by Téa Cooper
‘They’re men, all men.’
‘Bloody bunch of savages. Ain’t no more than animals.’
‘We owe them. Without them you’d not be earning enough to keep your rum-soaked blood flowing, so quit your whingeing.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Yarr-a-ma-long.’ Slinger drew out the words with a dismissive curl of his lip. ‘Place of cedars. Won’t be for much longer. There’s not a lot left. I’ll be heading north with the others as soon as we’re done here. Cedar’s not gone there. Plenty of teams’ll take me on.’
Carrick nodded in agreement. He’d be needing a bit more help for a little longer and as a cutter Slinger was one of the best. If Carrick could convince him to stay he’d be more than happy. King Polai. He had every intention of cutting it before they left. With that and the money he had saved he’d have plenty to seek out the godforsaken maggot who’d started all this.
He let out a long sigh. If it hadn’t been for Billy Boy’s old man, he’d not have his pot of gold. The old native had spotted King Polai from miles away, before they took to the Yarramalong. His eyes, which were good then, attuned to the way the light fell from the treetops, had picked out the subtle shades of colour, the pink of the new leaves.
King Polai was all he’d said, pointing his long, thin finger towards the setting sun. It had taken them days to travel deep into the valley and find it and Carrick had kept the secret spot. King Polai was his. He’d have it and he’d have it soon, with or without Slinger.
After five mind-numbing days they reached the canvas lean-tos on the edge of the stand of timber as the twilight fell. In the strange grey-brown light of the forest the camp seemed almost welcoming. The stacked barrels of Bengal rum, tea and sugar formed a backdrop to the campfire and the billy bubbled away, Smokey doing his job and keeping the men out of the rum until they finished and called it a night.
Carrick gazed around, checking the crew. Blue, Sampson and Will. It would be their turn for the next run to Morpeth. Slinger, Jojo and Goose would stay behind with him. That’s the way it worked best. Two weeks full on, a bit of a break, then back for another stint. Good and regular.
He studied the shady recess of the forest beside the cool stony creek. They’d tumble the last remaining trees in the next month and then head back to town. He’d lay them off, send them up the coast. The boys would pick up more work quick as a wink. They made a great team and as long as they got a decent feed and plenty of rum they were happy. Most of them couldn’t see further than the next barrel. No boss cutter asked any questions about why they sought refuge in the forest just so long as they did a decent day’s work and pulled their weight. Slinger, he was different, he thought a bit further ahead.
Maybe he would tell Slinger about King Polai. See if he wanted in. He couldn’t bring it down alone. They’d have to cut above the buttress roots, at least thirty feet around. It’d take a good while. The tree had to be close to two hundred feet. If the two of them could manage it, they’d be able to keep it quiet.
The days ran together in a never-ending cycle. They took a break at noon for dinner and, on a good day, a quick stop for a billy of tea in the afternoon. Today Carrick would sell his soul for a swig of rum, but he couldn’t flaunt his own rule of no grog until they’d finished for the day. When the light went and they called it quits they could hit the rum.
Carrick stood astride the pit and sucked in a deep breath before forcing the crosscut saw down towards Slinger. Sweat dripped onto the red timber, turning it dark in the fading light. Slinger took the slack and yanked on it, pulling it down, a shower of sawdust peppering his head.
‘Go.’ Slinger pushed back and Carrick pulled up, not needing to think about the rhythm they’d established over the years. It was better than the mines. A living hell three hundred feet beneath the surface. Dark, damp tunnels, the miners’ blackened skin and their inability to catch a decent breath. It was no life for a man. The day he’d first wielded the crosscut saw and felt it sink into his hands like an old friend was a blessing, as was the soldier who’d noticed his natural skill and claimed him for the cutters’ team along with Slinger.
With a final tug the saw released and Slinger bounced back against the dirt wall out of harm’s way. One wrong move and a falling log would flatten him; break every bone in his body. ‘She’s a big bugger.’
