‘Was there ever any place for me in your fancy plans?’ asked Sean. ‘Or were you too caught up bettering yourself to worry about your blood relation.’
‘You don’t like him, and you never wanted to work there,’ said Brandon, annoyance beginning to edge out his patience. ‘It’s a good opportunity and you threw it away simply because he’s a Protestant and an Englishman.’
‘You’re a low Irish beast, turning your back on your people,’ Sean sneered.
‘And you’re an ignorant savage who only knows how to live on potatoes,’ retaliated Brandon.
About them, a small crowd began to form. The handful of men and women listened as they traded insults and then began calling out for a fight.
‘You’re not my kin anymore!’ yelled Sean, the colour of his skin beginning to merge with the red of his hair. ‘Go with your Englishman, ruin Maggie’s life, and see if I care.’
Brandon watched as his cousin headed in the direction of the wharf, his arms pumping at his sides like pistons. When he was finally lost from view, Brandon pushed through the gathered spectators who booed at the lack of entertainment and untied his horse’s reins, tugging the animal into movement. He knew he’d never be able to justify his own actions or make Sean take responsibility for his part in their undoing as cousins. Sean was only likely to sneer about his intolerance of the Fenians, his friendship with the Englishman and the fact that the newly minted Brandon Ryan was now the holder of eight thousand acres of land.
Chapter 45
Richmond Valley, 1949
‘Irish? Are you there?’ Stella waited on the veranda. Although it was nearing midnight, she found herself scanning the garden for signs of life, but only the outline of the statue was perceptible, a marble woman standing guard against the night. Stella knocked a little harder at the back door. At the end of their initial meeting, they had agreed to reunite two days later. It was a clandestine arrangement, one more suited to the green of camouflage clothing than a neat house dress. It involved Stella tiptoeing from Harry and Ann’s home in the dark, sliding through the boundary fence by the cedar tree and running across the grass, her whole body caught up in a fizz of nervous tension. She wasn’t used to sneaking around after all the time she’d spent by herself during her marriage and it was a shock to feel so alive after the years at Kirooma.
‘Come in,’ called Irish, finally.
Stella opened the creaking door. A hallway stretched into blackness, the only light coming from a single candle that flickered weakly on a table.
‘In here.’
She turned immediately to her left and entered a large, cedar-panelled room. The dog padded towards her, gave her a cursory sniff and then wandered back to sit on a threadbare rug. The dark timber glistened, infusing the area with a rosy-red glow. Kerosene lamps were scattered about the room, throwing light onto tables and chairs, gilt-edged paintings and crystal decanters that shone as sharply as the chandelier at the Kirooma homestead. Stella tried not to appear too inquisitive, however her gaze darted about a room filled with treasures more suited to a museum. It was a room from another era.
Irish was propped up on a bed that curved up at each end like a sleigh. There was a blanket across his lap and a large fringed pillow supporting him. Stella knew immediately that she’d woken him.
‘I don’t keep the generator running at night. The electricity is a bit hard on my eyes,’ he said.
‘Should I come back?’ she asked.
‘No. No. I sleep when I can, but mostly I stay awake. We’re a long time dead.’ He coughed and reached for a glass of water at his side. ‘I hear my grandson commenting to others that I’ve had a good innings, but it doesn’t matter what age you are, a person always wants more. Come sit.’
‘You have a family?’ asked Stella.
‘Yes. A son and grandson.’
He sounded as if the air couldn’t reach his lungs. Stella sat on a chair with leather strap arms and an upholstered seat cover, the decorative design reminiscent of the Far East. Behind Irish, mulberry-coloured brocade curtains patterned with clusters of grapes shut out the night.
‘It’s a campaign chair,’ said Irish. ‘It folds up quite neatly. I imagine it was carried by a donkey or elephant to a military headquarters. Quite something, isn’t it?’
Stella moved uncomfortably in the stretched seat. Next to her was a table covered in green felt. A deck of cards sat squarely in the middle as if waiting for the player to resume his game. ‘Does your family live with you?’
