The Cedar Cutter (14 page)

Hardly a vote of confidence, though Roisin had no doubt her idea would work, and when Mrs Blackmore saw her dress completed she'd fall in love with it, of that she was certain.

‘When can you have it ready?'

‘This time next week?'

‘That will be a week before I leave for Sydney.' A frown creased her brow and then she gave a little shake. ‘Ample time to rectify the situation. Mr Blackmore said I should take a gamble, so I will.' She nodded her head and smiled, her brown eyes sparkling.

‘Thank you. I'm sure you will be very pleased with the result.' Her words sounded far more certain than she felt. The work was worth it even if it meant she'd be sewing every hour God sent. Thank heavens Ruan would be at school and thank goodness for her portable sewing machine.

Lost in her work, a clatter and a crash followed by the slam of the door made Roisin jump. She lay down the brown satin on the table. ‘Ruan, is that you?'

He skidded through the door. ‘Yes. It's dinnertime and I'm home. What's to eat? Did you know that the Romans had whole houses just for baths?'

‘No, I didn't.' She ruffled Ruan's hair and he shook his head, pulling away.

‘Don't. Can we build a bath? I think you'd like one. The Romans had hot water steaming out of the walls. It would be better than standing in front of the fire trying to get clean. I'd like a bath. I'm going to ask Carrick if he thinks he could build one. A washhouse like we had in Sydney, in the scullery. You'd like a bath, wouldn't you?'

‘I think it might be …'

‘And anyway where is Carrick? It's way past the day he said he'd be here and Maisie said he'd come. I've got so much to tell him. Mr Blackmore says …'

Roisin let Ruan's words wash over her. His mind raced ten to the dozen and there was little point in even trying to keep up with his conversation. As though his brain had expanded overnight, he sucked up every piece of information, digested it at a rapid rate, then applied it to his own life—not just his own, hers as well.

She put the bowl of soup down on the table for him.

‘The Romans had big plates of fruit and banquets and they lay down to eat. Can you imagine that?' He toppled sideways in his chair, taking the spoon and a liberal dose of soup with him. ‘I'm going to go fishing this afternoon. We could have a fish banquet for tea.'

‘Don't go too far away, please.'

‘Do you want to come with me?'

‘I'm sorry I can't, Ruan. I only have two more days to complete Mrs Blackmore's dress.'

‘When you've finished?'

‘Maybe.' Though unlikely. True to her word, Mrs Blackmore had spread the news and commissioned new bed linen with lace trim for the bride and groom and she had three other dresses waiting for makeovers. Not exactly what she'd hoped for, nevertheless it was work. And none would be as difficult or as time-consuming as the outdated brown monstrosity Mrs Blackmore had presented. After three fittings, Mrs Blackmore was beginning to panic, convinced her dress would never be completed in time. Tomorrow she'd see it with the additional flounces and she'd love it. She had to.

‘I'm going now.' Ruan pushed back his chair.

‘Make sure you're back before the light goes. It's cold in the afternoons.'

‘Yes, Mam.' He threw the words over his shoulder and disappeared, leaving his jacket hanging over the back of the chair. Thank goodness Aunt Lil couldn't see him. He seemed closer to a street urchin than the restricted, frail little boy who'd first arrived in Wollombi.

Tutting, she cleared away the plates and set the evening meal on the fire, then returned to the parlour. The dress was almost finished and it had come up a treat. Hopefully Mrs Blackmore would agree.

The afternoon passed in a flash as every day had done since Mrs Blackmore's first visit, and when the light began to fade her thoughts turned to Ruan. He hadn't come home.

Leaving the parlour, she headed out of the back door and down the path to the brook. He'd be down there, searching for treasures or fishing, of that she was certain.

As she rounded the bend his head came into view sitting on the side of the brook next to, next to … She lifted her skirts and ran. ‘Ruan, come here, come here this minute.'

At the sound of her voice he stood, bending down to say something to the old man sitting under the tree. A black, a native. Oh for goodness sake. There were more dangers here than in Sydney where she'd kept him inside all the time. Whatever had possessed her to leave him to his own devices?

‘Goodbye,' he called, lifting his hand before running to her.

‘What are you doing? You can't just sit and talk to anyone. The natives can be dangerous.'

‘That's Old Pella.'

She studied the hunched old man dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers cut off below the knee and held up at the waist by twine. ‘You can't be friends with a native, no one is.'

‘Carrick is.'

Carrick again. Would the man always cause problems even when he wasn't in town?

‘And Carrick will be back tomorrow.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Old Pella told me.'

‘And how would he know?'

Ruan shrugged his shoulders. ‘He just does. He knows everything and he knows so many stories. Dreaming stories, all about rainbow serpents and evil bunyips.'

‘You mustn't talk to him, Ruan. If I can't trust you to go out on your own, you will have to stay at home with me.' She grabbed hold of his hand and towed him back up the path.

The late-afternoon sun had disappeared behind the hills as the dray weaved its way past the empty cattle yards back to the camp. More than anything Carrick wanted to go and knock on Roisin's door and hope she invited him in for a cup of tea. After two weeks at the camp and the interminable trip he'd a need for her, to see her again, and the lad. She might turn him away, close down on him, but that was a risk he'd willingly run, and besides, he had the box for the lad. Polished bright and ready for a thousand treasures. Maybe that would change her mind.

