The Cedar Tree by Nicole Alexander

Author:Nicole Alexander [Alexander, Nicole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780143786870
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia

Chapter 29

Kirooma Station, 1946

If it weren’t for the tin pannikin in the sink, she’d never have realised that Joe was home. He was usually so careful to tidy after himself, almost as if the slightest remnant of his existence might leave a trail, exposing him to the demands of everyday life that he was at such pains to avoid. She rinsed out the mug and sat it in the drying rack, her palm tapping the stainless steel, the wedding band clinking. She rotated the ring, once, twice, and then went in search of her husband. She moved through the homestead, opening and closing doors with more force than necessary, and then pulled on a pair of boots, tied back her hair and donned a wide-brimmed hat and went out in pursuit of him.

‘Gone again, gone again,’ screeched Watson from his cage.

‘Actually he’s back,’ said Stella.

The bird ceased scrambling along the perch at this news.

It was early. A coolness ruffled the breeze. The sky was yet to turn bright and, in its absence, the red of the land seemed harder, darker, pressing in on her like a stranger trying to catch her attention. She skirted the homestead. Trickling water ran from a hose onto the original orange tree. She noticed a boot print in the freshly tilled earth at its base. Stella went out through the back gate to the work shed. The wooden benches were piled with old farm equipment that Joe was refurbishing: spring-loaded rabbit and wild dog traps, a piece of corroded copper pipe and a length of rubber belting used to drive the overhead gear in the woolshed. Countless other unrecognisable items lay in the dirt.

The motorbike was halfway between the house and the woolshed. A pool of oil stained the ground and a carelessly flung spanner suggested the owner had grown impatient with repairs. The crate tied to the rear of the bike held two jerry cans of fuel and a water bottle. Nothing unusual. A mile away, sheep called to each other from the yards. She may not have heard them were it not for the wind blowing steadily in her face. She supposed Joe would be nice to her. The dust hanging above the pens suggested it was a fair mob, which meant he would need her help today.

En route to the woolshed Stella stopped to pick up a stone that lay on the red soil. It was small enough to fit in her cupped palm and its jagged edge was sharp against her flesh. She made a fist and continued on, her boots scuffing up the soil. She walked up the ramp used for rolling newly pressed bales out of the shed and into the dark space, becoming instantly overwhelmed by the sweet scent of lanolin mixed with manure. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she moved past the slatted tables and timber bins to where the dog slept in a wicker basket of wool. Joe sat on an upturned drum at the far end of the board, hunched over a letter.

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