A Waltz for Matilda (49 page)

If James had lived, would she have sat here sewing while he gave orders to the men?

‘That new man down in the shed says sharp-tongued women need a man’s belt to keep them in line.’

She grinned. ‘Did he now? Mrs Murphy tell you that too?’

He nodded. ‘Got it from her husband, who got it from Mr Gotobed. Where are you going?’

Her grin grew wider. ‘To see Mrs Murphy.’

Mrs Murphy was rolling pastry at the big wood table. Matilda had bought a new stove for her last year, a double-sided one like the model Tommy had invented, though this was more than twice the size of the one in her old house.

‘Mrs Murphy?’

‘Yes, Miss Matilda?’

‘I don’t suppose you have any sheep tongues?’

Mrs Murphy looked surprised. ‘I do indeed, miss. I was going to cook them in a nice white sauce for lunch. Got them all chopped, soaking in vinegar.’

‘Cold lamb and salad will be fine.’ Matilda swept the tongues out of the meat safe and into a bowl, then marched down the back steps and out toward the shearing shed. The dogs got to their feet, and followed her.

The shed quietened at the sound of her boots on the steps. ‘Ducks on the pond,’ yelled someone, the classic call if a woman invaded the shed.

‘Quack,’ shouted Matilda loudly. She strode inside. The men straightened, gazing at her, shears in their hands, sheep poised between their knees, the classer staring at her from the bins, the tar boy almost dropping his bucket in surprise.

‘You. Come here.’

The man let go of his sheep, his mouth dropping open. He walked toward her.

‘Heard you don’t think much of a woman with a sharp tongue.’

‘I … er …’ stuttered the man.

‘I’ve got a present for you,’ said Matilda sweetly. She upended the bowl on the man’s head. The squishier bits of tongue cascaded
off his head and onto his shirt. He gave a yell as the vinegar stung his eyes and the grazes on his arms. ‘Extra vinegar, just to make it sharp for you.’

She gazed around. ‘Anyone else want a serving?’

No one answered. The men were silent as she strode out. She was halfway down the ramp when she heard Mr Gotobed’s voice raised in song.
‘Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda …’

From anyone else it would have been an insult. From him it was a compliment — and a way of decreasing the embarrassment for a man bested by a woman. The other voices joined in.

‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me …’

Suddenly she began to laugh. She was still laughing when she heard the motorcar.

The car was almost at the house when Matilda emerged from the garden — a shiny, big green one. Her first thought was that it was Tommy — he always loved green. Why shouldn’t he bring his wife back to the place he’d lived for years? Take her to meet an old friend too … She broke into a run as the dogs began to bark.

The chauffeur was just closing the back door. A woman already stood beside the car, wearing a tight, pale cream skirt with an even tighter long blue jacket and a wisp of a hat with feathers. Two children stood either side of her, perhaps eight and ten years old, the girl dressed identically to her mother (Poor child. How could you jump — or even walk — in a skirt like that? thought Matilda.) and the boy in a blue and white sailor suit, with a straw hat.

A man got out of the other passenger’s seat. Even from behind she could see that he wasn’t Tommy, but he was familiar too. He was tall, in a dark suit and a top hat; his back was to her as she rounded the house.

Matilda stopped, her breath frozen. James!

Thoughts tumbled through her head. His body was never shipped home; no one trustworthy had even seen it. Had it been a mistake all along? He had left the army, married in South Africa, been too embarrassed to let her know?

Even as she thought it she dismissed it. James would never have lacked the courage to tell her, or his father, that he had married someone else. Then the man turned and she saw that it was Bertram.

He looked older, and his mouth was firmer than it had been when she’d seen him last. This was a man used to being in control. He lifted his hat politely. ‘Good morning, Miss O’Halloran.’

‘Good morning, Mr … Ellsmore, isn’t it?’

His mouth tightened. Of course she knew the name that he had taken. But he nodded politely. ‘Miss O’Halloran. You know my wife, I think?’

‘We have never met properly. Good morning, Mrs Ellsmore.’

The woman inclined her head. ‘Our children, Cecil and Ellen. Say good morning to Miss O’Halloran, children. Mr Drinkwater’s grandchildren,’ she added carefully. She met Matilda’s eye, then looked warily at the dogs, sitting at Matilda’s feet and staring at the newcomers.

‘Good morning, Miss O’Halloran.’ The two children looked curious, and excited too.

She forced a smile. ‘Welcome. Don’t worry,’ she added to the children, as Dusty and Splodge — Hey You’s sons, she hoped, thinking fleetingly of the old dog buried under the oak tree —
sniffed at the children’s neat, buttoned boots. ‘The dogs don’t bite. Well, only rabbits.’

Bertram stiffened. ‘I do not think my father’s grandchildren need you to welcome them to my home.’ He gestured to the chauffeur to take the car around the back and unload the luggage.