‘No. Geoff lives in another house on the property with his son, Clinton, who runs the business. He’s a good boy. Clever. Keeps an eye on the sugar cane and the tea-tree plantation, and runs a few cattle. One day the land will be his and I’ll be pleased to leave it to him. He’s a few years off thirty and champing at the bit to get his hands on the reins of the property. He visits me twice a week. I joke that he only comes to check if I’m still alive. He hates that, but I’m aware his wife is eagerly waiting for my demise. Wants to live in the big house. Play the lady of the manor.’ Irish’s eyes lit up mischievously. ‘I’ve already signed the building over to the National Trust. The entire contents as well. Carol will be peeved and she’s the peevish sort. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Why don’t you want to keep it in the family?’ asked Stella, gazing about the room. ‘It’s so beautiful.’
‘Did you ever read Coleridge’s poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”? One of the sailors shoots an albatross, which is regarded as bad luck, and the ship’s crew hang the bird around the killer’s neck. That’s what this house has been to me, a burden to be carried as penance. It’s time to let it go.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Stella.
‘I don’t expect you to.’ Irish settled back a little further on the sleigh bed, pushing on the upholstery with his knuckles as he manoeuvred into a more comfortable position. She noticed how thin his legs were, the prominent shoulders, and the way his chest was hollowed in, as if his organs were shrinking along with his body.
‘Can I ask you some more about Joe? You said that you’d spoken together before we moved out west. That you wrote to each other. Did he ever say why he married me?’ She looked briefly at her hands. ‘You see, we didn’t have a good marriage and I’ve been looking for answers as to what went wrong.’ An explanation would never excuse Joe’s behaviour, or her own, but it might be enough for her to forgive herself for what she’d done.
‘You know why he married you,’ said Irish.
‘Actually, I don’t. Joe was obsessed with Kirooma. I justified his absences by comparing the property to another woman. That’s what it was like. As if he was having an affair,’ said Stella.
‘He was away a lot?’ asked Irish.
‘Constantly,’ said Stella. ‘For weeks at a time. Camping out in the desert with his sheep.’
‘That doesn’t mean that he didn’t love you.’
Stella gave a bitter laugh. ‘Then why did he leave me alone?’
‘I can’t answer that. There is lightness and darkness in everyone. Each of us has our own desires, wants and needs, and, whether it’s right or not, we also have certain expectations when it comes to the people in our lives. Especially the ones we’re closest to. I’m not making excuses for Joe, but I do wonder if love can weather individual eccentricities, particularly when a marriage occurs after only three months.’
‘You think we should have spent more time together first,’ said Stella.
‘I’m a believer in solid foundations. That’s really all I’m equipped to say on the matter.’
‘I see.’ Stella didn’t know what she’d expected but she’d hoped for more than Irish’s defence of her husband. ‘Could I have a drink, please?’ she asked.
Irish waved in the direction of the drinks trolley. ‘There’s whiskey, rum, sherry, brandy and a rather tasty cognac. Let’s have that. Pour me a glass as well.’
Stella went to the stash of decanters and lifted the stoppers o
n each, sniffing at the contents. Each scent was familiar except for the last and she poured the spirit into the balloon-shaped glasses her host directed her to use, carrying the drinks back to where they sat.
‘Hold it in your hand, like so,’ said Irish, cupping the glass so that the base of it rested in his palm. ‘It should be drunk slightly warm.’
Stella took a sip of the intense floral flavour.
‘Better,’ he commented, swallowing a mouthful, his tongue sweeping his lips with pleasure.
‘Yes,’ said Stella. She clutched at the glass. Her fingers were shaking. Had she and Joe both been to blame for their complicated union? It seemed impossible to believe that she carried an equal portion of responsibility. Not when she was the one waiting at the homestead, trying to build a life with an absent husband. ‘Joe’s office was filled with odds and ends he’d found out on the property. Soil and plants, stones and bones. It went beyond being a hobby. I couldn’t understand that. I suppose I never understood him.’