Not as big as King Polai, probably only half the size. Carrick set down the saw and wiped his arm across his forehead. ‘We’ll call it a day. Finish your cuts.’ The hum of the saws and the groans of the men ceased, returning the forest to its natural silence.
Slinger clambered out of the pit, wiping the sawdust and woodchip from his blackened face. ‘We’re close to another dray load. When’s the bullocky back?’
‘Another three days.’ Carrick turned to the other men working the pits. ‘You done?’
‘Done! Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’ A sinewy redhead clutched at his non-existent belly and elbowed his way down the track.
‘Back to camp, then. Smokey’ll have tea sorted.’
Smokey’s pickled pork and damper stuck to the roof of his mouth and even a huge mouthful of scalding tea wouldn’t dislodge it. Perhaps the rum would work its magic. The nights were the worst, when the velvety blackness encompassed the forest, reminding him of the hell of the solitary cells. There was no starlight and rarely even a shaft of moonlight beneath the thick canopy, just moths and insects swarming around the campfire drawn to the only light for miles around.
He’d taken to sleeping away from the fire, away from the canvas lean-tos where the cutters threw their swags at night, since the dreams had returned. No one would witness his agony, his cries and sweating, his pathetic trembling. If he closed his eyes he could see their faces pushed to the window as they hammered against a backdrop of licking flames while he stood shackled, unable to move. He’d watched, watched to the very end, even when they’d tried to drag him away. Only now it wasn’t his darlings’ faces he saw, it was the lass and her little lad hammering against the glass of the window in Wollombi. He tossed back the remains of his rum and pushed to his feet, staggering to the dray out of the light of the fire.
Slinger dragged off his hat and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, before refilling his mug from the barrel on the back of the dray. ‘Once the bullocky takes this lot I’d say we’ve got one more load and we’ll be finished.’ He tossed back the entire contents of the enamelled mug and reached for some more. ‘Where’s Smokey? I’m hungry.’
Carrick flicked his head in the direction of the fire. ‘Damper’s done and there’s the last of the pork over there.’
‘I’d give all of the pork for some of Maisie’s Irish stew. Sick to death of these rations. I need a break.’
‘I need you here. I’ll be going with the bullock dray.’
‘You’ll be doing what? It’s not your run.’
‘You heard me. Going with the dray. Got business in Morpeth.’
The way Slinger raised his bushy eyebrows told him his lie had failed, but right now he wasn’t about to go into his reasons. He couldn’t get the lass out of his mind, or the lad for that matter. They’d haunted his dreams for the last two weeks and a cold dread clutched at the pit of his stomach as he imagined them coming to harm.
It was a load of nonsense, but there was only one way to get rid of the fug in his brain. While he’d been locked in the forest, Roisin and Ruan had merged in his imagination, become one and the same with Liam and Brigid. He had to clear his head. Leave it sit and he’d make a mistake. A slip with the blade, a miscalculation and he’d be doing someone harm. Cutting demanded concentration and with his head full of Roisin and Ruan, he was a danger to them all.
Just so long as he could see them and make sure they’d settled and the townsfolk were treating them well and hadn’t decided that because she’d moved into the old cathouse, she was setting up in the trade. They’d run the last lot out of town. He knew only too well the way strangers to the small town could be treated. N
o one deserved that.
‘Tonight you sleep with me and tomorrow you can sleep in the attic.’
Exhausted by the day’s events, Ruan grunted his acceptance and snuggled under the covers. His soft hair tickled Roisin’s face as she spooned him close, secure away from prying eyes. Aunt Lil had known. Known that only when they were out of Sydney could she truly relax. She waited for his leering face to appear and fill her vision. Instead, there was only the night sky, peppered with stars, the call of a mopoke owl somewhere in the distance, and the settling of the old house as it accustomed itself to new inhabitants.
They slept together, snug beneath her cloak and the old blankets, and when the grey-gold light pooled on the bed, she rose to peer out into the tiny plot behind the house. Yes, this place would do well, very well.
Leaving Ruan sleeping, she pattered down the hallway to the parlour. Even with her nose pressed right up against the panes she could see nothing. Rubbing the glass with the heel of her hand, she cleared a spot and peered out into the street.
