by Téa Cooper
Disgruntled, Carrick kicked the stone along the path running alongside the brook. What had happened? Why had she closed him out like that? He belted the stone and it swung off the bank and into the water. Too fast, too strong a kick, just like he’d behaved with Roisin. A woman needed to take things slow, he’d forgotten about that.
He found the bullocky down by the brook, the campfire raging and the billy boiling, the ever-present flagon of rum at his feet.
‘Wasn’t expecting to see you back here. Lady friend turn you down, did she?’
More than turned him down, as good as kicked him out. ‘No. She’s got things to do. Unpacking those trunks. She was pleased to get them though.’ Just not so pleased to see him and have him in her home.
‘Sounds like you’ve been given the heave-ho to me. Here.’ He passed up the flagon of rum.
‘Thanks.’ The rum burned a path down his throat, dousing the memories and the pain in his heart. He was better staying away, the lad reminded him too much of Liam. Thoughts like that would make him soft and he hadn’t the time. The stand was as good as cleared. He needed to move on. His deposits in the bank were mounting.
He tipped the flagon and drained it. ‘Let’s go see what’s for tea. I want to make an early start in the morning.’
The inn was crowded, the start of another round for the cutters. Familiar faces, same old rivalries, tall tales and free-flowing rum. The noise was enough to make a man long for the forest. Carrick knocked back another tankard then weaved his way to the bar. ‘Whass for tea, Maisie?’
‘You’ll want to be quick.’ She tossed her head in the direction of the crowd clustered around the fireplace. ‘The cutters are in from Paterson. Reckon they’ll drink me dry, never mind the food.’
‘Good job Slinger’s tucked up in the forest, then. Had a run-in with the bastards last time.’
‘They’re a rough bunch and making the most of it. I’ll give you a hoy when your tea’s ready.’ She pushed a full tankard across the bar.
The reputation of the Paterson crew preceded them. A large group of hard-drinking, hard-fighting men who liked nothing more than a barney once the grog took ’em. Crowded around the fire in a tight semi-circle, the cutters packed the small room, fists thumping as a hefty bloke tossed a couple of cartwheel pennies from a cedar chip. All eyes followed the coins as they twisted and fell to the ground. Cries of outrage from the losers rent the air and serious money changed hands.
The Paterson bullocky called for bets and Carrick eased his way to the front of the group.
‘Heads.’ He reached into his pocket and handed over a shilling.
The coins twirled and fell and he pocketed his winnings, ignoring the mumbled discontent. The ringie handed him the kip with a sly grin. He shook his head. The Paterson boys liked control of the game. What were they up to? He tossed back the remains of his rum. Why the hell not? Slinger wasn’t around; perhaps it was their way of making peace.
He gave a curt nod and took the cedar chip. The ringie placed the coins tails up on the kip, balancing the pennies on the slim piece of wood, the shiny, polished heads down, the dark tail side up. Carrick settled the coins and gauged the distance around the small circle. If the coins fell outside the circle the toss wouldn’t count. If he tossed it too low they’d call foul. If he didn’t toss heads his chance was over. The circle closed in. The heat from the fire singed the backs of his legs. He flicked the kip and the coins circled high, almost as high as the roof, then twirled and fell.
‘Foul.’
‘Goin’ to have to try a bit harder than that.’
‘Only good with an axe, are you?’
He tossed again, the coins glittered and twisted in the light from the fire and landed with a soft thud on the mat.
‘Tails.’
Carrick shrugged his shoulders and handed back the kip. He’d stick with a few more bets then call it quits. He picked up his tankard and staggered over to the bar. ‘Fill ’er up, Maisie.’
‘How much did you have afore you got ’ere? What’s got your goat?’
He slouched against the bar. None of her business if he wanted to drown his sorrows. Better do it here than in the forest, where he had to keep his wits about him. The lass had got to him with her bright eyes and soft smile and the lad …
‘Here, wrap your face around that.’ Maisie pushed the tankard across the bar. ‘Food’s coming. You need it.’
