve got your trunks for you, from Morpeth.’ Would that make up for the outrageous liberty he’d taken? Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it, hadn’t wanted to feel her in his arms. He could still smell the scent of her—baking and beeswax, lavender and linen.

  She spun around with the grandest smile, as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud. It warmed his very heart.

  ‘My trunks.’ She clapped her sooty hands together. ‘How did you know they had arrived?’

  He tapped the side of his nose and wriggled his eyebrows, trying to make a joke of it all. ‘Just a lucky guess. The big one’s on the doorstep and the others are sitting on the footpath outside the store. If you’ll be telling me where you want them I’ll fetch them in before some bugger does a runner.’ He let the breath trickle out between his lips. She’d recovered faster than he had, and the trunks—well, that was his best move. From the look on her face he might have presented her with a fistful of jewels—emeralds they’d be, to match the sparkle in those eyes.

  ‘The big one in here. In here will do just fine. And the smaller ones in my … I can sort the smaller ones. Can you take them down to the kitchen? How can I thank you?’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when I’ve got them all inside.’ He could think of a thousand ways, though none that a lady like Roisin Ogilvie would relish. ‘A mug of tea and one of those scones wouldn’t go amiss.’ He settled the trunk in the centre of the room. ‘And where’s the lad?’

  ‘He’s out the back collecting things for his treasure box. I’ll tell him you’re here and go and put the billy on.’