Matilda's Last Waltz (24 page)

‘No worries, luv. We decided to come straight here instead of going into Wallaby Flats first. I like to get meself prepared before the shearers turn up.' She drew back her hands and gathered up her knitting. ‘Can't say I was sorry to hear about yer dad, but I reckon you done all right for yourself. Mob looks healthy enough.'

Matilda lay back into the pillows. She felt exhausted despite the long sleep, and it was too much of an effort to talk. She watched Peggy move around the room, content to hear the swish of skirts again and the light footsteps of another woman.

‘Drink this, darlin'. It'll help get your strength back.' She watched as Matilda screwed up her nose against the strange smell. ‘I put a little something in it to help you sleep, luv. Won't do no harm.'

Peg waited until Matilda had drained the warm milk. Her expression was thoughtful as she took back the cup. ‘Where's your man?' she asked finally.

Matilda could feel the heat of shame in her face. ‘There isn't one,' she whispered.

Peg seemed unmoved by her reply. She merely nodded and tucked the sheets more firmly beneath the mattress before turning to leave the room.

‘Where's my baby, Peg?'

The Sundowner's wife stopped in the doorway, her back straight, her hand resting lightly on the latch. The seconds ticked away and Matilda was speared with dread as the woman finally turned to face her. Peg's expression was solemn, her eyes downcast.

Matilda tried to raise herself on her elbow, but was too weak. ‘What's wrong, Peg?' she muttered.

Peg's weight tilted the bed as she sat down. Her arms reached for Matilda, enfolding her in a warm, smothering embrace. ‘Poor little thing was dead, darlin',' she crooned. ‘There was nothing we could do.'

Matilda let herself be rocked in that soft embrace, moulded to Peg's generous chest, the words going round and round in her head and not making sense.

‘My Bert's making a fine box. We'll see the poor little mite has a decent burial.'

The effects of the drink Peg had given her made it difficult to think and Matilda fought the black waves of sleep that threatened to drown her. ‘Dead?' she whispered. ‘My baby's dead?' Truth dawned through the encroaching darkness and bitter tears ran unheeded down her face. She'd known there was something wrong. The child had been too still inside her. She should have gone into Wallaby Flats to Doc Peterson and got help. It was her fault the baby was dead.

Peg held her until the darkness claimed her.

*   *   *

Sounds drifted in, at first distant, then more sharply focused. The complaint of sheep, the hum of a generator, the excited chatter of men, all came together to rouse her from the lethargy of sleep. Matilda listened to the familiar sounds, knowing the men had arrived for the shearing and feeling content that Peg and Albert would see to them.

Truth hit with searing ferocity. Her baby was dead. Peg and Albert were planning a funeral. She couldn't lie here and do nothing. ‘Peg? Where are you?' She swung her legs out of bed, the sheets entangled in her nightshirt.

There was no reply.

‘Must be over at the cookhouse,' she muttered. Her head felt as if it had been stuffed with wool, and her legs trembled when she tried to stand. Leaning heavily on the bedside table, she waited for the swirling vertigo to dissipate. There was an emptiness inside her she'd never experienced before, and an aching reminder of her baby's entrance into the world. She took a series of deep, tremulous breaths, fortifying herself for the walk into the kitchen.

As her head cleared and she was able to focus on the bedside table, she realised something was missing. It was important, but as lucid thought had escaped her, she couldn't figure out what it was. ‘I'll remember soon enough,' she muttered.

Pulling on a loose shirt to cover her nightclothes, she shuffled into the kitchen. It was deserted, but she wasn't really surprised. With the shearers arriving, Peg would have a lot to do in the cookhouse. But it looked as if she'd left a note.

With slow, unsteady steps, Matilda shuffled to the table, picked up the scrap of paper, and slumped into a chair to read it. The writing was almost illegible.

Bert took ill. Had to leave. We done our best for the baby.

Peg Riley

Tears blurred Matilda's vision as she screwed up the note and looked around the deserted kitchen. She was sorry to hear Albert was ill, but how on earth would she manage now? She'd been depending on Peg to help through the season.

Yet as she realised they'd taken flour and sugar from her precious store, and the side of mutton from the meatsafe, the tears dried. A cold anger at her own weakness blew through her. That was the last time she would trust anyone, she vowed. She had come this far on her own – she would find the strength from somewhere to carry on.

She got up and went out on to the verandah. The clatter and bustle of Churinga drifted around her as she leaned on the railings and watched Gabriel taking charge of the jackaroos. At least he's come back, she thought. But I wonder who's in charge of the woolshed?

She pushed thoughts of the shearing to one side. She had to see where they'd buried her child. Had to say goodbye. Her legs were still unsteady, her head light, as she stumbled around the house to the family cemetery. But she refused to give into what she saw as a weakness. There wasn't time for self-pity.

The newly dug earth was covered in stones to protect it from dingos, and marked with a crude wooden cross. Matilda knelt on the hard-baked earth amongst the wild flowers. She reached out and touched the pathetically small mound, the tears coursing down her face as she thought of the tiny child beneath the earth. Her child. The child she'd never seen or held.

She tried to pray, but couldn't find the words. Tried to transmit her feelings through her touch on the roughly hewn cross – but knew it was too late. She was being punished for her wickedness and that of her father. The child, innocent of all sin, had been taken to heaven. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought after the tears had dried. For what kind of life could I have given it? Gossip would have spread, poisoning our lives, and my knowledge would destroy us both in the end.