‘Later. A couple more bets to cover me costs.’
‘Don’t give me that rubbish. I know what those trees are worth. You’re raking it in.’
All the money in the world couldn’t replace what he’d lost. Jesus, he was maudlin tonight. He’d be crying in his drink before long, propped in the corner like some old-timer with nothing more than memories. He downed the rum, wiped his mouth and elbowed his way to the game once more, pulling a handful of coins out of his pocket, holding his hand high. A decent win always cheered a man. ‘Tails.’
‘Reckon you’re goin’ to win this one, do you?’ The burly beefsteak ringie pushed his way to the front of the circle and stood next to him. ‘I’ll take your bet.’
Carrick handed over his money. The two coins flew straight and high, twinkling in the firelight before landing with a soft thud, dark side up.
‘Heads,’ the ringie called.
Heads? It wasn’t heads. It was tails. A blind man could see that. If they’d landed heads the firelight would pick up the shiny side of the coin. ‘Tails. It was tails.’ He bent down to point at the pennies and found himself spread-eagled on the mat. He was on his feet before he’d caught his breath, facing the leering crowd through a red mist. The men began stamping and the circle closed in as they sized him up. He spun around, sucking in a breath of the close air. The ringie’s fist flew, filled his vision and hit bone. Blood gushed from his nose, salty and thick, spraying his face. He shook away the coppery tang wetting his chin, sticky against his teeth, and lowered his head, ready to charge. Hands grabbed his arms and held him firm.
‘Don’t be an idiot.’ The bullocky’s voice hissed in his ear. ‘Call it quits. You haven’t got a hope in hell.’
Carrick never gambled unless he knew he’d win, never fought unless he had to. Somehow events had spiralled out of control. ‘I’ll give those cheatin’ bastards …’ He struggled. He’d flatten them, every one of them. Whatever happened to the luck of the Irish?
‘No you won’t.’ His feet lifted from the ground as the bullocky spun him around and away from the crowd. ‘Give it up. You can’t take ’em all on.’
Beyond the heat of the fire the dull-red mist cleared and Carrick let his shoulders drop. The crowd around the game closed ranks and the coins flew again. ‘I’d like to.’
‘Yeah well sometimes it’s better to step back. You’ve had too much to pack a decent punch.’
The cold air hit him as they stumbled outside. ‘Where’s the rest of the crew when I needed them? Could have done with some backup in there.’ He yanked down his shirt and staggered a step or two, blinking owlishly, trying to make out the camp. Christ, how much had he drunk? The rum whirled in his head, clouding it, churning in his belly and sickening him.
‘There’s food down at the camp.’
‘Thought you were after Maisie’s stew.’
‘Got our own. Scored some corned beef while you were busy with your lady friend.’
He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, save for the scones the lovely Roisin had made before she’d kicked him out. He took a swipe at an overhanging branch. The young lad had brought back the pain, sharpened it. The loss cut worse than before. When he went home to Ireland he’d search out that maggot and give him a dose of his own medicine, even if it meant a trip back in irons. Who the hell cared?
Carrick woke with his head splitting fit to bust and a mouth parched as the brook in drought. Lying in the back of the bullock dray, the banging and crashing over the rough track turned to anvils in his head, thumping like the very demons of hell. He squi
nted up. Glimpsed through the treetops the sky was nothing more than a narrow shard of blue, no horizon, yet the light still scored his eyeballs. He’d not be touching the rum for a while—the drink of the devil. The bullocky flicked the tip of his whip in the air. ‘Gee up lads.’ The dray lurched, turning off the road back into the forest, while Carrick sat nursing a sore head full of maudlin thoughts of a life once lived.
Clouds appeared without warning, billowing, bringing the damp scent of the forest. More than anything else the smell and the pungent sweetness of the cedar mixed with damp earth, rotting leaves and campfire smoke told Carrick they’d arrived. The deep glistening green of damp ferns and creepers, the dusty grey and blue of the eucalypts and the raw crimson of the split and bleeding cedar heart. He’d like to crawl into one of the dark gullies and crevices where the sun never shone. The wind thrummed through the trees, drowning the babble of the creek and the thump of the wallabies and roos as they swept through the undergrowth.
