by Téa Cooper
Carrick as good as ran back to the street, whistling with the sheer pleasure of the reception he’d received. Her reaction had whisked away his foolish concerns. She and the boy were as fine as fine. The expression on her face and that smile when she’d seen her trunk had given him more of a kick than dropping the biggest cedar. He’d forgotten such simple pleasures.
‘And what would you be up to, I’d like to know?’ Elsie glared at him, hands on hips, guarding the two trunks. ‘These don’t belong to you. Sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘No they don’t, you’re right there. They’re Roisin’s. I picked them up in Morpeth.’
‘Did you indeed, and what would she be saying about that?’
‘Not sure it’s any of your business, Elsie. For the record, she’s asked me in for tea and scones, so she can’t be too bothered.’ Interfering old biddy. What business was it of hers? Just the reason he’d wanted to come and check, make sure Roisin wasn’t suffering any nonsense from the meddling old bags around town. He grabbed a leather strap in each hand and swung the two trunks up onto his shoulders. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ll be on me way.’
Spluttered mumbles drifted after him as he walked back down the alley. The townsfolk barely tolerated the wild ways of the cedar cutters. Branded them a bunch of lawless fools addicted to bushranging and cattle stealing in their spare time. Chance would be a fine thing. They slaved away from dawn to dusk and only hit the town when they received their pay. Damn Elsie and her squinty-eyed gaze. She was happy to take their money when it suited her, though if anything went wrong the blame was always laid squarely at their feet. Stupid fools, most of them owed their heritage to a trip in a transporter, so why should they put on airs and graces? He kicked the door wide, dumped the trunks down and dusted off his hands. He’d not be letting some dragon shopkeeper spoil the afternoon. And besides, Roisin had promised tea and scones.
Deep in thought, his feet as good as went from under him as his knees were clasped in a firm hug. ‘Carrick, Carrick. I’ve been waiting for you to come.’
He swept the boy up, closing his eyes and inhaling the smell of little boy and memories. His heart twisted and he clamped his teeth against the shaft of pain. He was so like Liam with his pale hair and freckled face. He even smelled the same. If it hadn’t been for what he’d witnessed with his own eyes, he’d almost believe the angels had carried his boy away unharmed and dropped him here in his arms.
Ruan wriggled his way down to the floor and grasped Carrick’s hand. ‘Come with me. You’ve got to see my room. Quickly.’
He let himself be dragged down the hallway. Roisin had worked miracles in the past weeks. A cheerful fire burned in the kitchen grate and a table and chairs were in the middle of the room. She’d somehow managed to find two soft chairs and had placed them on either side of the fireplace and above it a clothes rack hung scenting the air with the smell of clean, fresh washing. ‘This is a far cry from the hovel I was seeing last time.’ And a far cry from the hovel he’d subjected poor Brigid and Liam to back home.
She put her hands on her hips, sending his eyes to the swell of muscles beneath her honeyed skin, and then she laughed. The pure joy of the sound made him want to catch her up in his arms and twirl her around and around. ‘I’ll have you know, Ruan and I have worked really hard these past weeks. We’re pretty happy with our new home. Aren’t we?’ She ruffled the lad’s hair and rearranged her sleeves, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’ And he wasn’t expecting to be as taken with the lovely lass. If his heart kept performing backflips this way he’d never catch a decent breath of air.
‘Shall I bring the other two trunks down here?’
‘That would be wonderful. I’d like them in there.’ She pointed to the open door off the kitchen. The bedroom. So that was why she’d paused earlier. She must have come to some decision and was happy about him entering her bedroom. He strolled along the corridor and brought back the two trunks, Ruan leaping and skipping behind him as though he’d really missed him.
‘My bed’s up there.’ The lad pointed to the ladder running up to the roof in the corner of the bedroom.
‘That’ll be a fine place to sleep. Nice and cosy with the chimney, I don’t doubt.’ He placed the trunks on the floor, snatching a peep at the cosy bed. A picture of Roisin with her hair fanned across the pillows sent his pulse skittering again and a ball of heat slammed into his guts. It had to stop. He pushed the trunks against the wall and the bed from his line of vision.
‘Do you want to come and see?’ Ruan sat perched on the ladder in the corner of the room, his grin as wide as his mam’s. No doubting who the child belonged to.
