The Cedar Cutter (4 page)

‘Someone dance on your grave, did they?' Elsie asked with a smile. ‘It happens to me all the time. I put it down to all the history in these walls. All those stories aching to be told. This place has been here since the convict road gangs first came to build the road from Sydney.'

What nonsense. It's the last thing Ruan needed to hear, that their new home was haunted by an itinerant band of convicts. ‘No, just a little cold. I'll be fine in the sunshine.' Dark and musty, the air was redolent with the smell of vermin, and strangely, an overtone of something flowery.

‘You've got no kitchen as such. The room at the back's big with a good fireplace. There's a scullery outside, a privy and a woodshed. It's pretty mucky. No one's lived here for a long while. Not since the girls got sent packing.' Elsie smothered a sneeze with her apron.

‘Sent packing?'

Elsie cleared her throat, a long, drawn-out kind of snort. ‘It wasn't the best sort of place.' She wrung her apron in her hands and shot a quick glance at Ruan. ‘A place the men liked to visit.' She raised her eyebrows and bobbed her head up and down. ‘That's why you've got that window at the front. Not many can afford glass like that.'

A bubble of laughter rose in Roisin's throat and she swallowed it down. She'd leased a house of ill repute. She'd come full circle. The irony of it made her grin and all her fears floated away, scented by the familiar ghosts of the past.

‘I'll leave you. I need to get back and mind the store. There's no stove, just a camp oven, a billy and some old furniture out the back in the woodshed, couple of padded chairs and a few other bits 'n pieces you might be able to make use of. Sing out if you need anything.' Elsie bustled out, leaving a gaping silence.

Ruan tugged at her hand. ‘Come on.' He clattered down the hallway, which opened into a bigger room and off that a door. ‘This is the bedroom. See, Mam?'

In one corner stood a large stringed bed with a rolled ticking-covered mattress, big enough for both of them. Moth-eaten curtains dangled in one corner forming a cupboard next to a shuttered window. Only the front window of the building merited glass, its face on the world. Good enough. She pushed the hinged timber shutter wide and light flooded in.

‘A ladder, Mam, a ladder.' Ruan pulled away and scampered up the rungs.

‘Take care …'

His head disappeared into the small, shadowed hole. ‘It's dark.' He gave a loud sniff. ‘Argh! And smelly.'

‘Come down. We'll look later.'

Taking no notice of her, he clambered up the ladder, his body disappearing until only the scuffed soles of his boots remained, staring at her like upturned palms. ‘There's another bed. Come and see.' The ceiling creaked, marking his progress, and she scuttled up after him.

The attic lay beneath the sharpest point of the roof, the steep pitch below head height for anyone except a small boy.

‘Got it.' With a bump and a whine the shutter opened and Ruan turned his pale face, wreathed in a huge smile. ‘I shall have my own room. This is mine.'

‘No, Ruan. We'll sleep downstairs.'

‘Mam. I'm not a baby. I've never had my own bed. Look.' He crossed the floor and sank onto the bed, nothing more than a series of branches held together by rope ties, the lumpy, straw-filled mattress already unrolled. ‘They knew I was coming. See—they've left me a present.' He waved three black-and-orange feathers bound with dried grass.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. ‘Put them down.' It was all fanciful childish nonsense. There'd be a dead bird somewhere to account for the feathers and putrid smell.

‘They're clean, Mam. All cleaned.' He gave a bounce on the bed, swung his legs up and lay back with the feathers fanned out in front of his face. ‘My own room.'

What could she say? Of course it could be his, though not until it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life, the same as the rest of the place. She pushed her sleeves above her elbows and tucked up the corners of her skirt. ‘Come downstairs and let's see what else we have.' She backed down the ladder. ‘Come on now. We'll fix it later.'

‘But this can be my room. My very own.'

‘Yes, my darling. We'll make it yours.'

Satisfied, Ruan clattered down the ladder, the three feathers tucked into his back pocket, dark against his cord trousers. ‘What else have we got in our house?'

The back room was the width of the house with a large, sooty walk-in fireplace. A huge black pot on three legs sat over the dusty remains of a fire. A far cry from the immaculate range Aunt Lil had installed a couple of years ago in Sydney. Never mind. She'd work it out and no doubt Elsie would be more than happy to offer advice.

The walls were lime-washed, and bundled in one corner behind the rectangular table and a couple of mismatched chairs lay a pile of grubby rag rugs. She grimaced, lifting them with her toe, her flesh creeping at the thought of the rats' nest she might unearth.

A dresser stood in the niche between the fireplace and the back door, and around the knob a key hung on a piece of twine. She pushed it into the lock. It squeaked and complained and when she delivered a hefty wrench the door swung free. Two steps led down to a flagstone path and a small yard framed by the scullery and privy.

Ruan gave a cursory glance and skipped outside. ‘There's another house at the back.'

By the time she'd left the kitchen and negotiated the sandstone steps Ruan had vanished.

‘Blah, it smells!'

‘Mind your manners and come here. Away!'

‘It's a woodshed.' His muffled voice drifted out of the dilapidated slab hut. ‘There's wood and some old junk, chairs and stuff. We can light the fire and make our dinner.'