A rumbling groan and an ear-splitting crack signalled the fall of a tree, then the hush followed as though the world mourned the loss of another giant. He mourned the loss of a brief and tantalising gander of another life, not populated by rum, sweat and muscle-grinding agony, but clean linen, scones and tea, and most especially the smile of an Irish beauty and a little lad who’d captured his heart.
Stuck in the forest he laboured from dawn to dusk, chopping and sawing until his body screamed for rest and he collapsed under a canvas strung in some scooped-out clearing. Despite the hardship, the leeches, mosquitoes and ticks, he’d found a kind of peace mixing with resilient men. Men like Slinger. They’d formed a team long before either of them had been granted freedom, their axe blows timed in perfect rhythm and their bodies balanced against the huge crosscut saws alternating in the pits.
The hard-living cutters drank more, swore more and fought more than most, but they measured themselves against the giant trees, not against each other when they collected around the campfire at night. None of the drunken shenanigans that pitted crew against crew down at the inn.
He eased closer to the light of the fire and rubbed the handful of sand from the creek bed over a piece of cedar.
Slinger squatted down beside him. ‘Here, just use another piece of cedar. Rub ’em together. It’ll work as well if not better.’
Carrick took the offered cedar chip and rubbed it against the wood block that would form the base of the box he had in mind.
‘What’re you making?’
‘A box—a treasure box.’ He picked up an identically sized piece and balanced it on the first. ‘There’s the lid.’ Beside him the pile of smoothed-off cuts lay like jigsaw pieces. This box would have compartments and lids and all the things that might take the fancy of someone keen on collecting treasures.
‘You’re planning on taking to the high seas, become a pirate? I’d have pegged you for a bushranger first.’
‘Nah! It’s for the lad.’ Although with a bit of imagination it would make a fine pirate’s chest.
‘The lad—ah. The lad that belongs to the lovely lady who’s caught your fancy. The quickest way to a woman’s heart is through her children.’
And the quickest way to shrivel a man’s heart was to lose a child and the darling of his heart. ‘And how would you be knowing that?’
Slinger threw him a wink. ‘Here, give me the other piece, I’ll do it for you. Then you’ll need some beeswax. Make the colour shine through. And if this is a success maybe we’ll be chippies when we give up the cutting.’
‘You might get your wish sooner than you think. There’s not much left around here worth cutting.’
He rubbed the beeswax into the timber and watched the colour change until it was almost as though he was running his fingers through her hair.
Six
Roisin’s needle dipped and bobbed through the material, the stitches forming a pleasing, fine straight line. The comfort of the repetitive movements and the knowledge they would result in something worthwhile gave her enormous pleasure. This would be her first piece of work in Wollombi.
As pleased as she was with her new home, she missed the safety and security of Aunt Lil’s, the companionship. The incessant banter and babble of the girls as they prepared for the night and their raucous, outrageous jokes. Their descriptions of the men who crossed the threshold always made her laugh. Sharp and accurate character sketches summed up in a single sentence or even simply a word. What would they make of Carrick? A smile flitted across her face. There would be no complaint about his physical prowess, his laughing eyes and playful manner, yet there was the tender, caring side; they wouldn’t see that, and overlying it all the lingering sadness in his eyes that spoke of pain and loss. She shouldn’t have sent him on his way. It was a foolish overreaction that had spoiled Ruan’s fun. Not only that, she’d have to ask Maisie to find someone to deliver timber.
It had been the egg in the woodshed that had raised her hackles, or was it her reaction to the comfort of his arms, so strong and secure. Ruan continued to find all kinds of bits and pieces as though they’d been left deliberately as a gift. How did they get there? Carrick was the only person she could imagine doing such a thing, but he was long gone back to his forest and the lure of the giant cedars.