‘Later, Ruan. Let Mr O’Connor have his cup of tea.’ Roisin held back one of the chairs and invited Carrick to sit. The snug kitchen even had curtains at the window and the contents of shelves beneath the dresser were covered in a matching pair.
‘Can I swing the billy? Please, Mam.’
‘If you’re very careful.’
She grimaced and mouthed ‘sorry’. Why should she be sorry? Because his tea was taking too long? He’d happily sit for the rest of the night watching her move around the room. The homeliness of it all made him ache. How long had it been since he’d sat before a fire enjoying a woman’s company? Close on ten years. Way too long.
‘Now be careful, Ruan, remember to swing it gently just to settle the tea leaves.’
‘Only townsfolk swing the billy.’ The words flew out of his mouth and he clapped his hand across his face.
Ruan peered up at him and frowned. ‘What do you do, then?’
‘Well I’ll be needing to go outside and get meself a stick. Just hold everything right there.’
The cold wind hit him as he stepped outside the door. It was so snug and comfortable inside. Better than a dripping canvas tent in the depths of the forest. He bent down to pick up a stick from the kindling just inside the woodshed door. Atop the pile a perfectly formed pale-blue egg sat. Just the gift for a young lad. Cradling it in the palm of his hand, he tucked the stick under his arm.
‘Now take the stick and slap it on the side of the billy, just once, a sharp rap. That’s right and then let your mam pour the tea and we’ll see which way’s best. The townsfolks’ way or the cutters’ way. And while we’re waiting I’ve got something for you.’ He squatted down and opened his palm.
Ruan’s squeal of delight was a pleasure in itself. He stretched out his fingers.
‘Be careful now it’s very fragile.’
The lad took the egg and held it up to the light. His mouth turned down. ‘It’s empty. There’s no baby bird inside.’
‘Here give it to me.’ Carrick pinned the egg between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to the window. The afternoon sun shone through the almost translucent shell as he turned it over in his fingers. Then he spotted the two tiny holes, one on the top and the other at the bottom. ‘Ah, you tricked me. You’ve blown the egg.’
‘Blown it? What’s that?’
Carrick lent down again, his finger pointing to the tiny pinhole in the top of the egg. ‘See here, there’s the hole you made and there’ll be another in the bottom.’ He turned the egg over and pointed to the other tiny hole. ‘Now, who taught you how to do that?’
Ruan reached out and took the egg. ‘No one. I didn’t do it. Look, Mam. It’s another treasure from the woodshed.’
‘Sit down and drink your tea while it’s hot, Mr O’Connor.’ She picked up a scone and spread it with butter and jam before handing it to Ruan. ‘And you sit down, too, young man and no more of your funny stories.’
‘It’s not a funny story. It was in the woodshed. Carrick found it this time. Not me. It’s another treasure.’
A frown played across her smooth forehead and her eyes darted to the back door then to the window as if she was checking to make sure everything was closed. ‘A scone, Mr O’Connor?’
‘Thank you.’ He bit into the scone and chewed. What was both
ering her? One minute laughing and happy, the next cold and uncomfortable. She looked like a startled roo. ‘What else have you found, Ruan?’
‘He’s forever finding bits and pieces. His treasures, he calls them.’ Her voice held a tremor and her gaze flicked to the window again.
‘I’ve got feathers and a skeleton, well not really a skeleton, just a skull. It’s polished, and a snakeskin. A real, live snakeskin, but dead. A butterfly. And more feathers. The three black ones I found on my bed and a blue and brown one and now this.’ He picked up the egg and held it up to the light again. ‘Can I go and put it in my treasure box?’
Roisin nodded, her cup cradled in her hands as she blew a stream of air across the top of the scalding tea. ‘I don’t know where he finds all these things. They keep turning up.’
‘Boys like to collect things. I’ll keep my eyes open in case I see anything he might like.’ It didn’t explain how the blown egg had come to be in the woodshed and sure as shite it hadn’t got there by itself. He pushed back his chair. ‘Is there anything else I can be doing? Have a look at that chimney in the front perhaps?’