Irish inclined his head in thought. ‘Joe was always a collector of things. There was a great need within him to understand the importance of every object, every plant and animal, and the connections between each. The bush spoke to him in ways that most of us could never comprehend. When he was a boy he’d stretch out on the ground and wait for the magpies to settle by his side.’
‘You knew Joe when he was a child?’
‘I did. It was a privilege.’
Stella moved closer to the edge of the chair. ‘You said the other night that he wrote to you. I thought he might have said how he felt about me. Given some explanation as to why he ended up behaving the way he did.’
‘I never heard where they found Joe,’ said Irish bluntly.
Stella got up from the chair, directing her attention at the felt-topped table. There was a mark running from the right edge, as if it had worn down from the continual movement of a player positioning rows of cards. She took a sip of the cognac.
‘You have a taste for silence I think.’ Irish sat back and studied her.
‘The quiet has been my home,’ replied Stella. ‘And everyone knows he was found in the desert.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Beyond the dingo fence. He had no reason to be across the border in South Australia, but that was Joe. He’d tell a person one thing and do the opposite. Leave home for a week and stay away for a month.’
‘I understand it took some time to find him,’ said Irish.
‘He’d been gone for six weeks. He ran out of fuel and water. I blame myself. I should have gone in search of him sooner, but he always got annoyed when I had in the past, and I wasn’t at my best. I was still recovering from the loss of my baby. Davis found him. He was a friend of Joe’s who maintains part of the dingo fence. Joe was curled up near a dead tree. I distinctly remember asking the constable that came to the homestead if his body had been on the leeward side. We’d owned this ram, you see. A prized animal. KR10. Joe found him dead on the leeward side of a tree. It’s silly the things a person remembers.’
‘Sit down, girl. My carpet is worn enough without your toing and froing.’
Stella did as the old man asked. ‘The dog came home. Walked all the way. Joe always said he would if anything happened.’
‘Animals are far smarter than people.’
‘I gave him to Father Colin at Broken Hill,’ said Stella. ‘I’m sure he would have found him a good home.’
‘It’s not so very long since Joe’s passing,’ said Irish.
‘No. Not long at all,’ replied Stella. She swirled the contents of the glass.
‘Joe used to sneak over here when he was little. Not often, but his visits became a lot more regular after cancer claimed his mother and then, of course, Sean died. Harry was busy running the property. It was a difficult time for them. I’d seen Joe poking about. Slipping into the work shed to clamber over the steam engine. Rummaging through our rubbish tip. I thought he was one of those children who’d take off for fear of getting into trouble, but he was confident enough to knock at the front door one day. A little runt of a boy, he was. Only about thirteen or fourteen at the time. He’d seen Tommy riding around on an old Triumph motorcycle we’d purchased after the Great War and asked if he could see it. That was the beginning of our friendship.’
‘Who was Tommy?’ said Stella.
‘A friend’s son. He and Joe were thick as thieves despite the forty-year age difference. I let Joe ride the bike. I’ve never seen a boy take to a thing the way he did. He’d polish it, grease and oil the engine, blacken the tyres. Tommy was happy for Joe to use it because that old Triumph was always immaculate. And the look on Joe’s face when he came in from the paddock. Stopping that old motorcycle in a spray of dust, a grin so wide it hurt to see it.
‘I began to realise that Joe was the grandson I believed I would never have. He was whip-smart. A little sponge willing to soak up everything. We’d study old maps together. Ride around the property on horseback. Talk about books and go exploring, head due west to the river, dip our lines in the water and roast our catch before coming home. They were grand days. That’s when I began to make plans for the future, and I shared them with Joe. That was my mistake. A person never really has any inkling how life is going to unfold.’ Irish sighed, his chest rising and falling in a series of ragged pants. ‘Then Clinton was born. Geoff and his wife had given up on having children. They’d tried for years. The doctor said it was a change-of-life baby and he was right. Clinton’s birth did change everything.’ His gaze was direct, but watery. ‘Joe wasn’t impressed with Clinton’s arrival, especially when I told him that with the child’s birth the entire property had to be left to him.’
