Matilda's Last Waltz (18 page)

‘We'd better get going, luv. The boss'll be sending out a search party for us soon, and the horses need feeding.'

Matilda calmly wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stood up. ‘Come on then. There's spades in the shed. I'll get Gabriel to help you.' She picked up the discarded flour sacks. They would do for her father's shroud.

The two drovers fetched the spades whilst Matilda woke a reluctant Gabriel. The three men hauled the body off the table and struggled through the narrow door of the kitchen and out into the rain. They could hardly hear one another above the thunder, but Matilda pointed to the burial plot and led the way. She didn't really want him buried alongside her mother or her grandparents, but it would raise too many questions if she just put him in the ground outside the home paddock.

She stood bare-headed in the rain, her cotton dress clinging like a second skin, feet cold and wet as the water seeped into the thin soles of her shoes. She saw how the soft earth lifted easily under the spades. Watched as they lowered Mervyn Thomas into the deep hole and covered him with the flour sacks. Counted the spadefuls of earth it took to bury him. Then, without a word, she walked back to the house.

The drovers followed shortly after, and she wondered if they'd thought it strange she hadn't prayed over Mervyn – given him a Christian burial. She lifted her chin and watched the rain teem from the verandah roof. She'd leave it to Father Ryan's god to decide what to do with him.

Gabriel hurried by on his way back to the barn and his warm, fat woman. The two drovers said goodbye and left for Kurrajong. Matilda stood on the verandah for a while, then turned back and closed the door behind her. She could have gone with them, but had no further need to escape. It was over. She was free.

The rains lasted two months, and Matilda had plenty of time to take stock of Mervyn's legacy. He'd left her with a rundown sheep station. A will to succeed where he'd failed. And a child in her belly which would always be a reminder of the dark years.

Chapter Six

‘Stan's organising two-up behind the bunkhouse. You in, Brett?' The shearer's voice was a gravelly whisper.

Brett glanced towards the kitchen. If Ma knew Stan was involved, then the lot of them would be in trouble. He nodded. ‘But I've got a couple of things to do first.'

‘Wouldn't have anything to do with our new lady boss, by any chance?' George winked, his elbow digging into Brett's ribs. ‘Quite a looker, eh? Reckon you'd do all right there, mate.'

He laughed. ‘You need to get out more, mate. One whiff of perfume and you lose all sense.'

George shrugged, his humour still intact. ‘Better than smelling bloody woollies all day.' He sighed. ‘If I was twenty years younger and not so crook, I might have 'ad a go meself.'

Brett eyed the crooked nose, the grizzled chin and thinning hair. George's courting days were far behind him. ‘At your peril, mate. She's got a fair temper, that one. Sharp as knives too.'

George's eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing.

Brett returned to the last of his dinner as the other man took his plate out to the kitchen, then left. I'll have to watch what I say, he thought. Shearers love nothing better than a bit of gossip to spread on their travels.

‘Where's Stan?' Ma came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

Brett shrugged and concentrated on his dinner. He wasn't going to dob in a mate to his missus, even if he did think the man was a fool.

Ma sighed and sat opposite him. She snapped open the tin of tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. ‘Why do blokes always disappear just when you want them? Promised he'd help fix that table in the kitchen.'

Brett finished the last of the suet pudding and licked his lips. ‘I'll do it, Ma. No worries.'

She lit her cigarette and stared at him through the smoke. ‘He'd better not be playing two-up,' she said quietly. ‘Doesn't know when to quit.'

Brett pushed the bowl away and reached for his cigarettes. ‘Reckon he'll be right,' he muttered.

Ma's look was penetrating, but she said nothing more and they smoked in companionable silence. Yet Brett could tell by her frown that something other than Stan was worrying her.

‘Mrs Sanders had a word with you, Brett?' she said finally.

He dragged himself back from thoughts of flashing amethyst eyes and a laughing mouth. He'd been hard on her today, but she'd given as good as she'd got. ‘What about?'

Ma looked uneasy, her gaze drifting away, fingers restless on the tobacco tin.

‘Is something wrong, Ma?' She had his full attention now. He didn't like to see her out of sorts.

She shook her head. ‘I just wondered if she'd said anything about those old clothes … and things?'