‘You’re staying? But please, use the front door,’ she said to the chauffeur. ‘We only use the back to bring in the meat now.’

The man looked from her to Bertram. ‘The back,’ said Bertram. The chauffeur nodded, and slipped into the driver’s seat to drive the car around the back.

‘Scratch cocky!’ yelled the cockatoo.

Bertram and Florence led their children up the verandah steps.

She could have followed them. This was her home now, after all. But the reunion between Mr Drinkwater and his son should be private. The first time he met his grandchildren too.

Her heart ached. By now she might have had children of her own, even the same age as these. Children to show the mysteries of the river in the cave, how black swans flew south after the rain. Children to read a bedtime story to, instead of reading about union meetings to a mob of shearers …

She turned, and went in the kitchen door. ‘There’ll be four more for lunch, Mrs Murphy. Mr Bertram and his wife and children and the chauffeur as well — I don’t know his name. I suppose he’ll eat in here.’

Mrs Murphy nodded. ‘I always keep the spare rooms made up, miss. I’ll ask a couple of the wives to give me a hand for a few days. I’d better take some water up to their rooms …’ She hesitated. ‘Do you know how long they will be staying, Miss Matilda?’

Matilda shook her head. ‘I’m sorry about the tongues for lunch. Can you manage?’

‘Plenty of cold lamb, and there’s lettuce hearts for a salad and orange slices and pickled cucumbers and beetroot. I’m doing a cauliflower cheese, and there’s rice shape with bottled plums for afters.’

‘Wonderful. You’re a gem, Mrs Murphy. I hope this won’t be too much work for you.’

‘Bless you, love, I don’t mind. Plenty to give me a hand if I need it.’ She looked at Matilda shrewdly. ‘Hope Mr Bertram isn’t going to make trouble, miss.’

No need to say what the trouble might be. Matilda nodded, and climbed the stairs to her room, to change into a dress … she sighed … and stays.

Lunch was stilted. Mr Drinkwater looked pale, his breath short as he sat at the head of the table, but his eyes were soft when he looked at his grandchildren, who were politely chewing their cold lamb. Florence had sat in Matilda’s usual place at the other end, as though as the wife of the only son it was her right. Matilda supposed it was.

‘How was the wool clip this year?’

Matilda opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Bertram was carefully addressing all questions about the farm to his father. There was no point forcing a quarrel now.

‘Excellent.’

Matilda noticed he gave no details. Mr Drinkwater’s mind was still sharp, but he had lost his memory for figures.

Bertram nodded. ‘The pastures are very green.’ He looked
carefully down at his plate. ‘We will have to visit more often. The children need to learn about the place that will be theirs one day.’

Matilda drew her breath in sharply. So it was out — the real motive for coming here today. To make sure that an aging father still left his property to his son — or if not, to his grandchildren — instead of to the interloper, the girl with the grubby face.

Mr Drinkwater smiled at the girl and boy. ‘Do you want to be farmers?’

The girl — Ellen — looked up. ‘I want to be an engine driver.’

‘Nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘Girls don’t drive engines.’

‘Cecil?’ asked Mr Drinkwater.

The boy hesitated, glancing at his father. ‘Yes, please, sir.’

‘You don’t sound convinced,’ said Mr Drinkwater dryly.

The boy looked from his grandfather to his father, then back again. ‘I want to fly an aeroplane.’

Mr Drinkwater laughed, clearly delighted. ‘I doubt you get your sense of adventure from your father.’ He put his crumpled napkin back on the table. ‘There will be enough money for you to buy your own train engine if you like, my dear, and for you to have your aeroplanes. Now if you don’t mind, I will lie down a while. We will meet again before dinner.’

Bertram looked annoyed. ‘You may leave the table,’ he said to the children. ‘Mrs Murphy will give you your pudding in the kitchen.’

Mr Drinkwater watched the children leave the room, then stood up. Bertram stood too.

‘Then you intend to leave the farm to the children?’

Of course he will leave his land to his grandchildren, thought Matilda, trying to ignore the stab to her heart. But don’t press him now, you slug. Let him think you’ve come because you love him — love the land — not just for money.

Mr Drinkwater looked at his son kindly. ‘I hope their inheritance will be enough to establish them however they would like. But I’m afraid there is no farm to leave them.’

‘No farm? Father, really —’

‘I sold Drinkwater to Miss O’Halloran last year. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He took his cane and walked from the room.

Matilda sat in shock for a second. She glanced at Bertram. His mouth hung open like a fish. Florence too looked stunned.

Matilda stood too. ‘I need to check down at the sheds.’

She didn’t, but it was an excuse to go, to let Bertram and Florence absorb the news in private. She also had to speak to Mr Drinkwater if he wanted her to keep up this pretence. She heard Bertram’s voice rise in protest as she shut the door.