A Waltz for Matilda (11 page)

‘Maybe … maybe he couldn’t afford to pay more.’

‘Drinkwater can afford a fancy new carriage and to send his precious lads to city schools. But it were the idea of a union what got him riled. He wants to hire who he likes. We say the sheep’ll be shorn union or they won’t be shorn at all. He brought in scabs — outsiders. An’ then his shearing shed burned down. And Drinkwater blames me.’

‘Is he right?’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Do you know who did?’

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t want to spoil it all by asking again. They walked in silence for a short time. ‘Tommy got burned because Mr Thrattle wouldn’t pay for a new chain for the jam vat,’ she said at last. ‘Would a union stop things like that?’

He nodded, pleased. ‘You’ve got it, me darlin’. Right on the nail. But it’s more ‘n that. We need to join the states up to make
a new nation. This land needs one parliament to make laws for us all — new laws, fair laws. Laws to protect the workin’ man.’

‘And woman.’

‘Well … her too.’ He grinned. ‘You might even get the vote one day. Women voting. What do you think o’ that?’

She nodded seriously. ‘Aunt Ann was in the Women’s Temperance and Suffrage League. The League says women should vote because women are more sober and sensible than men and don’t indulge in spirituous liquors. Dad?’

Matilda liked how they both smiled when she said that word.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you drink spirituous liquors?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Don’t you worry none, Matilda me darlin’. I ain’t goin’ to waste me dosh on grog now, not when we’ve sheep to buy. How about I promise I won’t have a drink of, er, spirituous liquor till we’ve got 2,000 sheep?’

She considered. It wasn’t as good as signing the pledge. But she could always argue again with him in 2,000 sheep’s time. ‘All right.’

‘That’s me girl.’

She craned her head to look at him from under the big hat. ‘Are Mr Drinkwater’s sons like him?’

He was quiet for a while. ‘They say the chip doesn’t fly far from the log,’ he said at last. ‘James and Bertram only know what he’s taught them, him and his kind, how to look down on anyone who’s a worker or not their class.’

‘Dad … When I met them at the train James said that they’d … they’d been hunting natives. Do you really think they did that?’

‘Yes.’ The word was short and clipped.

‘Why?’

‘Because men like Drinkwater think they own the whole of God’s earth, and no one else has a right to it. If you’re a native workin’ for Drinkwater you’re all right. If you’re not, then get off his land.’

‘So there are natives about?’

‘Yes.’

She wanted to ask more — what were they like, did they really throw boomerangs and not wear any clothes? But once again she sensed the subject was closed.

But it was easy to talk about other things, words slipping into rhythm, like their footsteps, as though the silence of the land allowed the words to flow. She told him about her life at the factory; about Tommy and Aunt Ann; and about Mum’s slow death, the pain gradually taking her away.

In return he gave her memories of her mother when they first met: ‘Like a spring breeze she was, all fresh with scents and blossom.’

‘She was beautiful,’ he added. ‘I looked into that tearoom and there she was, with her blonde hair and her clean white apron. She was the most lovely thing I had ever seen.’

‘So it was true? You met her there? Did you waltz with her too?’

He smiled. His teeth were very white in his tanned face when he smiled. ‘Oh yes, we waltzed. Never think, Matilda darlin’, that you weren’t born with love. The love didn’t last maybe, but it was there.’

He was silent for about twenty paces, and then he added, ‘Maybe it would have worked if I’d had more to offer her. Or if she’d dreamed less, so she wouldn’t have been so shocked with what I had. We could have had a grand place by now, me and her and you. Moura stays green when the rest of the world is brown.’

‘But not enough water.’

He glanced at her. ‘There’s more water there, if you know where to look. If I had money for pipes and troughs. But there’s no point in pipes without the sheep, and there’s no point in sheep without men to stop ’em strayin’. And there’s no point in men without the money to pay ’em.’

‘And you’d pay them properly?’

He laughed. ‘There’s many as don’t. Soon as they get enough money to employ a bloke or two they turn into bosses themselves, buying motorcars and pianos while their workers’ children go barefoot and in rags. No, I’d share and share alike, put what’s needed back into the farm, then share the money with whoever works with me. That’s one o’ the things the union’s working for: a set wage, so no bast— blighter can cheat and say he can’t afford no more. Set hours too. No more fourteen-hour days, or men shearing till they’re so bent and cramped they can only crawl on their hands and knees.’

