Matilda's Last Waltz (20 page)

Stan puffed away at his pipe, his scrawny chest still rumbling with the cough his laughter had brought on. Brett eyed him thoughtfully and wondered how many more seasons he had in him. He had to be at least sixty, yet he was still one of the fastest shearers in New South Wales. Strange how that skinny frame and hunched back never seemed to tire.

‘Time to go to work,' said Stan, ramming his smouldering pipe into his jacket pocket as he stood up. ‘Ma chased me all over Queensland before she caught me, but it was only 'cos I let her.' He smiled. ‘Just remember, son, never let a woman know you want to be caught – it gives 'em ideas.'

Brett eyed the smoking pocket. ‘One of these days you'll go up in flames with that bloody pipe.'

The old shearer pulled out the offending object and tapped the dottle into a saucer. ‘No worries, mate. I intend to die in me bed with me missus next to me.' He looked thoughtful for a moment, sucking at his gums. ‘About time you let one of the ladies catch yer, though. A man gets crook out here without a bit of female company.'

‘Don't do me any favours, Stan. I like things the way they are,' Brett retorted. He stood up, towering over Stan, and pulled on his hat. The conversation was taking him places he had no wish to visit.

Stan laughed as they pushed through the screen door, then set about relighting his pipe. Once alight and pulling satisfactorily, he stamped out the match and headed for the shearing shed.

Brett watched him go. No one stamped out a match or cigarette more thoroughly than a bushman. They had all witnessed the power of fire and the devastation it brought. He moved away from the cookhouse, his thoughts on what the old man had said – and although he was reluctant to admit it, Stan was right. He was lonely. The nights weren't the same since Marlene had left, and the house felt too empty with no one to talk to about things unrelated to sheep. And since moving back into the bunkhouse, he missed the privacy of listening to music or reading in the silence of the long evenings. Men were great company, but now and again he yearned for the smell of perfume and the touches that only a woman could bring to a home.

He glowered into the fast-rising sun. His thoughts were getting him nowhere fast, and impatient with himself and everything around him, he stomped off to saddle up the roan mare for Mrs Sanders.

*   *   *

Jenny sat on the five-bar gate and watched Brett catch and saddle the roan. Like the other men on Churinga, he was so much a part of this place, she couldn't imagine him anywhere else. He was tough and brown like the earth, wiry like the grass, and as enigmatic as the existence of such exotic birds and delicate wild flowers in the harsh landscape.

She'd regretted his embarrassment at breakfast, and would have put a stop to it if she'd thought it would have done any good. But she'd had no way of knowing Simone would blurt out their plans like that in front of the others and knew her interference would only have caused more comment. She had a sneaking suspicion Simone was trying her hand at match-making, and decided that, after the ride, she would have a quiet word. Brett was, after all, totally different from any man she'd met as an adult. Their life-styles collided at every turn, and they had nothing in common. Except for Churinga. And even that wasn't enough on which to build more than friendship. It was too soon – much too soon.

Jenny climbed down from the gate, picked up the saddle bag with the picnic and crossed the paddock. The man and the two horses were waiting for her, and although they made a pleasant picture against the backdrop of Tjuringa mountain and the tea trees, she wished it was Peter who stood there with the reins in his hands. For this was his dream – his plan for their future – and she wasn't sure it was right to live it without him.

The wistfulness must have shown on her face. Brett's grin faltered as he looked down at her. ‘Not having second thoughts, Mrs Sanders? We could always postpone this.'

Jenny put thoughts of Peter and Ben to one side and pulled on her riding gloves. ‘Not at all, Mr Wilson. If you could please give me a leg up?'

He cupped his hands beneath her boot and hoisted her into the saddle. His grin was firmly re-established as he swung up from the stirrup and settled into his own. ‘We'll head south to begin with. Then we can rest up for tucker in the shade of the mountain.' He eyed her quizzically. ‘That sound all right to you?'