He frowned. ‘Why should she? You cleared them out and burned them.' He saw the flush of guilt slowly rise up her neck. ‘Didn't you?'

Her plump fingers twisted the tin in circles, gaze firmly fixed on the table. ‘Sort of,' she muttered.

He took a deep breath and chewed his lip. The damn' woman had let Jenny see those diaries! ‘What do you mean, Ma?' His voice was soft, more reproachful than accusing, but he was furious, and it took a lot of will-power to remain calm.

She finally stopped playing with the tin and stared across at him. ‘I don't know what you're getting all steamed up about,' she said defensively. ‘It was only a lot of old clothes, and she took such pleasure in them. I didn't think it would do any harm to let her have them.'

Brett stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You've heard the rumours. And after what she'd just been through, I didn't want…'

‘Didn't want her to hate this place and sell it on?' she interrupted with spirit. ‘You and your precious Churinga,' she said scornfully. ‘This bloody place is cursed and you know it.'

He shook his head. ‘No, it isn't, Ma. You don't understand.'

She eyed him belligerently. ‘Yes, I do,' she retorted. ‘You got a nice set-up here. If she sells, you'll probably be out of a job. Good riddance, I say. Better off away from this place.'

He was silenced by her scorn, and by how close she'd come to the truth. Churinga was everything to him. He'd been left to run the place as if it was his own, had taken pride in making it one of the best stations in New South Wales. But if Jenny did decide to sell, then he might have to leave – and he couldn't bear the thought of walking away from all he'd achieved.

Ma's pudgy hand rested lightly on his arm. ‘Sorry, luv. But you got to face it sooner or later. What does a young girl like that want with a place like this anyway? She's got no man, no roots in the outback – and certainly no experience of running a sheep station.'

‘So you reckon she'll decide to sell then?' His spirits plummeted.

‘Well, you haven't exactly made her feel welcome, have you?' she said acidly. ‘I heard about the rumpus in the wool-shed, and about the pup.' She heaved a great sigh. ‘Men,' she said with feeling.

‘She gave as good as she got,' he said defensively.

‘That's as maybe. But you got to remember, she's all alone out here. Things are bound to feel strange. Give all that macho nonsense a rest, Brett. Don't be so hard on her.'

He eyed her in silence. Ma was right. He shouldn't have bullied Jenny like that.

Her voice was conciliatory. ‘I know it's hard for you, luv. But this isn't your place. Never was. You shouldn't have got to care for it so much.'

He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. ‘But I do, Ma. This is the place I always dreamed of having. I could never afford anywhere half as good – not after paying off Marlene with so much of my savings.'

‘Then don't you think a little friendliness, a little kindness, might make her feel more at home here? This is a trial visit, Brett, and first impressions are important.'

He nodded. ‘I did apologise, Ma. And I tried to explain about the woolshed and the pup. I think she understood, 'cos the last time I saw her we called a truce.'

‘So why haven't we seen her about the place this evening?' she said flatly. ‘Why's she over at the house on her own?'

He dug his hands in his pockets and eyed Ma coldly. ‘She's probably reading those damn' diaries,' he hissed.

She shrugged. ‘What does it matter? The past can't hurt her, and she's a right to know what went on around here.'

‘You haven't read them,' he said bluntly. He thought of Matilda, and the early years of Churinga, and shuddered. ‘If anything makes her want to leave, it'll be those blasted diaries.'

Ma's gaze was steady as she regarded him. ‘I think you might be surprised. Jenny doesn't strike me as the sort to run away from anything. Look how she left Sydney and came out here on her own – and so soon after her loss.' She shook her head. ‘Reckon she's tough and bright, and will make up her own mind.'

Brett sat in thoughtful silence as Ma took his bowl and waddled back to the kitchen. Jenny Sanders was an enigma. Yet he admired her spirit and her sense of humour. Perhaps he should stop worrying about what the men thought, and get to know her a little better. For if she was reading the diaries, she would need to be shown that things had changed since Matilda's time – that the old ghosts had long since gone and there was nothing to fear.

But not tonight, he thought, looking at his watch. By the time I've fixed Ma's table it'll be too late to call.

