A Waltz for Matilda (37 page)

Men outnumbered women but that didn’t matter either. Old farmers danced with each other, stomping out the beat, their boots held together by string. The room smelled of sweat and scones and of the strong tea brewing in the big pots on the tables along the back.

She had imagined chandeliers, waltzes, an orchestra … nothing like this. But how could the Town Hall have suddenly grown chandeliers?

People glanced at them, whispered about them. She could feel the gossip spread across the room like butter over toast.

It didn’t matter. This was …
fun,
an experience she hardly recognised. How long had it been since she had simply had fun?

Not since she was a little girl hunting shells on the beach below Aunt Ann’s, perhaps.

She’d already danced twice with James, self-conscious and trying to mind her steps at first, till the sheer enthusiasm of the feet and elbows about her washed that away.

It was a progressive barn dance now. She whirled from gnarled hands to young hands, from black hair shiny with hair oil to long white whiskers. The old bloke by the door, one of the pub-verandah regulars, still wore his hat — in fact, she’d never seen him without it.

She was around to James again. He caught her waist and whirled her. ‘You’re smiling! What are you thinking?’

She nodded over at the door. ‘That man hasn’t taken his hat off for forty years.’

‘Sixty at least.’

She laughed. ‘He smells like cheese.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said
cheese,’
she yelled. ‘Maggoty cheese!’

James stepped back, pulling her out of the ring of dancers. ‘Let’s go and get you a cup of tea. We can’t talk on the dance floor.’

They had talked all the way in, hay versus wheat for drought-feeding the sheep; about the merinos he’d seen at the Cape in Africa; how he’d arranged for more rams to be sent out …

No one had ever talked to her about farming like that before. Mr Sampson wasn’t one for conversation — not in English, at any rate; Mr Drinkwater just smiled at her opinions; and neither Mrs Ellsmore nor Miss Thrush were interested in sheep. Even Tommy …

She put the thought of Tommy away.

James drew her over to the tea table, skilfully manoeuvring through the crowd, then smiled at one of the women wielding the giant pots of tea. ‘Two cups, please. Now, Miss O’Halloran, can I tempt you to a scone, a scone or a scone?’

‘A scone, please. Not plum jam. The apricot jam ones.’

He led her to a seat, then stood while she sat, holding her tea cup, the scone on the saucer. He looked around. ‘It’s funny, I had expected things to have changed when I came back. But they haven’t.’

‘Not at all?’

‘Oh, the library is bigger now, and there’s a few more houses.’ He grinned. ‘More dust. Hard to tell the sheep from the dirt sometimes.’

‘I thought the sheep looked like rocks at first.’

‘Ah, yes. Dear old Gibber’s Creek. Where the sheep look like rocks, and the rocks look like sheep, and so do the people.’

‘What? Shh! Someone will hear you.’ She tried not to laugh.

‘I’m not serious. Or not totally. But most people are like sheep, aren’t they?’ He was serious now. ‘Few people actually do things. The rest follow.’

She looked up at him. ‘You’re a doer?’

‘Yes. And so’s Father. Bertram …’ He shrugged. ‘Bertram has his Florence and his bank. But he couldn’t have started the bank, though he’ll run it well enough.’ He met her eyes. ‘You do things. The only girl I’ve ever met who does.’

She took a sip of tea to cover her embarrassment. ‘Not many girls get the chance. And I haven’t had much choice.’

‘Of course you had.’

He was right. She might still be at the jam factory, worn and white-faced. If she’d done what James’s father had first offered she might be a housemaid now, polishing the silver in someone else’s home, not sitting with the crumbs of a scone and an empty tea cup. He took it from her, put it back on the table, then held out his hand.

‘I think they’re starting a waltz now. Do you waltz?’

‘Not since I was ten years old. And that was just at Miss Thrush’s School for Young Ladies.’ She froze as the fiddlers suddenly worked out what tune they were meant to be playing, and the melody emerged.

‘“Waltzing Matilda”! Not a waltz then, but perfect for dancing with you. Will you dance with me, Matilda?’ He saw her expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

What could she say?
That song is about how your father trapped and killed mine?
Impossible. It would make their families seem like enemies.

Perhaps they had been once. And while Mr Drinkwater might have tried to trap and imprison her father, he had not meant to kill him. She realised suddenly that despite all that Mr Drinkwater had done, the old man was a friend; it was as strong a friendship as she had with Mr Sampson or Auntie Love, or even Tommy.

‘The song … brings back memories,’ she said instead.

‘Ones that hurt?’ He looked at her with concern. ‘Come on outside. The fresh air will do you good.’

She nodded, glad to get away from the song. She was aware of eyes on them — young Miss O’Halloran walking outside with
Mr James Drinkwater — as he held the door open for her, then followed her, leaned against the wall and drew in a deep breath.

‘Ah, the smell of home. Horse, er, droppings. Hot sheep in hot paddocks. You never get a smell like this in cities.’

She laughed, glad he wasn’t asking why she couldn’t stand the song. ‘Your cousin Florence would say that’s a good thing.’

‘She and Bertram are well matched. I think Bertram must have been frightened by a sheep at an early age.’

‘Poor Bertram.’

‘Yes. Not for him the joys of dagging a hundred ewes before breakfast or tidying up a flyblown jumbuck.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a strange girl? No, sorry, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Strange in a good way. The best way. An incredible girl. I don’t know one in ten million who could have done what you have — taken over a farm, made a go of it with just a few natives to give you a hand.’

‘More than a hand,’ she said frankly. ‘And those natives know more than I ever will.’

He shrugged. ‘Natives can be good workers. But they need someone to keep them under control or they go walkabout on you.’

