The Cedar Cutter (22 page)

At the knock on the door she lifted her head. ‘Jane there's no need to knock. Just come in. I have nothing to hide.'

With a black metal box clasped in her hands, Jane approached. ‘This belonged to Mémé. I thought maybe you could use some of it for the time being like. I heard what you said to Elsie in the shop about not havin' the colours and things.' She knelt down on the floor and with a caring reverence opened the tin. A cloud of lavender drifted out. Jane waved it away. ‘I put the lavender in to keep the bugs out. I was saving it for my glory box. Mick didn't hold with that kind of nonsense. Said there was no point us getting dressed up just to stand in front of Father Benson. Weddings was for rich folk. I'm glad Mémé wasn't alive to hear him say that, she'd worked for years on this.'

Length after length of lace appeared from the tin, creams and whites and the prettiest pale pink of new rose buds.

‘Your Mémé made all of this?'

‘Not just her. I've added to it over the years. A way to keep her memory fresh in me mind like.'

Roisin ran her fingers over a length the lace. ‘You made this?'

Jane nodded, a flush rising to her cheeks. ‘I'd not be lying to you, Miss.'

‘It's not that I think you're lying. It's delightful. You're very talented. In Sydney people would pay a lot of money for work like this.'

‘Oh no, Miss. It's not something I do for money. I just like to keep me hands busy in the evenings.'

Roisin placed the lace back in its tin bed and sat back in the chair.

Jane's flushed face peered at her. ‘You don't have to use it, Miss I just thought … I just thought maybe … I'm sorry, Miss.'

The girl tore at her heartstrings. Roisin moved closer to her and lifted her hand. Jane flinched and a rush of pity swept over her. She knew that movement, knew it only too well. Something her mother had done after the beatings she'd received from perverted, drunken patrons. If it hadn't been for Aunt Lil taking her under her wing she might have ended up in the same position, flat on her back.

‘Sit up here. I want to talk to you.'

Jane rose from the floor, her eyes wide and perched on the edge of the trunk. ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Jane—about the job.'

‘I don't need much. I'd be prepared to work for just me meals until you make a bit of money from your customers. I'd count it an honour to …' She wrung her hands together, creasing the linen of her embroidered apron.

‘Jane, stop and listen to me.'

The girl bowed her head and clasped her hands tight, the whites of her knuckles showing in the firelight.

‘I want you to work for me. Not just cleaning and cooking. I'd like us to work together. We can both handle the household chores and then I'd like to pay you for some of this lace or any more that you would like to make. It might take a little time, but I'm certain we can make a decent business of it.'

‘Making dresses, Miss, for the ladies?'

‘Yes, dresses. Not just dresses, Jane. Undergarments. Ladies' unmentionables.'

If Jane's eyes were wide before they now almost popped out of her head and her face took on a glow that challenged the fire. She cleared her throat. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss?'

‘I need to explain something to you, something I'd ask you to keep to yourself. I've told no one else in Wollombi. I haven't been entirely honest.'

‘You've lied, Miss?' Jane's face fell as though in that moment Roisin had toppled from some pedestal. A pedestal she had no right to be balancing on.

‘Jane, when I lived in Sydney I worked for someone called Madame de Lolle. She trained me to all intents and purposes. She was a dressmaker and milliner and had a shop. She also had a sideline that was far more profitable and much to my amazement, I believe there could be a market for it here in Wollombi. She made corsets and drawers and chemises, ladies' undergarments. Not just functional, also pretty things.'

Jane's eyes lit up as she stifled a giggle behind her hand. ‘Their husbands would like that.'

‘Not only their husbands. Some of the ladies didn't have husbands, they had another occupation.'

Jane's eyes widened again. ‘You mean working ladies.'

‘Yes. I mean working ladies.'

‘There's none of those in Wollombi. Not since the girls went.'

‘No, Jane there aren't; however, there are tricks I learned which many women would benefit from. Take the lady who was here this morning.'

‘Lady Alice.'

‘We don't mention names, never names when we're discussing undergarments, unmentionables. This lady is disappointed that she doesn't have the figure of, say, Mrs Winchester. The tiny waist, the bosom. To be honest she's more plank than hour glass.'