*   *   *

Jenny momentarily drew back from the faded writing. Matilda's courage shone through the pencilled scrawl, making her feel ashamed. How modern life had softened her.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the girl whose powerful story was unfolding. The girl who'd had enough spirit to buy a sea green dress and waltz to beautiful music. Her presence was almost real – as if Matilda had come back to Churinga and was watching as she turned the pages.

Forgetting the time and her surroundings, Jenny returned to the diary. Stepping once more into the past where life was hard. Where only a woman of steel, such as Matilda, could survive.

*   *   *

Mervyn's mare returned two weeks later, on a day when the rains let up for a few hours and a watery sun turned the sky gun-metal grey. The sound of her hooves brought Matilda into the yard, and with a gasp of surprise and pleasure she caught the dangling reins and led her to the barn.

Lady was thin, her coat matted and dirty, and she'd cast a shoe – but she seemed happy to be home. Matilda gave her a good feed and a bucket of fresh water, then, when she'd had her fill, set to with a curry comb to restore her gloss. She stroked the matted mane and ran her fingers down the long neck, relishing the feel of her strong heartbeat. With her face pressed hard to the bony ribs, Matilda breathed in the musty, dusty smell of her. ‘Clever Lady. Good girl,' she crooned. ‘Welcome home.'

The wet petered out, and finally the sky was blue again. The pastures had come alive with strong green grass and colourful wild flowers, and a mob of 'roos had taken up residence amongst the ghost gums. Birds with bright plumage darted back and forth, and the air was clean and fresh after the rains. It was time to round up the surviving mob, take stock and see how much she could salvage from the devastation.

She was dressing to ride out when the drum of hoof beats came from the yard. Reaching for the rifle, Matilda checked it was loaded and went out on to the verandah.

Ethan Squires sat astride his black gelding, a vicious brute that stamped and snorted, kicking up the mud in the yard, its eyes rolling as he reined it in. Squires' waterproof coat reached his booted ankles and a brown slouch hat shadowed his face. But she could see his determined chin and the steel of his eyes. This wasn't a social call.

Matilda cocked the rifle and held it steady, barrel pointing straight at him. ‘What do you want?'

He swept off his hat. ‘I'm here to offer my condolences, Matilda. Would have come sooner but the weather was inclement.'

She eyed the fine clothes and expensive horse. Was he mocking her? She couldn't be sure. But Ethan wouldn't have come all this way just to pay his respects for a man he'd detested. ‘Perhaps you'd better say what's on your mind, Squires. I've got things to do.'

His lips curved into a smile but Matilda noticed how it failed to reach his eyes. ‘You remind me of your mother. All fire and bristle. There's no need for the rifle.'

She held it more firmly. ‘That's for me to decide.'

He gave an elegant shrug. ‘Very well, Matilda. If that's how you want it.' He paused for a moment, eyes moving from the rifle to her face. ‘I've come to ask you to reconsider selling Churinga.' He held up his gloved hand as she was about to interrupt. ‘I'll give you a fair price, you have my word on that.'

‘Churinga's not for sale.' The rifle was steady, directed at his chest.

Squires' laughter roared into the quiet morning, making his horse skitter and toss its head. ‘My dear girl, just what do you hope to achieve here?' He waved towards the surrounding waterlogged paddocks and crumbling barns. ‘The place is falling down around you, and now the wet's over, Mervyn's creditors will be demanding to be paid. The pigs, the machinery, the horses, and probably the rest of the sheep will all have to be sold.'

Matilda heard him out in cold silence. He was a powerful man – and she was only fifteen. If she let him get away with thinking she was easy meat, then she could lose everything. Yet she knew he spoke the truth, and spent sleepless nights worrying about the debts and how she could pay them. ‘Why should any of that concern you?' she retorted. Her pulse raced as she had a sudden, nasty thought. ‘He didn't owe you anything, did he?'

His expression softened as he shook his head. ‘I promised your mother I'd look out for you and lend Mervyn nothing.' He leaned forward in the saddle. ‘Despite your misgivings, Molly, I'm an honourable man. I admired your mother, and it's because of her I'm here today. If Churinga is to be mine, then I'll have it through fair means.'