‘You’re talking about things that are none of your business,’ said Harry.
‘They became my business when I married into this family.’ Stella realised her voice had grown loud and waspish.
In one fluid movement, Harry’s expression altered. ‘Brandon Ryan went against everything my father believed in and then ended up maiming him and ruining his livelihood. A man can live with that, I suppose. Come to terms with it even. But denying my father his pride, that’s something else entirely. Brandon invited my father here. Offered him land. Then he ensured he could keep an eye on him by erecting a house in direct view of his own. There was stockpiled cedar in one of the sheds, but no, Brandon wanted to make sure our family always played the part of the poor relations. It was a small house of shoddy pine for us.’
‘Your father could have had his grand cedar home, Harry. Brandon said he offered to fell more timber for that very purpose, to supplement the timber in the shed, however Sean demanded one tree be cut down. And one tree only. He wanted no other. The lone cedar on your boundary fence. Brandon said no. Your father was trying to make a point, I suppose. Maybe he knew how much Brandon liked that tree. Perhaps he simply wanted to assert what little authority he had left. I don’t know. They were both determined men. What I do have is this.’ She handed Harry the rolled parchment she’d been clutching since entering the kitchen. ‘That’s the original plan for Sean’s house, designed and drawn by Brandon. After their argument over the tree, your father decided against using this blueprint or any cedar in its construction. He built this house instead.’
Harry unrolled the paper and studied the diagram. Stella watched as Harry’s face lost all colour. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he passed the document to John. Ann watched her husband intently, her rounded shoulders straightening in attention.
When Harry finally spoke it was to no one. He may well have been standing out in one of the cane fields, speaking to the plants he’d dedicated his life to. ‘It was all over that bloody tree?’
‘In the end, yes,’ said Stella.
Harry rubbed at the bristles on his chin. ‘A damn tree. I can’t believe it.’
John passed the map to his brother. ‘It would have been a good house by the looks of it.’
‘It’s twice the size of this one,’ said Bill.
‘The past seems to have affected everyone in this family. Including Joe,’ said Stella.
‘Do we have to keep harping on about Joe?’ said Ann. She rearranged the cushion on the chair.
‘I liked Uncle Joe,’ said John. Bill nudged him in the ribs.
Stella threw her nephew a grateful smile.
‘Anything else?’ asked Harry. He positioned himself midway between the table and the stove, placing distance between his errant wife and his sons, whose expressions alternated between concern and fascination.
Stella was aware that the O’Riains were not the type of people who would suffer her interference for long. There was an apartness about them, as if they were imprisoned by the very history that they were so intent on holding tight to. And yet, if there were a time to say exactly how she felt, this was it.
‘Joe was a young boy and you expected too much of him, Harry. You were happy for him to sleep in that run-down cottage and then complained when he decided to better his life. You were the one who sent Joe away and made him a loner. Maybe not intentionally, but you refused to consider his ideas for this farm and in the end you succeeded in cutting him off from his family. No wonder he was impossible to live with. It was his upbringing that made a normal life for him so difficult.’
‘And, in turn, your life was ruined. That is what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?’ said Harry.
Her brother-in-law’s statement made Stella crumble inside. He made her sound ridiculous, immature, and she realised with a start that she was both those things and more. In the month spent on the farm she’d come to blame Harry for Joe’s peculiarities while she searched for excuses about how their life at Kirooma had unravelled. That’s why she’d agreed to come to the Valley. To uncover a little of the workings of Joe’s family in the hope it might make her own situation clearer and somehow atone for what she’d done. It was a much easier path to take, making others accountable for her disastrous marriage rather than to take responsibility herself. But it was also wrong.
‘Harry, Joe told me once that he wanted to do something important with his life as you had during the war. He admired you. He wanted to be like you. He loved you.’
Harry met her gaze. ‘Joe liked taking things apart and putting them back together. I was never good at stuff like that. I never had the knack for it,’ he said quietly.