‘Oh, would you? Now I’ve got the trunks I can set up shop, and if I’m going to use the room for fittings it mustn’t be cold.’ A hint of colour stole across her cheeks, no doubt at the thought she might be discussing ladies’ business in front of a man.
‘I expect it’ll be something else for young Ruan’s treasure box hiding up the chimney.’
She raised her head and locked eyes with him. A flash of fear, at least he thought it was fear, traced her eyes, but in the next moment it had gone. ‘A possum nest would be my guess. The chimney hasn’t been used for a few years and they’ve moved in. Let me go and have a look.’
Five
Roisin cleared the table and swept up the crumbs from the scones, then carried them outside to throw to the birds. No wonder Ruan found eggs and feathers everywhere for his treasure box. She attracted the birds by feeding them. They must have made a nest inside the woodshed. She pushed the door wide and peered into the gloomy depths, pausing to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Since Carrick had cleared the old timber and chopped new pieces, the pungent smell had dissipated, replaced by the clean, sweet smell of fresh wood. Surely a bird wouldn’t nest in the dark and it didn’t account for the egg being blown. Someone had done it. Maybe Carrick hadn’t found it, maybe he’d brought it with him as a little surprise for Ruan. He was full of tricks and treats like that.
Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she returned to the house. Ruan sat at the kitchen table, his box of treasures in front of him, sorting the strange assortment of bits and pieces. It kept him amused, but he needed more of her time and attention. Before they left Sydney he had already begun to learn his letters, though she’d paid him scant attention since they’d arrived in Wollombi. He lined up a group of stones then added a few more and muttered twelve.
‘It’s all sorted now.’ Carrick appeared, dwarfing the doorway, thick black curls in a messy disarray hanging almost to his shoulders, and those eyes, as indigo as the night sky, above a mouth that just wouldn’t stop grinning. ‘No possum nest, just a lot of leaves, sticks and soot. Shall I be lighting the fire?’ He ruffled Ruan’s hair and pulled up a chair, peering into the box with fierce concentration. He sat down next to him and laid his arm along the back of his chair.
Something about his familiarity made her skin prickle, a reminder of Sydney, the lascivious look on Dankworth’s face as he’d recognised his own blood. The fear that had clutched at her throat as he’d reached out for Ruan.
‘So these are your treasures?’ Carrick plucked a dried gum nut out of the box and twisted it in his fingers.
Ruan nodded and continued to line up the stones in the base.
‘You’ll be needing a new box soon. This one’s as good as full now you’ve got the eggshell.’
Had he really found the eggshell in the woodshed? She caught the expression on Carrick’s face as he tousled Ruan’s hair. A faraway look in his eyes, almost as though he wanted her son for himself. It made her want to scoop Ruan up and hug him close. Thoughts like that belonged in Sydney, not here, not where they were meant to be out of harm’s way.
All of a sudden she wanted Carrick gone, out of the house. What if he took her in his arms again? What if his attentions were simply a way of getting to Ruan? ‘I’m going to start unpacking my trunks. I must get my business up and running.’ Did he expect some sort of reward for his favours, for bringing the trunks, chopping the wood, clearing the chimney? She stopped stock-still. Heavens above, she’d never thought of that. How naïve could she be? The way he’d pulled her to him when he’d arrived. Did he think she’d be happy to exchange her favours for his?
Carrick didn’t respond, didn’t even glance at her, instead he concentrated on Ruan. ‘What’s this here?’
‘It’s a skull. I thought it was a skeleton, but it’s only the head. See here where his eyes went.’ Ruan smoothed his finger across the polished bone, making her shudder.
‘And where were you finding it?’
‘On my window when I woke up.’
‘On your window. How would it be getting up there? Did the fairies leave it?’
Ruan stared at him with complete disdain and Carrick winked and elbowed him in the ribs. He squirmed and squealed and threw himself across the big man’s lap. Carrick tucked him under his arm and stood, lifting Ruan high in the air, spinning him around until she was dizzy with watching. Her bright-eyed, towheaded boy laughing as she’d never heard before and Carrick’s deep rumbling chuckle filling the room. The next minute he took off with Ruan clasped in his big hands.