After all the rain the trip from Morpeth had taken forever. They'd had ten wet, soggy, mud-strewn days. Even the bullocky had complained, giving the poor animals an unusual taste of the whip. When they finally drew up alongside the camp, the flames from the fire sparked high into the night sky, illuminating the motley group collected around and about. The smell of rum and the greasy remains of the mutton they'd roasted for tea stuck in his craw. Slinger's fiddle cut the air with one of his madcap jigs and the clapping and stomping had begun.

He swung down from the dray, his gaze riveted on the lone figure leaping like a demented banshee around the flickering flames. The men's raucous voices grew as they heckled the dancer on. He twisted and turned, arms flailing, leaping over the flames and circling the fire like a decapitated chicken, and then he stumbled and fell to wild applause.

A shiver ran down his spine, turning his skin clammy. This wasn't the usual evening's entertainment. A large figure loomed over the body on the ground and Carrick ran through the drunken audience, pushing them aside. The big bastard from the Paterson crew stood astride the prostrate body, with an upended flagon splashing rum over the crumbled, curled mass of bones huddled on the ground.

Carrick leapt forward, his fingers closing over the frail old man, his stomach roiling at the sour stench of panicked sweat and heated rum. ‘What the feck do you think you're doing?' He scooped up the shrivelled body and threw him over his shoulder.

‘A bit of entertainment.'

‘The old man's half dead.'

‘Just a native.' Another cutter shouldered his way through the crowd head down, hands clenched at the end of his long arms. ‘What's your problem?'

Carrick wiped away the spittle that peppered his face.

‘Just a native dancing for his tea.' The cutter lurched forward. ‘Bloody heathens.'

‘He's a man and he deserves a bit of respect.' Carrick hefted the limp, rum-soaked body of the old man across his shoulder. He'd worry about the idiots once he had Old Pella out of trouble.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him around. A fist came from nowhere and found his face. Rum took the power out of the bastard's punch but made it more than clear he'd not be walking away. He lowered Old Pella to the ground.

The cutter swayed on his feet, his head down, ready to charge. Carrick raised his arm and pushed hard against the cutter's shoulder, causing him to stagger backwards into Slinger's waiting grasp. Slinger spun him around and belted him. The cutter flew backwards and landed with an earth-shattering thud, the wind knocked out of him. Slinger dusted his hands. ‘Who's next?'

Carrick threw him a wry grin. ‘What the hell are you doin' here?' Then pain radiated up through his gut, igniting a blast of rage. He swivelled, sucked a breath of air into his parched lungs and lurched. His fist connected with bone with a sickening crunch. The cutter rocked back on his heels and let fly. Carrick ducked, dodged the flaying fists. The bastard was drunker than Old Pella. He'd knock him cold if he could get a decent punch. He stepped closer, blood boiling at the taunts from the other cutters. The old man groaned and curled himself into a tight bundle on the ground.

‘Forget it.' The old man needed help. The Paterson cutters could wait. There'd be plenty of time for them later.

He bent down, half expecting to be sent sprawling. Thank God Slinger had his back. The old man cocooned in his smelly possum rug weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He needed to get him somewhere safe, away from the drunken louts. Let them find another outlet for their sick games.

‘Sure you don't want to finish this off?' Slinger followed him away from the fire. ‘They've got it in for the pair of us. Time to teach 'em a lesson.'

‘They'll not be learning anything from me. Why aren't you in the forest with the boys?'

‘Needed a bit of a break. What're you going to do with that bag of bones?'

‘Find him somewhere comfortable for the night, let him sleep off the rum.'

Slinger gave a derogatory sniff. ‘Got enough trouble with those Paterson cutters, bunch of mongrels, without taking on anyone else's problems.'

‘Leave 'em be. They'll be gone in the morning. And so will you.' The old man wriggled and squirmed and Carrick shrugged him higher up onto his shoulder and clasped him firmly around the knees. ‘I'll be seeing you later. And thanks.' The sooner he found Old Pella somewhere to sleep, the better. With the mood Slinger was in he'd as likely go back and pick up where they left off.

He cast a glance back to the fire as Slinger made his way through the circle of men, somehow managing not to thump anyone. Old Pella needed somewhere dry to sleep; without the slightest breeze in the cool, crisp night there was a chance of frost. He meandered along the path by the brook until he found himself outside the back of Roisin's cottage. No sign of life, no lamp burning in the kitchen, just the glow from the fire. What he'd not give to bunk down on her kitchen floor. The old man struggled and gave a pitiful moan. He'd have a head and a half tomorrow and he'd be needing somewhere to sleep off the effects.

Following the path of moonlight, Carrick slipped through the lavender bushes and up to the woodshed. The perfect spot. He nudged the door open and carried the old man inside. Tucked in the back corner, he'd be out of harm's way and a darn sight warmer than anywhere else. Carrick lowered him down onto the ground and folded his possum rug around him. The old man grunted and stirred and burrowed down into the loose dirt. ‘Sleep the night here, Old Pella. Good and warm.'

‘You got rum, boss?'

‘No, Old Pella, no rum. Too much is bad. You had too much.'

‘Makes troubles go away.'

‘No, it brings troubles.' And didn't he know it.

‘You staying, Carrick?'