Another thirty-two paces — she counted them — then he said, ‘There’ll be no more Tommys when a new Labor Party rules Australia. A new nation with fair laws, and votes for all to make them happen. A land where waltzing Matilda means dancing in a fancy dress, not pounding the road with yer billy, hoping for a handout or a pile of wood to chop. But don’t you worry, Matilda darlin’, we’ll get something better than choppin’ wood.’

‘Even with me?’

‘Especially with you,’ he added honestly. ‘Them squatters’ wives will take one look at you, with your bright hair and big brown eyes, and give me any job of work that’s going. They’ll keep me workin’ too when they see I keep my nose to the grindstone and don’t drink my wages neither.’

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘Those small farms, down on the river? I saw three of them yesterday. They looked — horrible. Hungry. The children didn’t even have proper clothes.’

‘Those farms aren’t enough to keep a family. Their men are on strike so the families starve.’

‘So it’s Mr Drinkwater’s fault?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Not all his fault though. There’s men who promise their wives they’ll live like princesses, but drink most of their cheque away. You don’t need money to feed your children — there’s tucker all around and firewood for the picking up, not like the city. A man with an axe can build a house. A woman with sense will find some bloke who used to be a gentleman before the drink got him; he’ll teach her children how to read in return for a plate of dinner and a drink of rum.’

He hesitated, as though trying to find the words. ‘That’s why we need unions, new laws — because some people don’t know how to help themselves.’

Most of the words flowed over her, but one phrase stuck. ‘What do you mean, there’s tucker all around?’ She gestured at the flat white dust around them, the drooping trees.

He laughed. ‘Oh Matilda me darlin’, you learn this land right and it’ll give you everything you need, and riches too.’

She was silent a while. He loved this land. But to her it was simply hot and dry and full of flies. Maybe I’m too much my mother’s daughter, she thought uncomfortably. Maybe I’ll always see this land as ugly.

He watched her silently, as though he knew what she was thinking. ‘Forget about green,’ he said suddenly.

She stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Land is always green in books. Green grass and a white farm house, that’s what your ma expected. It don’t have to be green to be beautiful.’

It was almost like poetry. He looked embarrassed, then shrugged. ‘Just look,’ he said.

She looked. The trees still drooped, weighed down by heat. The dust hung in a golden haze across the horizon.

Gold, she thought, not green. Gold is supposed to be beautiful too. She let her eyes travel across the landscape, and suddenly she saw it: hills like old skulls, with a beam of sunlight spearing down behind a cloud, turning them to gold as well.

The gold bones of the landscape … it was a hard beauty, but real.

He saw the change in her face and nodded. ‘You keep lookin’,’ he said softly. ‘The land’ll get to you. Floods and fire may come and those you love may leave you, but the land will still be there.’ He gestured into the distance. ‘See that big stump over there?’

She squinted. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s the boundary o’ Drinkwater’s land. Once past that we’re free.’

The sun was hovering above the tree tops when they made camp. They stopped beside a wide lake covered in water lilies, the white flowers starting to close as they lost the sun. A flock of ducks rose squawking, then vanished beyond the trees.

‘Gunna be a storm tonight. See the way the ants are scurrying?’

‘We’ll get wet!’

‘Not too wet, I reckon.’ He slung the swag down next to a giant white-trunked tree.

A blackened space near the water was surrounded by big rocks. People have camped here before, she thought. Swaggies waltzing their Matildas too? ‘It’s a pretty lake.’

‘This is a billabong,’ he said. ‘See that bank of sand? This was a bend of the river once. Then a big flood came, or lots of little floods, and made the river go straight instead, leaving this behind.’ He lifted his arms and stretched. ‘Reckon there’s a few fish in there. You see those bubbles? How you feel about fish for tea?’

She’d seen fishermen down on the shore from the cottage and had always longed to try it herself, though Aunt Ann said ladies didn’t.

‘You’ve got a fishing line?’

He laughed. He looked so different from the grim man of last night: younger, brighter, freer. With the sun behind him he almost looked like the golden man of Mum’s story.

‘What good swaggie ain’t got a fishin’ line? Even brought some worms from the dunny back home. Not the one we’re usin’ now,’ he added when he saw her look of horror. ‘Where the old one used to be. Worms like it all soft and damp.’