He left the kitchen and walked outside, the door slamming behind him. The twins watched through the window as he began to stride towards the ramp, his pace gathering with every step. Stella observed him through the screen door.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Ann.
‘Walking,’ said Bill. He glanced briefly at Stella.
The shoulder that was slightly lower than the other grew more pronounced. Harry was two-thirds of the way from the house to the grid when he slowed and turned around. He might have been a new settler to the area, the way he studied the length and breadth of his home. Stella imagined what it was that Harry saw. The long, low structure. The neat, nondescript garden. The trees that ringed the perimeter. The electricity line that led from the house to a pole near the tilting clothesline and on through the trees to the derelict cottage, which she now realised once belonged to Hetty.
When Harry moved again, it was with obvious effort. He made his way home slowly and stopped just shy of the veranda. He kicked at the dirt, making piles of soil and flattening out the mounds. Then he nodded his head as if finishing a long conversation. He returned to the kitchen and stamped on the mat at the door to clean his boots and then drew the door closed. It clicked softly.
‘Thank you for telling me that,’ he said to Stella. ‘All of it.’
‘I should have told you how Joe felt before,’ she replied.
He took an envelope from a shirt pocket and set it on the kitchen table, sliding it towards Stella. ‘That’s a cheque for two thousand pounds.’
‘I don’t expect anything. I told Ann that,’ said Stella.
‘Maybe not, but legally you’re entitled to it.’ Harry went to his wife’s side and, taking her by the elbow, helped her from the chair. ‘Bill, take your mother to her bedroom so she can lie down, she’s been sitting far too long.’
‘Righto.’ Bill moved quickly, assisting his mother.
Ann straightened slowly. Unexpectedly she took Stella’s hand and squeezed it and, in the gesture, Stella felt their shared bond. Her sister-in-law’s world appeared perfect but she too had her burdens. Ann was married to Joe’s brother, after all.
‘Come on, Mum. Let’s get you into bed,’ said Bill, leading her away.
Harry waited until Ann left. ‘We’ve already loaded your furniture into the station wagon and trailer,’ he explained apologetically. ‘Bit of a rush of blood to the head, I suppose. I don’t expect you to leave immediately. In fact, you could stay until the end of the month.’
‘Ann’s better. There’s not much point staying on.’
‘But where will you go?’ asked John.
‘Sydney. I do have my own family,’ Stella replied.
‘You’ll stay for dinner at least, Aunty Stella?’ said John.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied.
‘But it will be dark soon.’
‘Yes, it will be.’
The three of them stared at each other.
‘Well, once you’re settled, write me your address and I’ll start sending you monthly amounts to pay out Joe’s share of the farm.’ Harry took the cheque from the table, holding it mid-air until she accepted it.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Chapter 55
Stella opened the driver’s-side door of the idling car as John slid Watso
n’s travelling cage onto the back seat. The cockatoo ruffled his feathers as her nephew wound down the rear window, the bird quickly scuttling along the perch to poke his beak through the wire bars.
‘You don’t have to leave straight away, Aunty Stella. At least wait until the morning,’ said John as he walked around the vehicle to join her.
‘It’s best I go now,’ said Stella. Harry’s silhouette was visible through the kitchen window. ‘Your family has a lot to talk about.’
‘Do you really believe the story about the cedar tree?’ asked John.
‘Well, those house plans are proof that Brandon was trying to do something nice for your grandfather.’
‘He doesn’t have a reputation for being trustworthy. I mean, he did convert and change his name and he stole Mr Truby’s land.’
‘That land was willed to him, John. If it wasn’t, don’t you think the authorities would have caught up with him by now? I very much doubt Brandon ever stole anything,’ Stella told him. ‘He doesn’t seem like the type to me.’ She studied her nephew’s features. The boy could only be accused of behaving like a dutiful son, mindful of his father’s opinion. ‘You should speak to Brandon. He was friends with your grandfather and once he’s gone, a whole chunk of your family history will be lost.’