Jane let out a titter. ‘She is, too.'

‘I had to tell her I didn't have the time to make her a new dress. I said that if she came back tomorrow I could make her old one a better fit. I intend to make a corset to highlight and add to her attributes. Look at this.' Roisin opened the trunk and withdrew the sample she'd saved, buried deep where no one would see it. A kingfisher-blue silk corset offset with black lace and ribbons.

‘Oh, Miss!'

‘Jane!' Roisin whipped around. ‘I can't stand it a moment longer. Please call me Roisin. If we're to be in business together it's to be a partnership.'

‘Yes, Miss. Roisin.'

‘Just Roisin. Try it again.'

‘Roisin.' Jane's lips quirked in a smile. The girl really was quite pretty and once that bruise faded from her face and she got some life back into her she'd be a force to be reckoned with. Roisin turned back to the trunk and held the corset up against her body.

‘I love it. Look at
this
piece. I've never seen coloured lace like this.'

‘We used to buy the dyes. I can send to Sydney for some. They're expensive, but they might be worth it once business picks up and I have some spare cash.'

‘We don't need to send to Sydney. I can make you dyes that colour.'

‘Blue, like this, Jane?'

‘Yes, it's easy. We'll have to trial a few and it depends on the fabric. Dandelions will give us yellow and we mix it with eucalyptus leaves from the blue gums down by the river and we'll find a greenish blue.'

‘Is there no end to your knowledge? I can see you're beginning to get the idea.'

Jane clutched her hands to her chest, her eyes sparkling. ‘I am. I am indeed. We could match the lace on the dress to the drawers, corset and petticoat. I reckon we could do anything.'

As the sun breached the hills the cutters clambered back aboard the bullock cart. A different cargo for the docks this time. No timber, just men, the men Carrick had worked side by side and shoulder to shoulder with for the last two years. Though he'd be the last to admit it, he'd miss them and their rum-soaked antics. They deserved the send-off, though the town of Morpeth would take a week or two to recover. The cutters had drunk the place dry and got their money's worth.

He stood on the wharf as the steamer slipped out into the Hunter River. The voices of the cutters echoed across the water and the strains of Slinger's fiddle drifted mournfully in the night air as he serenaded them. Jojo and Blue responded in kind, their spoons clattering in a frantic rhythm against the hull of the ship. It would be a noisy and boisterous trip for the passengers who had the misfortune of travelling to Sydney with the cutters.

As the steamer rounded the bend and disappeared from sight, Slinger tucked away his fiddle. ‘That's them sorted. Perhaps I'll join them later on. I like the company. First, we've got business.' He dusted off his hands, determination blazing in his eyes.

‘We'll leave once it's dark. I don't want anyone questioning our plans. There'll be enough moon tonight to light the way. Go in, have a quick look, then back to Wollombi to pick up the gear and some supplies.' And the chance to see Roisin, and the lad, one more time before he headed back to Ireland.

Slinger and Carrick saw no one in the hours after they left the Maitland road. They made swift progress on horseback, without the bullock dray, and when the bush closed in and the hairs on Carrick's arms bristled, he knew they were close. The trees thickened and they muscled their way through the scrub, not wanting to hack at the branches and leave a path. With any luck they'd pick up a wallaby trail and it would be clearer. He reached up and the branch above him leapt away. His heart as good as stopped stone dead, then he laughed. ‘Billy Boy what're you doing here?'

‘Worried you might get lost, boss. Old Pella tell me you come.'

Slinger snorted, his hand slipping to his knife. ‘And how would he know?'

‘We hear you, Slinger. Giant wombats in the bush.'

Slinger growled deep in his throat and Carrick elbowed between the two men. ‘Back off, Slinger. He's not out to hurt us.'

‘I know that. It's them I'm going to hurt.'

‘Cut it out.'

Billy Boy tossed his head and waved his spear in a good-humoured threat. ‘Camp's up ahead. Old Pella there. He wants talk.' He threw Slinger a wide grin and took off ahead of them.

‘I suppose we're going to have to get their say-so, are we? Think they own the bloody country.'