She wondered how to explain that she had never given Mr Sampson an order in her life; that he had more knowledge of sheep in his little finger than she’d ever know; that Auntie Love could understand the land like the minister reading from the Bible. But now wasn’t the time to try. She decided to change the subject.

‘Are Europe and South Africa so different from here?’

‘Europe? Oh yes, it’s different. Cities of smoke and fog and neat farms like patchwork quilts. I reckon most English farmers would die of shock if they saw the distances out here. South
Africa —’ He looked into the distance. ‘It’s like here, a bit. Just more. More colour. More animals. Thousands of impala flowing like a river over the plain. Elephants drinking from the horse trough.’

‘An elephant? You’ve seen elephants?’

He laughed. ‘Almost as many as the emus. I watched a pair of lion cubs once track and bring down a mongoose, then their mothers woke up. Twenty minutes later they’d brought down a giraffe and were feasting on the insides.’

‘You sound like you miss it.’

‘I miss the colour,’ he said honestly. ‘Part of me wanted to stay there. The Boers need to be reminded that South Africa is part of the British Empire. This Boer War is necessary.’

Once more he seemed far away. ‘I made some friends there who’ve joined up already.’ He shrugged, then smiled at her again. ‘Dad wanted me back. He’s in his seventies now, although you’d hardly know it. And this is home. I know this place. It’s funny: the first morning I woke up back at home I thought the southerly will come through this afternoon. I could never understand the land in South Africa that way. I knew this place was part of me, and I am part of it. Does that sound crazy?’

‘No. I understand.’

‘I think you do.’

He stared at her, till she grew embarrassed again. The piano still thumped inside, the bows scraped on the fiddles.

She shifted uncomfortably. ‘We should go in.’

He smiled. ‘Not yet.’ He leaned against the verandah rail and watched her for a moment. ‘You remember when we first met?’ he said at last.

‘At the train line?’

‘Yes.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘We weren’t really shooting
natives. It was just a boast, to impress Cousin Florence. You know how boys are.’

She didn’t, but she nodded anyway. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He laughed softly. ‘The last wild natives were taken to the reserve, oh, twenty years ago now. Only those who work on the stations are left.’

Except for Auntie Love, she thought. Was James really telling her the truth or what he understood she needed to hear? ‘Truly?’

He laughed again. ‘Really and truly, cross my heart and hope to die. Come on,’ he took her hand. ‘I suppose we must go in.’

‘Must?’

He stroked her cheek with his fingers. ‘If you don’t want to stay outside.’

She flushed, suddenly aware of what he meant. ‘No. No, I don’t —’

‘Don’t worry.’ To her surprise he held her hand to his lips. She pulled it away, but the place where he touched her burned.

His eyes were serious now. ‘I won’t do anything to hurt you. Ever. I promise you.’ He touched her cheek again and added, ‘You’re far too precious.’

It was impossible to sleep in the strange bed at Mrs Lacey’s. The mattress was too soft, the noise of the town too loud. She was used to waking if she heard the sound of another human, even the soft feet of Auntie Love. Impossible to escape the noise of people here.

She sat up, and plumped the pillows behind her. The pillows were too soft also …

A clock struck a few houses away perhaps. She counted the beats. One, two, three, four … she’d have to get up soon … except here in town they slept in, she supposed, to six or even seven o’clock. Like she had done once, in the cottage by the sea, so long ago.

She realised suddenly why she couldn’t sleep. What her mind couldn’t let go.

James. His words:
You’re far too precious.

Impossible not to let her thoughts race ahead to what they might mean, the words you might say to someone you loved, perhaps even someone you might ask to marry you.

Once it would have seemed impossible; the gulf between them too wide. Now — well, Moura was scarcely Drinkwater, but it was more than just a cocky farm too. She had manners, she read books, knew how to dress. She was — respectable. Yes, exactly that.

People showed her respect. And she loved the land, in a way someone like Florence could never do. She’d be happy here, when most other women could not. His father liked her, enjoyed her visits to Drinkwater, would be happy to have her live there too.

Her fantasies took hold. To live at Drinkwater. It was the sort of house she had dreamed of as a child, listening to her mother’s stories. No, not like that — she had never known a house like Drinkwater existed till she saw it. But in that instant she’d known she wanted it; she longed for the acres too, more than just the scrubby 600 her father owned at Moura.

James was the eldest son. It would be his. And hers. Her father’s grandchildren would own it too.

There was a triumph of a sort in that. The grubby girl would be gone, the memory of the jam factory and Grinder’s Alley, replaced by Mrs Drinkwater.

Mrs Drinkwater would never have to wait for her husband to come back from shearing or grubbing on the Mallee, like Mrs Heenan. Her children would never have to live on a market gardener’s charity. Drought, fire, flood — Drinkwater would protect her from them all.

She pushed off the eiderdown and got out of bed, then dressed quickly, reaching behind to do up the laces of her stays, leaving them as loose as she could and still fit into her dress.

James would propose. She knew it. If she was respectable enough to marry, she was too respectable to toy with: not a neighbour, not someone his father knew. The dance last night had been a public admission he was courting her. James, touching her cheek, her hand …

James — who had lied.

She’d known it when he’d said
cross my heart and hope to die
so easily. She would have known it even if she hadn’t remembered Mr Sampson’s words, the day they had first met.
She found him dead …

There were things Mr Sampson never told her — things Auntie Love kept secret too. But they never lied to her.

The lie had come so easily to James, with no notion that she might not believe him. James had lied before, and got away with it as well.

She opened the door, then trod softly down the hall. She needed to think about this, to talk about it.

She needed Tommy.