‘Maybe.’ John appeared unconvinced.
‘You only have to visit him once, and if after that you’re not comfortable returning, you don’t have to,’ said Stella.
‘I’ll think about it.’
It might have been the sugarcane caramel of the twilight air but for the briefest of moments, it was as if Joe were before her – young, hopeful, confident, caring. Stella grew wistful. ‘Take care, John.’
He hugged her briefly but tightly. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Aunty Stella.’
The screen door creaked. Harry waited on the top step. Her nephew returned to stand by his father’s side.
Watson jumped up and down in the cage as Stella sat behind the steering wheel.
‘Pretty boy, pretty boy,’ screeched Watson out the car window.
‘Bloody bird,’ replied Harry, walking back inside the house with his son.
At the crossroad, Stella slowed and turned down the road that led to the Ryan house. She parked out the front and pulled the terrestrial globe from the back of the car. It was heavy and her arms strained as she walked up the path to the stairs and onto the homestead’s veranda. It was the first time she’d seen the front of the building. It was a pretty structure and well kept, with curling fretwork and freshly painted timber. A pair of fine windows complemented the narrow entrance to the house, which featured a tarnished doorknob. Stella thought of Brandon’s arrival on the property. He may have waited at this very spot as a young man, filled with expectation, unaware that his coming to this place would alter his life in ways he could never have imagined. She shifted the globe from a hip, wedging the ornament on the bone of the other and then walked to the rear of the house.
The side veranda was bare and leaf-littered. Peeling lattice had been wired to the garden fence and a vine clung to sections of it. It formed a screen that ran perpendicular to the corner of the homestead. Ahead was the statue of the woman. It was strange to see the figure in the failing light. Up close, the sculpture was streaked with bird droppings. The corners of the pedestal chipped. The stone woman looked as Stella felt, eroded by events.
‘You came back,’ said Brandon. ‘I thought I must have waffled on far too long. Young people don’t take to waffling. What have you got there?’
He was still sitting in the rattan chair on the veranda.
‘Your globe.’ Stella placed it on the timber boards at his feet and then took up the vacant seat.
Brandon leant forwards, spinning it softly. ‘It’s been a long time since I last saw this.’ He stroked the earth as if it were the contours of a loved one’s face.
‘The heat out west has melted the glue. It needs some repairing,’ said Stella.
‘Don’t we all.’ Brandon patted the orb affectionately and then lit the kerosene lamp on the table between them. The yellowish light fluctuated and then steadied.
‘Have you eaten? Can I make you something?’ offered Stella.
‘Clinton dropped in. He brought a casserole. In the old days we called it stew. Usually we had it straight out of the cooking pot with a lump of bread on the side. Back then, anything we ate was delicious, however I have to admit this one was pretty good.’
Across from them the dog rolled on the lawn, twisting one way and then another before lying on his back, his four legs bent and floppy.
‘I came to say goodbye,’ said Stella, not wanting to draw out their parting.
‘I figured as much. That car of yours sounds like it needs a service. They throw you out?’ Brandon moved stiffly until his hand rested on the globe once more.
‘Not exactly, it was my decision. My nephew John knew I’d visited you and it seemed ridiculous keeping it a secret, so I told Ann,’ admitted Stella. ‘Word travelled quickly.’
Brandon stopped trailing the mountain ranges of America. ‘You just came out and said it, eh? Well, good for you. Who would have thought it? Joe’s widow stepping where others fear to tread.’
‘No promises, however you might find that you have at least one visitor from across the fence in the weeks to come. They had no idea about the argument over the cedar tree.’ The possibility of some form of reconciliation, however slight, occurring between the Ryans and the O’Riains stirred hope within her. It was an unfamiliar sensation.
‘After all these years,’ mulled Brandon, staring into the twilight.
‘Well, you know what they say about things being better late,’ replied Stella.