Life beyond the city moved at a different pace. Would she find enough customers to patronise her business? Seeing no sign of the cutters’ dray outside the inn took the shine out of the morning. In some strange way she missed the outrageous smile of the cedar cutter.
Outside Elsie worked her way across the front verandah with tight, determined sweeps of her broom. A couple of chickens picked lazily in the middle of the road as Maisie ambled across from the inn. Elsie ceased her sweeping and together they edged down the alley to the house, their heads together, trying to peer through the filthy glass into her parlour. Roisin stepped back from the window and flattened herself against the wall.
‘I’ve never heard of a woman running her own business.’
‘That’s a load of old rubbish for a start. Look at you. You run the General Store. And I run the inn.’
‘It’s not the same. Our men hold the licences, own the business.’
‘And they’re lazy buggers. Who does all the work?’
‘This is her business. Her own. Not anyone else’s. She hasn’t got a man. And she’s got that child. Now where did he come from? Where’s her husband, I’d like to know.’
‘Maybe she hasn’t got one.’
‘Oh, right. And the child’s an immaculate conception, is he? Touch of the Virgin Mary. The boy’s a darling, I’ll grant you that, but not quite that good.’
‘There’s only one thing to do. Ask her. Put an end to all this nonsense once and for all.’
Roisin ducked down the hallway, back to the kitchen. Being caught eavesdropping wouldn’t endear her to her new neighbours. Besides, if they were going to chatter about her, better they got the facts straight. She’d got her story sorted. Had gone over it so many times even she’d forgotten where the truth ended and the lies began.
Sucking in a deep breath, she marched back and threw open the front door. ‘Morning, Elsie. Morning, Maisie. How kind of you to come and visit. Come through to the kitchen. The billy’s on the boil.’ She pressed her lips together and took no notice of the guilty glance passing between the two women. That would teach them.
By the time they’d settled at the kitchen table with their cups of tea in front of them, her mind was made up. Stick to the truth as closely as possible, only lie when absolutely necessary, and hope Ruan stayed upstairs fast asleep.
She drew up a chair and offered her sweetest smile. ‘Now, ladies to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I’m not open for business yet; however, I’m happy to discuss any needs you might have.’
‘Needs? Us?’ Elsie spluttered her tea back into her cup. ‘We ain’t got no need for a dressmaker. We’re working women.’
‘Oh, stop beating around the bush, Elsie Sullivan. You know your curiosity’s killing you.’ Maisie plonked her teacup back into the saucer. ‘We was just wondering if you’d care to answer a few questions.’
Here it came. ‘Questions?’ She cocked her head to one side with studied innocence.
‘There’s rumours round town already.’ Maisie sat back, her hands laced over her ample stomach. ‘It’s better to put an early end to it before it gets out of hand. You just turning up out of the blue. And from Sydney.’
The scuttlebutt around town could only have been stoked by these two; she’d hardly had anything to do with anyone else. ‘I see. What would you like to know?’
‘It’s about your business, see.’ Elsie rested her elbows on the table, her tea forgotten. ‘We’ve never known a woman to have her own business afore. It’s men that set up the business. We just work for ’em.’
Was that all they were anxious about? Far, far easier to sort that out. And all the time she’d worried they’d grill her about Ruan’s father. Talk about jumping to conclusions. ‘This is my business. No one else’s. In Sydney lots of women own their own business. Why in Pitt Street women run every kind.’ She held up her thumb. ‘For starters, there’s Matilda Cox’s fruit shop, Elizabeth Hudson’s music rooms, mind you her husband gives piano lessons.’
Maisie let out a snort of amusement and relaxed back in the chair. ‘He gives music lessons? Nah, that’s a woman’s job.’
‘Mrs White’s oyster bar. And then there’s Madame de Lolle’s business.’ She ticked off each one on her fingers to prove the point.
‘Madame de Lolle! What sort of business does she run?’ Elsie dug her elbow into the space where Maisie’s ribs lay buried. ‘As if we couldn’t guess.’