‘We'll do nothing until this place is spotless. Now let's go and get our bags and bring them in. There's work to do.'

A loud thump and a clatter echoed through the house, sending her back up the steps at a gallop.

‘Where would ye be liking these?' Carrick grinned, her two carpetbags clamped in his enormous paws. With his shoulders as good as touching the walls he eased his way down the hallway and kicked the bedroom door open.

‘Oh, anywhere. Just anywhere.'

He deposited them just inside the door. ‘Anything else I can do?'

‘Carrick!' Ruan barrelled up the back steps and into the house. ‘Come and see my bedroom and you were right, there's a woodshed, and wood.'

‘That's men's work, me boy. Come along.'

Roisin opened her mouth to object, and then closed it with a snap at the sight of the pride beaming from Ruan's face. He'd had so little contact with men, lived all his life within a tight circle of women, cosseted, pampered and hidden away from prying eyes. Perhaps it was time to set aside her fears. ‘You stay right here and don't leave while I go and speak with Elsie. We need brooms, buckets and cloths.'

‘And that's women's work.' Carrick threw the words over his shoulder and tossed another of his audacious winks, before walking away with Ruan clinging to his hand as though he'd evaporate.

Standing in the middle of the room, Roisin held her breath and listened to the sighing of the house. This would be their home. Nothing as elaborate as she'd find in Sydney but she could relax, free of the constant need to guard Ruan's every move.

Clean first and then unpack. It would take several days, but what did it matter? She had all the time in the world. No need to look over her shoulder anymore. No need to worry that she'd turn and Ruan would be gone. No problems soap and sunlight wouldn't cure.

Armed with mops and a bucket, soap, brushes, cloths and most importantly tea, Roisin nudged her way back through the front door. She'd begin in the bedroom and work her way through, leaving the parlour until last. Until her trunks arrived from Morpeth she couldn't even start to think about setting up shop; making a home for Ruan was more important. But first she needed water.

She dumped everything onto the kitchen table and peered outside into the garden, where Ruan was busy stacking a pile of freshly chopped logs against the wall.

Carrick, shirtsleeves rolled up revealing his strong, pale forearms, raised the axe as though it weighed nothing more than one of Ruan's black-and-orange feathers, and brought it down, splitting the log into two neat pieces. Ruan waited for Carrick's nod and rushed in, picked one up and deposited it on the growing pile. Grasping the bucket, she set off in search of the water pump.

‘We've made a wood pile here.' Ruan pointed to the rows of wood stacked against the woodshed wall just inside the door. ‘Then we can light the fire and make some tea.'

She ran her hand over his head. ‘I'd love a cup of tea and I expect Mr O'Connor would, too, but first I have to find some water.'

‘It's over here.' Ruan led her to the side of the woodshed and sure enough, lurching against the lopsided timber wall, stood a hand pump. She placed the bucket underneath and lifted the handle. The pump wheezed and coughed its belligerent response.

‘Let me.' Carrick's big hand came down on her shoulder, easing her aside. ‘I should have thought to check it.'

‘It's fine, I'm sure I can do it.' She heaved the handle again. ‘I think something might be blocked, or maybe it's just because it hasn't been used.' She wiped at her forehead with her arm.

Carrick stepped closer. ‘Move away.' He lifted his booted foot and slammed it against the casing, making the whole woodshed rock and groan and threaten to topple.

‘Stand back.' Using both hands, he raised the lever then slammed it down, not once, three times in rapid succession. The pump coughed, spluttered and finally a few desultory drops hit the dirt. The dribble grew until a rusty stream of foul-smelling water ran and puddled at their feet.

‘Water's been sitting for a while. Give it time to clear then I'll fill the bucket. We need to be lighting the fire before we can put the billy on.'

‘Thank you. And thank you for chopping the wood, too.'

‘You don't have to keep up with the thanks. I've time to do the work. And I've got a good little helper.' He slapped his hands together and wiped them down the back of his trousers before retrieving his vest from the log pile and shrugging it over his chequered shirt.

‘Mam?' Ruan's head appeared in the doorway of the shed, his hair standing up like a cocky's crest. ‘Can I stay outside?' She nodded, wiping a smudge of dirt from the bridge of his upturned nose and he was off like a shot. ‘He's a good lad.'

‘He's only six.'

‘He'll grow up fine and strong. Guard him well.' Carrick walked into the kitchen carrying an armful of logs.

Guard him well.
She had every intention of doing that. Ruan was the reason she got up each morning, the binding that held her together.

Within moments Carrick had smoke billowing from the fireplace, filling the room. She threw open the shutters and the doors. ‘Oh dear. I think I may have taken on more than I bargained for.'

‘We'll have it spick and span in no time. Don't you worry.'

‘I can't impose on you any longer, Mr O'Connor.'

‘Just Carrick'll do. And like I said, it's my pleasure. We'll be heading off later this afternoon. Until then me time is yours.'

‘You're too kind.'

‘You can repay me with a cup of tea. I'll sort out the chimney and bring in some water for you. It'll be running clear by now. You've got a decent pile of logs. Should keep you going for a few weeks, until I get back.'