Brandon coughed and then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose. She’d not given much thought to how this news might affect the old man but as he wiped his eyes Stella began to realise that the years of festering animosity were beginning to break down. It was a small but significant beginning.
‘You can stay here tonight, if you want. There’s no shortage of beds although I can’t speak for the state of the rooms. I live downstairs mostly and sleep on the sleigh bed. I’m like one of those medieval people. I have to sleep partially sitting up.’
Stella hesitated. ‘I don’t want to impose.’
‘You won’t be. But there’s something I need to tell you first. I wasn’t going to but you’ve given an old man more than you can imagine and it’s only fair that I return the sentiment.’
She’d grown fond of Brandon, so the implication that he’d not been totally honest with her during their discussions brought the pleasantness of this, their last meeting, to a halt.
‘I thought that Joe might have explained the arrangement,’ Brandon began hesitantly. ‘Actually, it’s one of the reasons I thought you came to the Valley. To see if there was a chance of any money.’
It was Stella’s turn to fumble in answering. ‘Money? You mean from Joe’s share of the farm?’ She hated discussing finance. It made her uncomfortable, particularly as it was not the reason for her visit. However here she was, close to leaving the Valley, her every possession heaped in a station wagon and rickety trailer. There was little point letting pride overrule honesty.
‘Money was the very last thing on my mind when I came here, but yes, Harry has offered to pay me out Joe’s share and I accepted.’
‘A young woman like you, recently widowed, it won’t take long for you to get tangled up with another fellow. Still, you were right to take the money if only because every time Harry checks his bank statement it will remind him of his brother. He was hard on Joe. Too hard. But that’s not what I was referring to. I’m talking about Kirooma.’
‘What about Kirooma?’
The old man made no attempt to explain himself immediately, choosing instead to let the seconds spread out until more than a minute had passed. Stella sensed that Brandon had not quite the resolve to finish the sentence he’d begun. Part of h
er was pleased. Through careful persistence, she’d relegated the property to a fringe world, a place located on the very edges of her mind, although at times the land trailed her like a homeless dog. Yet she sat patiently waiting for Brandon to speak, a morbid curiosity swelling within her.
‘The arrangement wasn’t a secret, however Joe told me in one of his letters that he thought it was better to keep the past separate from his new life. That wasn’t the real reason, of course, but I knew Joe well enough not to query his decision. I’ve never seen someone receive so much personal satisfaction as Joe did with the purchase of Kirooma Station. It was the fulfillment of a dream and his pride simply wouldn’t allow anything to tarnish the achievement.’
‘I’m really not following you,’ replied Stella.
‘Joe was adamant that no one be told that he’d received assistance to buy the property. It was important to him that people believed he’d done it all on his own merit,’ explained Brandon.
‘Assistance? From whom?’
‘Mr Truby owned half of Kirooma Station in partnership with the Handalay family. The original owners. When he died, he left his share to me.’
It was as if some greater force were controlling her, pushing her one way and the other, as she came to realise that all the parts she’d played – an unwanted relation, an errant daughter, a deserted wife, the woman who’d watched her husband ride away on a motorbike never to set eyes on him again – were all distinct personalities pushed upon her by the attitudes and manipulations of other people.
‘You own half of Kirooma Station?’
‘I used to, yes.’
Bewildered, Stella sat in the rattan chair, the kerosene lantern flickering like a lighthouse.
‘The Handalays were big pastoralists and canny managers. It was a good business partnership for many years. However, when the grandsons of the original owners decided to sell, I agreed with their decision. I had no interest in buying them out, and we were starting to lose money. Unfortunately, the property stayed on the market for years, firstly due to the Depression and then, of course, war broke out. That’s when I thought of Joe, and the promise that I’d made to him when he was young. We talked about Kirooma. The possibilities. The money to be made from sheep. He was older by then. A man. I said he’d need a wife if he was going out to the far west. The deal hinged on that. I wasn’t sending him out there alone. A few months later he rang to tell me that he’d found one.’
The Cedar Tree Page 35