Jenny nodded as she took hold of the reins. The mare was quietly tearing the grass and chewing contentedly. She was old and gentle, and Jenny was relieved and not a little ashamed of her uncharitable thoughts towards Brett. She'd had a nasty suspicion he might have given her a half-broken brumby to ride, just to teach her a lesson, but he'd proved less spiteful then she'd thought. Yet even this old mare was a challenge after so long, and it would take all her concentration not to make a fool of herself by falling off.

They moved away from the homestead, the long grass swishing around the horses' legs. As they left the paddock and headed out across the grazing pastures, the horses broke into a canter.

‘You seem at home in the saddle, Mrs Sanders,' shouted Brett. ‘A little tense, but that's to be expected on a strange horse.'

Jenny gritted her teeth and attempted a confident smile. His surprise at her capabilities was nothing compared to the struggle she was having to stay on board. The effort of hanging on with knees and hands was making her tremble. She was out of condition and out of practice, and wished she could have had time on her own before coming out with him.

And yet, as she looked out over the silver grass to the distant Tjuringa mountain, she realised how vast and empty the land was, and was relieved he'd come with her. To ride out here alone would be foolish, for if she fell or hurt herself, it could take hours for anyone to find her.

She thought of Matilda and her desperate run for freedom. Thought she could hear the pounding of her boots on the solid, dry earth, and the echoes of her cries for help. The child must have come this way all those years ago.

‘We'll head towards the mountain,' Brett called over his shoulder. ‘You wanted to see more of Churinga, now's your chance.' He spurred his horse and set off at a gallop.

Jenny's thoughts snapped back to the present, and she tentatively urged the mare on. Sweat was running down her ribs as her hands gripped the reins and the mare set off after the gelding. Jenny rose in the saddle and leaned close to her neck, knees glued to her sides. This was going to be a real test of nerves, and she almost wished she hadn't suggested it. But there was no way she'd let Brett know how scared she was.

Then, as if by magic, she lost her fear and the tension left her. Her grip on the reins relaxed, and she gave the mare her head. The old felt hat flew off and bounced against her back, restrained only by its thin leather strap. Her hair streamed and the sheer joy of freedom surged through her. It was exhilarating to feel the warm wind on her face, and the steady sure-footedness of the animal beneath her.

Brett was some distance ahead, his torso barely moving as his horse stretched its legs and flew over the ground, man and beast in perfect harmony against the rugged backdrop of Tjuringa mountain. How wonderful, she thought. I could go on like this forever.

As the mountain came more clearly into view, Jenny realised it was partially covered in thick bush. Ancient trees formed a cool oasis at its base, and as they drew nearer, there was the distinct sound of falling water and bird-song. Perhaps this was where Matilda had come – but Jenny wouldn't let gloomy thoughts spoil this wonderful day.

She followed Brett through the tangle and into the coolness of the green canopy until they reached the rock pool and splash of the falls. She reined in and grinned across at him. She was out of breath, and knew she'd be stiff tomorrow, but for the moment there was only the joy of the ride.

‘That was bonzer,' she gasped. ‘Thanks for coming with me.'

‘No worries,' he muttered, swinging out of the saddle and coming to stand beside her.

‘You don't understand,' she said, catching her breath. ‘I didn't think I'd ever ride again after the accident. But I did it. I really did.' She leaned over the roan's neck and gave her a pat. ‘Good girl,' she murmured.

Brett's expression was inscrutable. ‘You should have said. I'd have given you more time to get used to old Mabel here. I didn't realise.'

She shrugged. ‘Why should you? I was fifteen and the horse wasn't properly broken. It took fright, I fell off and didn't get out of its way in time.' She spoke the words lightly but still remembered the pain as the heavy hoof caught her shoulder and ribs. The broken bones had taken months to heal.

‘Better rest a while then, Mrs Sanders. You've had a long ride and the water's good to drink.'

Jenny let go of the reins and swung a leg over the saddle. Then, before she realised what was happening, she was being lifted down by strong arms. She could feel the thud of his heart, and the warmth of his hands at her waist as he held her close before planting her firmly on the ground. She swayed against him, light-headed not only from the exhilaration of the ride.

‘You all right, Mrs Sanders?' His look of concern was momentary, and she wasn't sure if the colour in his face had more to do with embarrassment at their closeness than with the exercise.