The log spat and sent a flurry of orange-and-red stars chasing their way up the chimney. Roisin lowered her sewing and stared into the flames. Carrick had seen loss, great loss, someone close to him. That she knew with a deep certainty. The sadness that welled in his eyes when he looked at Ruan made her heart twist. She blew out the candle and sat in the dwindling light of the fire, tears burning her eyes. She’d never get over the ache of losing her mother. Nigh on eight years might be long enough for some, but not for her. Strange that Ruan should be the result of that dreadful night. If anything happened to Ruan it would destroy her. Hadn’t that very fear started her on this mad journey? To live with such pain would be worse than death itself.
Leaving the fire she climbed the ladder, sticking her head through the trapdoor into the attic. From her perch on the top rung, Ruan’s face in the shaft of moonlight was serene and peaceful, a slight smile tilting his lips as he cradled the fragile blue egg to his chest. His gentle breathing proving her fears were groundless, unfounded. His days brimmed with adventures and exploration. His incessant questions, his ever-growing box of treasures that he studied, polished and rearranged. Seeing his head bent in concentration over the table brought a tug to her heart. When the new year came and he turned seven, she’d send him to school.
Not yet. The thought of letting him out of her sight still made her blood run cold. At first she’d believed he’d need no more than his letters and his numbers and she could teach him those just the way Aunt Lil had taught her. But this sudden, almost academic interest in things and his growing questions were at times beyond her knowledge. Why did snakes shed their skins? She’d no idea. In a moment of fanciful imagination, she’d told him it was because they wore out and the snake tailors made new ones. Six months ago he’d have nodded his head and accepted her every word as the truth. Not anymore. With a sense of patent disapproval he’d rolled his eyes and turned back to his detailed drawings.
Sighing, she edged down the ladder and made her way to bed.
With the window at the front of the house cleaned and polished, Roisin had no trouble spotting Elsie when she made her morning check. Like clockwork every morning. A broom in one hand and her eyes darting to and fro. ‘Elsie would you like to come in?’
Elsie’s face flushed and she chewed on her lip before taking a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Morning. I didn’t expect to see you here. I was just sweeping up, cleaning the alley. I expect you’ll be having visitors soon and we want it all to look neat and tidy.’
Roisin drifted back to the window. ‘Would you like to come inside, Elsie?’ The woman shook her head, although it wasn’t what she meant. Her currant eyes darted back and forth, taking in the transformation.
‘Com
e and see what I’ve done so far, I’m rather proud of it.’
Elsie set foot slowly, one step at a time, and as she turned into the parlour her face became a picture, her mouth gaping open, her surprise evident. ‘You’ve been working, very hard. Goodness me, look at those windows. And the fireplace is as good as new.’ Her eyes danced from one side of the room to the other. ‘Ah.’ She pointed to the trunk sitting against the wall. ‘That’ll be the trunk Carrick collected for you. He and that nasty bullocky man delivered them. Threw the other two on the footpath, I’ll have you know.’
‘Yes. They did deliver them for me. It was very kind. I’ve unpacked everything. Would you like to see some of my work?’ She held up a soft white nightdress and smoothed the pleats down the front. With the little pearl buttons in a perfect line down the centre and such fine cotton, it was as light as a feather. Perfect for the hot summer nights. ‘What you think about this, Elsie?’
‘It’s very fine for a chemise.’
She smiled gently and held out the whisper-fine cotton. ‘It’s not a chemise, it’s a nightgown. A dress to wear while you’re sleeping.’
‘You’d wear something like that to bed? I sleep in me chemise. No fuss. Quick in the morning. Haven’t got time for fancies like that and what would Alfie say? He’d think I was givin’ him the come-on.’
‘I like to wear a nightgown. It’s comfortable and soft and cool on a hot night.’
Elsie’s frown said it all. The idea of something worn for anything except practicality was far beyond her understanding. Perhaps Roisin’s idea was a pipe dream. Something for the ladies of the night in Sydney, not for the likes of Elsie and Maisie.