‘Slinger, stop, now. You wait here. Make camp for the night.'

Billy appeared from nowhere. ‘Not here. Up there.' He pointed to the caves dotting the sandstone cliff face. ‘Hide the fire.'

‘He's right.'

Slinger growled again and curled his lip. ‘Thought it was you and me.'

‘It is …' A black hand came down, covering Carrick's mouth and Billy shook his head, then lifted his hand and gestured for them to follow.

He led them through the fissure between two huge rocks, the walls of the narrow path littered with drawings of stick figures and handprints. The sun disappeared and the world became contained in the small space; even the ever-present birdsong of the bush vanished.

When they reached the top the path opened out into a wide-mouthed, low-roofed cave. Carrick tethered his horse, loosened the girth and unstrapped the saddle before making his way to the small fire burning in the centre of the sandy floor space.

‘G'day, Old Pella.' Carrick inclined his head to the huddled figure wrapped in his possum blanket by the fire, and dropped his gear. The old man's eyes looked hollow with the skin drawn sharp across his cheekbones, although the gash on his head from the Paterson cutter had healed well.

‘There's white men.'

What white men? Had someone beaten him to it? ‘Cutters? Taking my tree?'

‘Not cutters. Men walking, long steps. Digging up dirt. Disturbing.'

Not cutters. Surveyors by the sound of it. Rumour had it the land through the Yarramalong had come up. Surely he hadn't left it too late. ‘We'll go and have a look.'

‘Billy Boy take you tomorrow.' The old man dropped his head back onto his blanket and concentrated on the fire.

Carrick reached out and touched his shoulder. He didn't raise his head. ‘You okay, Old Pella?'

‘Old Pella good. What about the girl?'

‘Roisin?'

The old man grunted and lifted his head. ‘Who's caring for her?'

‘She's good. Plenty of wood and lots of work.'

‘Old Pella's goin' back tomorrow. He'll look out. Sleep now.' The old man dropped his head onto his arms and ended the conversation.

Carrick unrolled the canvas square strapped to his saddle and spread it out beside the fire. Slinger chucked his down beside him and opened the pocket on the side. ‘I've hobbled the horses and I've got some rum. What've we got to eat?'

‘Cold mutton, what else?'

Slinger snorted and took a swig of his rum. ‘I'll stick with this.'

‘I want to be out of here at sun up so go easy. Big day tomorrow.'

‘I'll believe that when I see it.'

‘You'll believe me, Slinger. You'll believe me.' Though if Old Pella was right and someone was scouting around they mightn't be doing a lot of cutting. ‘We'll leave the gear here in the caves with the horses and go have a look-see.'

At first light they battled the heavy undergrowth again; above them the sky was barely visible. Down they went clambering, slithering and sliding until Billy Boy held up his hand and gestured to his ear.

Carrick stopped, picking out the trickle of water over rocks and in the distance a ray of light shining down, illuminating a small area of the forest floor.

‘It's down there.' He shoved past Billy Boy, his blood surging with the thrill of the hunt. Slinger scrambled across the rocks and through the undergrowth, his curses peppering the air.

He could see it now, just the way Old Pella had shown him the first time. Tall and strong, dwarfing everything around it. Reaching for the sky. It would take twenty men, arms outstretched, to encircle the magnificent old tree. For a moment his heart sank. What right had he to bring down such majesty?

‘What's your problem, Carrick? Looks like you've lost a quid and found sixpence.'

‘It's grand. Perfect.' He gazed up in awe at the magnificent tree.

‘If you don't take it someone else will.'

Slinger was right and now he'd paid off the team of cutters he needed the cash the tree would bring, needed it if he was going back to Ireland with money in his pocket. This time he'd do it right. Not the poor tenant farmer. Talking to Roisin had brought back the anger, anger he'd buried for so long he'd forgotten how brightly it burned. It was back now, fierce as ever, fuelled by the compassion in Roisin's eyes and the touch of the lad's hand in his.

Together he and Slinger ran their hands over the rough bark, tilting their heads back, staring up at the patches of blue sky barely visible through the entangled canopy of creepers and vines.