‘Errk.’

‘You don’t have to eat the worm, girl.’ He sounded amused. ‘Just the fish. Come on, help me get some firewood.’

He was faster at setting a fire than her, expertly stripping flakes of bark from the trees and snapping off dead twigs from the branches.

‘Wood on the ground is always a bit damp,’ he explained. ‘Even when it’s dry like this, there’s dew at night. Tree wood catches faster. Once the fire’s hot enough it’ll burn anything, even green wood, if you don’t mind the smoke. Smoke’ll keep away the flies and mozzies too.’

She nodded, entranced. His smile grew wider. He was showing off for her, she realised, just like boys playing ball in the street. He wants me to admire him, be glad that he’s my dad.

‘Take a look at this.’ He pointed to the sandy lip by the water, where the grass had worn away. ‘See that? That’s a wallaby track — that’s him coming down, that’s him turning and jumping back.’

‘How do you know it’s a he?’

He laughed. ‘I’m not that good, girl. She then, maybe. Now that’s a roo — see the tail mark? It stood further away to drink too. They’ll all come to drink here later — wombats, possums. Good eatin’ on a possum.’

She said cautiously, ‘I’d rather have fish.’

‘Whatever your ladyship wishes. As long as they’re biting.’

‘Do other swagmen know all this?’ she asked curiously.

He winked at her. ‘No. Some are lazy bast— er,
biscuits.
Live on what they scrounge from farm to farm, and don’t offer to even chop the wood in return. Others learn a bit while they’re on the road.’

‘But not as much as you?’

He shrugged. ‘I had good teachers. Want to see how to put a worm on a hook?’

‘No! Yes …’

‘Like this, see, so it can’t get off.’ He whirled the end of the line and let it go suddenly. It plopped into the middle of the billabong. ‘Now you hold onto the line. If you feel a tug, don’t do nothin’ — the fish’ll just be nibbling at the bait. Wait till you feel him really tugging to get away.’

She caught her breath with excitement as she took the string, part of it still wrapped around a stick of wood. His hand was callused, brown from a lifetime in the sun. ‘Then what’ll I do?’

‘Then I’ll pull it in.’

‘Can’t I do it?’

‘Not this time. Needs practice. If you pull too hard and
he
pulls too hard the line’ll break. You’ve got to go slow and cautious, let him rest then pull him a bit further. You’ll get the knack.’

The line thrummed under her hand. Each time it shuddered she imagined a fish on the end of it. She glanced at her father.
He was lying back against one of the white-trunked trees, watching her.

All at once the line was pulled taut. It jerked wildly, then went still. She shot a look at her father, then back at the water. ‘Is it a fish?’

‘It’s a fish.’ He stood behind her now, his big hands on hers. ‘Come on, I’ll show you how. Just wind it round once, one more … that’ll do it. Now wait.’

She waited. The line jerked again, so hard she thought that it would break, then grew slack once more.

‘Is it still there?’

‘No need to whisper. We’ve got him now. Yes, he’s still there. Roll him in slow now … that’s it …’

Another turn … the fish tried for freedom once again, and then again gave up.

‘They never learn, fish. If they pulled against the line and kept on pulling they’d break it. But they give a tug then wait and hope we’ve gone away.’ He winked at her. ‘Always keep on fighting, Matilda my darlin’. Don’t end like a fish.’

The water rippled, closer to the bank. ‘He’s a big ‘un. Keep the line tight.’ He moved quickly and lightly to the bank. A splash and he vanished under the water lilies.

‘Dad!’

Suddenly he was standing in the water, a giant fish flapping in his arms, the line still trailing from its mouth. Water streamed from his shirt and head, and a strand of some sort of weed clung to him.

‘Got it!’ He clambered up onto the bank, reached for a rock, and bashed the fish swiftly and expertly on the head. It flapped a few more times, then grew still.

He pulled a knife from his belt. ‘Now this is how you gut ‘em.’

‘Errk. Dad … I thought you were going to drown.’

He grinned up at her. ‘Not me. I’ve been swimming since I were a nipper. Can swim underwater right across the billabong, I reckon. My grandma showed me how. I can swim under a duck, grab at its legs and bring it down. Can you swim?’