She drew away from him. ‘I'm fine. Thanks. Just not used to riding any more. Reckon I'm out of condition.'

His eyes flickered over her before returning to her face. His expression was eloquent, but he remained silent as he turned away and led her through the undergrowth to the rock pools.

‘What about the horses? Shouldn't we hobble them?'

‘No need. Stock horses are trained to stay where they are once the reins are dropped.'

They used their hats to collect the water. It was icy cold, burning its way down her dusty throat, refreshing the heat in her face and aching body. After drinking their fill, they sat in silence as the horses took their turn.

Brett lit a cigarette and stared off into space and Jenny wondered what on earth she could say to him. Polite conversation would bore him, and she knew so little about his work her ignorance would merely make her look stupid.

She sighed and took a long appreciative look at her surroundings. Tjuringa mountain was made up of dark rock that was slashed with bright orange and piled like giant building bricks into haphazard order. The waterfall came from a deep fissure that was almost hidden by overgrown scrub, and the rock pools lay in flat basins that mirrored the centuries-old Aboriginal stone paintings on the mountain walls.

‘What happened to the tribe who used to live here?' she asked finally.

‘The Bitjarra?' Brett studied the end of his cigarette. ‘They still turn up now and again for a corroberee, because this place is sacred to them, but most of them have gone to the cities.'

Jenny thought of the itinerant Aborigines who got fat and drunk on the streets of Sydney. Lost in so-called civilisation, with their ancient culture forgotten, their tribal lands taken by squatters, they lived from day to day on hand-outs. ‘That's sad, isn't it?'

Brett shrugged. ‘Some of them stay true to the Dreaming, but they have a choice like everyone else. Life was pretty hard for them out here, so why stay?'

He eyed her from beneath the brim of his hat. ‘You're thinking of Gabriel and his tribe, I suppose.'

She nodded. It was no surprise he'd read the diaries – for how else could she explain his reluctance to let her see them.

‘They left a long time ago. But there's a couple of Bitjarra jackaroos working for us at the moment, who're probably distantly related. Great horsemen, the Bitjarra.'

‘It was a good thing for Matilda Thomas they were around back then. Must have been hard for her once Mervyn was gone.'

Brett crushed out his cigarette. ‘Life's hard out here anyways. You either take to it, or it kills you.' His gaze was penetrating before it drifted away. ‘Reckon you'll be wanting to sell up and move back to Sydney before too long. It's difficult out here for a woman – especially when she's on her own.'

‘Maybe,' she murmured. ‘But Sydney's no picnic, either. This might be the Seventies, but there's a long way to go before women are accepted as equals.'

Brett snorted, and Jenny wondered what cutting remark he was about to make before he changed his mind.

‘I haven't always lived in the city, you know,' she said firmly. ‘I lived in Dajarra until I was seven, then went to live on a station at Waluna with John and Ellen Carey until I turned fifteen and left for art college in Sydney. I met my husband in the city so I stayed, but we always meant to return to the land one day.'

He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘There's nothing much but a big Catholic orphanage at Dajarra.'

She nodded. ‘That's right. I called it home for a while, but it's not somewhere I plan on visiting again.'

He sat up and chewed on a piece of grass. ‘Look, Mrs Sanders, I'm sorry if I was rude the other day. I thought…'

‘You thought I was some rich city woman come to give you a hard time,' she finished for him. ‘But I didn't tell you about my past so you could feel sorry for me, Brett. I just wanted to put you straight, so there could be no misunderstandings.'

He grinned. ‘Point taken.'

‘Good.' She turned away and watched a flight of budgies cast a rainbow through the trees. When she looked back, Brett was sprawled on his back, his hat over his face. Conversation was obviously at an end.

After several minutes she became restless and decided to take a closer look at the Aboriginal paintings. They were as clear as if they'd been painted yesterday, depicting birds and beasts running from men with spears and boomerangs. There were strange circles and squiggles marking what she guessed were tribal totems, and handprints smaller than her own, tracing a passage into the scrub.