Right. Now was the time. ‘A millinery and costume business called Maison Français.’
‘Oh. She’d be a Frenchie, would she? Well, that accounts for that.’ Elsie folded her arms and rocked back in the chair and huffed ‘Frenchie’ as though the word denoted some abomination responsible for the world’s ills.
‘I worked for her, in fact. That’s where I learned my trade.’ First observing the women at their work while she cleaned and later as one of them.
‘Thought you said you were a dressmaker, not a hat maker.’
Both women narrowed their eyes and studied her for a moment, while she willed the flush back down below her collar. ‘I learned how to make all kinds of things. Hats, dresses, coats.’ And the most stunning corsets, the like of which would send both Maisie and Elsie into a flat spin, and have her drummed out of town before she’d even unpacked her trunks.
Elsie pursed her lips and glanced at Maisie as if asking for permission. ‘Hmmm. All well and good, I suppose.’
Now the questions about Ruan’s father would come. Only to be expected, and once the lies were told, she could rest easy.
‘So what happened to your husband, young Ruan’s father?’
Her cheeks reddened and she gritted her teeth, fingering the worn grooves in the scarred tabletop. ‘He’s dead.’ She covered her face with her hands, more to hide the flaming colour than from despair. If only she was a better liar and wasn’t cursed with a pale complexion that showed her every thought.
A hand came down on her shoulder, sending her heart pitter-pattering nineteen to the dozen. She wrenched her head up and peered into Maisie’s sympathetic face, then hid behind her hands again.
‘There, there, dear. Don’t you fret. The good ones are always taken young.’
Little did Maisie know. Roisin sniffed behind her hands and lifted her face, mopping her dry eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I needed a fresh start, somewhere new. I want Ruan to grow up away from the city, away from trouble.’ And that much was completely true.
‘What about the rest of your family? Your ma and pa, brothers and sisters.’ Maisie’s hand patted Roisin’s shoulder in a rhythmic beat that echoed in her head. ‘Haven’t you got no one?’
‘My mam was a seamstress.’ When she wasn’t working flat on her back in one of Aunt Lil’s best rooms. That wasn’t exactly an untruth. More of a half-truth really. Not an outright lie. ‘That’s why she sent me to work for Madame de Lolle.’ To keep her out of trouble and away from the groping hands and licentious leers. Lot of go
od that had done. ‘When Mam died there was a little money left after her funeral.’ And the other amount that Aunt Lil had slipped her, though she better not mention that. ‘I came here. Everyone needs a seamstress now and again and my work is, well my work is said to be good, very fine.’ So fine even the best of Sydney’s courtesans would scratch each other’s eyes out for one of her corsets.
‘There, there, dearie. Don’t you worry now. Elsie and I’ll take care of it. Put pay to all this silly nonsense once and for all. If a reputable widow can’t take care of herself and her son without a bunch of bored old women sticking their beaks into her business, I don’t know who can. We’ll sort them out for you. So long as we know your story.’
Oh, God. Were they going to ask more questions? She’d thought saying she was a widow would be enough. Had she got away with it?
‘Mam, Mam.’ Her heart lifted as Ruan appeared in the doorway, his hair poking up at all angles and his eyes still blurred with sleep. Maybe his presence would end this inquisition.
‘Mam, look at this treasure.’
‘Come here and greet Mrs Sullivan and Mrs Kidd.’ She wiped the hair back from his eyes, wanting to cover him in kisses as thanks for his timely appearance.
Ruan leant against her knee and peered up at Maisie and Elsie through his long lashes. ‘Good morning.’
‘He’s a bonny lad. What have you got there?’
Ruan opened his clenched fist. ‘It’s a skeleton, I think.’
‘Lord alive. A skeleton, you say. Now where would you be finding that?’
He shrugged his shoulder and smoothed the small skull cradled in his hand.
‘Ouch. Nasty thing. I wouldn’t be touching it too much.’ Maisie wrinkled her nose and pushed back her chair.
Ruan lowered his hand to the table. ‘What do you think it is? A little person?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