‘You were going to leave your land to Joe?’ said Stella.
‘A half-share. Then on Geoff’s death, Joe was to get the lot.’
She imagined what it would have meant to have lived in a closer-settled area; the difference such an inheritance may have made to their marriage and to Joe’s relationship with Harry. Irish’s gift would have changed everything.
Irish nodded. ‘A few years later, Joe packed his swag and headed north-west to a sheep property. I knew he was disappointed but there was nothing I could do about it. Clinton was Hetty’s grandson and I owed her.’
Stella closed her eyes as a familiar tightness began to stir within her. When she opened them the old man appeared to be asleep. ‘And is that the reason behind Joe’s disagreement with Harry? The fact that you promised Joe land and then reneged?’
Irish made a noise that was neither chuckle nor groan. ‘If only. As far as I know, Harry never knew about that discussion. It was between Joe and me. If he had, I imagine he would have thrown Joe off the farm. He’s a grudge-holder, Harry, just like his father. The man can’t help himself. No, the dispute between our families goes back much further. My friendship with Joe, well, that only added to old resentments.’
Stella placed the now-empty glass on the table. It was late and the cognac had made her slightly muddle-headed. ‘So you won’t share what those old resentments were?’
He lifted the brandy balloon in a salute and, draining the contents, sat the glass to one side. His skin was as pale as parchment in the soft light. ‘It was a petty disagreement.’ He tugged at the blanket across his knees, fiddling with the fringed ends. ‘Sean and I, well, we had more than our share of quarrels.’
Stella studied the old man before her. ‘You knew Sean well?’
‘Very well. Sean O’Riain and I were cousins.’
The skin between her eyes creased into two formidable lines. ‘You’re Brandon.’
‘Brandon Ryan. I anglicised my surname and converted to the Protestant faith. One of my many failings, depending on who you speak to.’ He gave her a gummy grin.
‘But Harry never said . . . Joe never mentioned . . .’
Brandon yawned. ‘You might fetch an old man another blanket from that chair.’
Stella’s head was spinning, but she
did as she was told, spreading the blanket across him. ‘Brandon?’
He was asleep.
Chapter 46
The dog followed her outdoors and, with her mind addled by all that she’d heard, Stella sat heavily on the grass. She stayed that way for several long minutes and then lay down on the lawn beneath a swollen moon, stroking the animal, who soon whimpered quietly by her side in sleep. The grass was spiky against her back and Stella rolled on her side, squeezing her knees close to her chest, her head cradled in her palms. Exhaustion leached through her and her eyes closed.
A young boy entered her dreams. She saw Joe riding a Triumph motorcycle, his hair wind-split and gritty as he traversed the verdant land that spread out towards the distant hills. He was shiny with joy at the wondrous world unfolding before him. Suspended in time. Untarnished by what was to come.
She saw him next on the edge of what was once a vast inland sea, holding one of his precious findings to the sky. Reading the indecipherable signs that meant something only to him. He was the land that shifted and shuddered. The vastness that dwarfed. The lonely child. The man that patched and repaired the country that had become his own. Who cared too much about some things, but not enough about others.
She woke at dawn. The dog was gone, as was the sweet coolness of the night. Birdsong floated through the air. She sat up, absorbing the new day, sorting through the dreams that had left her ragged with remorse, and then started walking back to Joe’s childhood home. Inexplicably, she pictured Kirooma. Not the old homestead, which had become both her palace and her jail, but the timelessness of the land on which it sat.
She discovered that she’d stopped at the cedar tree. She located Brandon Ryan’s mark of ownership almost immediately, a definitive BR sliced into the wood. She supposed that all of them were branded, in some way. By parents and lovers, siblings and friends, even husbands and wives. And some cuts went far deeper than others.
The Cedar Tree Page 29