The door slammed behind them and her heart started to hammer, one blow after the next, pulsing with fear. She flew to the door and wrenched it open. The garden was empty, the door to the woodshed swung in the breeze. No! It couldn’t be happening, she shouldn’t have let her guard down, begun to relax. She scooted down the path out to the brook.
Cavorting on the grassy bank, Carrick and Ruan performed some strange sort of dance involving yelping and screaming and carrying on. Her legs turned to jelly, her knees wobbly and she sank onto the damp grass.
Before she could steady herself, Ruan threw himself down next to her. ‘Mam, Mam. Save me.’
Because she needed it more than he did, she lifted him into her arms for a ferocious hug. ‘It’s time you came inside now.’ Her breath heaved and her voice sounded breathless and wavering, more from her vivid imagination than her flight from the house.
A shadow fell over them. Carrick. His face grinned down at her, as flushed and excited as Ruan’s. Her heart started thumping again. He had to leave. Now. She couldn’t let him into the house again. She struggled to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand offering assistance. ‘Thank you. I really can’t impose on your time any longer. You’ve been too kind.’ And too terrifying. Taking Ruan and running outside, frightening her half to death.
‘You’re not imposing. I’ve got nothing on me plate until early tomorrow morning when I’ll head to the Yarramalong. I won’t be back for another while. You’ll be needing some more wood, the shed’s as good as empty.’
‘I can arrange the delivery of some wood myself, Mr O’Connor.’ She clasped Ruan tightly by the hand and made her way back to the house, praying he wouldn’t follow. She knew she was being rude. Now the thought that he might take Ruan had invaded her mind she couldn’t get rid of the man fast enough. ‘Thank you.’ She repeated. He frowned at her, he must have noticed the change in her behaviour. No matter how attractive or amusing she found him this was not a good idea. Ruan’s attachment to him was bad enough without admitting to her own.
He nodded and the corner of his mouth quirked in disappointment. ‘I’ll be seeing you, then. Goodbye, young man.’
‘Goodbye, Mr O’Connor,’ she chimed before Ruan had a chance to respond.
Ruan tossed a quick, fleeting grin over his shoulder before he turned and ran inside,
unaware of the ridiculous heart-wrenching fear gripping her.
As she locked the door a wave of relief swept over her. Ruan buried his head in his treasure box, oblivious to her churning emotions. In her trunk she had some pattern paper and charcoal. She’d find them and give them to him. They should keep him amused while she unpacked the trunks and soothed her befuddled brain. Their clothes could remain in the smaller trunks in the bedroom and the lid would serve as a dressing table. The sooner she set up her business and started work the better. Then she wouldn’t need help from anyone.
Carrick had pushed the largest of her three trunks up against the wall in the parlour. She sat on it, running her hand over the studded surface, fighting a pang of homesickness. How she and Aunt Lil had laughed when they’d packed it, imagining all the customers who would flock to her door and the flurry of business she’d have. Well, that was to be seen. She could hardly remember what they’d put inside now. It had been forgotten in the mad rush when that wretched man had started hounding her, following her every time she left the house, demanding to see Ruan, shouting about rights and records. How he could imagine that she’d hand over her son, out of the blue, just like that. He hadn’t even known of his existence until that chance meeting on the street. She’d seen the flash of recognition in his eyes the moment Ruan had gazed up at him. Why would a man like that, an upper-class toff, be interested in his by-blow, the result of his filthy attack?
Goosebumps flecked her arms and she rubbed her hands up and down, forcing away the thoughts. She had to forget, put the past behind her, otherwise what was the point of leaving Sydney? She wouldn’t let anyone have Ruan, not now, not ever. Ruan was her son. No one else’s.
Jumping to her feet, she pushed her tumbled hair away from her face and bent to the padlock on the trunk. The key slipped in and turned without complaint and she lifted the lid. Spread across the top was her patchwork quilt. She pulled it out and held it to her cheek, inhaling the flowery scent, such a reminder of her mam, Aunt Lil and all her friends. Each scrap of material had a story to tell. Ruan’s first nightdress, pieces of her mother’s favourite silk shawl, scraps from the first sampler she’d made. Bunching it into her arms, she carried it down the hallway to the bedroom. She shook it high, each little piece of colour sparkling with memories as it floated down, and covered the bed. She let out a long, slow breath. Now the house felt like home.