She picked some wild flowers and placed them against the cross. Stumbling to her feet, she stood for an endless moment looking at the brutal reminder of the past.

‘I'll survive this, as I've survived everything else,' she whispered. ‘But one day, I promise, you'll have a proper headstone.'

*   *   *

Jenny closed the book, tears running unheeded down her face. She understood the pain of losing a child. Knew how deeply Matilda must have mourned, remembering her own sweet Ben. His sunshine smile and bright yellow hair. Chubby legs and clutching fingers that had been a delight.

But at least she'd been allowed to get to know him. To love him before he was snatched away. Matilda had no photographs, no memories to cherish – merely a rough cross over a mound of earth.

Jenny covered her face in her hands and wept for them both.

Chapter Nine

Brett hesitated before knocking. He'd acted on the spur of the moment, which for him was unusual, but after the ride this morning, he felt a certain respect for the surprising Mrs Sanders and wanted to apologise.

Ma was also instrumental in his coming here. She'd told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him, and having regarded himself as an easygoing sort of bloke, he'd been shocked to realise just how rude he'd been. Jenny had obviously been afraid of that horse but she'd stuck to it, literally and metaphorically, until she'd gained her confidence. No mean feat after a bad fall in the past.

The black and white pup squirmed in his arms, paddling with his feet to get down, but Brett held on, unsure if coming here tonight had been such a good idea after all. He'd seen the lights from across the yard and assumed she was still awake, yet there appeared to be no one about and his knock remained unanswered.

He waited another moment, then pushed through the screen door. She must be here, he thought. Where else could she go? But the thought she might be asleep came as a relief. He could leave now, and apologise in the morning.

The silence in the house surrounded him, and he cleared his throat to announce his presence. He was reluctant to disturb her privacy, knowing how precious it was in a place like this but not wanting to startle her if she wasn't asleep.

Then he heard the muffled sobs coming from the bedroom and panicked. Perhaps he should leave now, before it was too late and she caught him listening. Women were one thing but tears were way out of his league. He stood there for a moment, unsure of his next move, the wriggling pup in his arms. Perhaps his churlish behaviour was the reason for her tears. He hoped not but one never knew with women.

The pup made the decision for him. With a last, desperate wriggle, it landed with a thud on the floor and scampered towards the bedroom door. With his front paws scrabbling at the wood it began to whine.

The crying stopped abruptly. ‘Who's there?' Jenny's voice was muffled but edged with alarm.

‘It's me, Mrs Sanders. Nothing important. I'll come back tomorrow,' Brett said hastily.

‘No, don't go. I'll be out in a minute.'

He scooped up the pup, took off his hat and stood awkwardly some distance from the bedroom door. He could hear her moving about in there, the muffled sigh, the hasty snuffle of tears all telling him he was intruding. He wished he was back in the bunkhouse. Wished he'd never come.

The door opened to reveal her tear-streaked face. Brett took a step back. The sight of those wonderful eyes awash with tears was having a strange effect on him. ‘I brought you a peace offering,' he stammered. ‘But I can see it's the wrong time. I'll come back tomorrow.'

He was gabbling, and probably not making sense, but she seemed not to notice. ‘For me? Oh, beauty,' she gasped, her eyes wide with pleasure. ‘How kind. Thanks.'

He transferred the pup to her arms where the little animal set about licking away the remains of her tears. Brett looked into those violet eyes. He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe, and all the carefully rehearsed words he'd meant to say were wiped from memory. He wanted to reach out and touch her – to stroke the glossy hair from her damp cheek and kiss away the tears.

The realisation shocked him from his stupor and he backed away. What the hell was he thinking of? She was his boss. He must be going mad. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full six feet two inches.

‘Just to say sorry for this morning – and yesterday,' he stammered. ‘Thought you could do with a bit of company. He's a ripper little bloke, but he's not house-trained.'

He could feel the colour rise in his face as she looked back at him and twisted his hat in his hands as he slowly backed towards the front door and the safety of the verandah.

Jenny giggled as the puppy squirmed and licked and whined. ‘He's a bonzer boy, aren't you?' she crooned, ruffling his silky head. ‘Thanks, Brett. He's the best present you could have given me.'

‘It's late,' he said gruffly. ‘See you in the morning.' He reached behind him for the door handle, his eyes firmly fixed three feet beyond her shoulder.

‘Do you have to go? Please stay and have a beer. You can help me find a name for this little bloke.'

Brett heard the loneliness in her voice and recognised the plea for company in her eyes. ‘Well,' he began. He was torn between wanting to stay, and knowing he should leave.

‘Please.' Violet eyes looked back at him in appeal.

He was lost. He remembered Marlene's loneliness, her accusation that he'd spent no time with her and didn't listen when she wanted to talk. Guilt had a way of eating at you, and the thought of Jenny needing him made him leave the doorway and follow her across the kitchen. One beer wouldn't hurt.

He stood awkwardly by the table, hat in hand as he watched her pour milk into a saucer. The pup promptly stood in it, then licked the milk from the floor and his paws, large brown eyes watching for their reaction.

Jenny laughed, stroked the pup's head, then turned to fetch the beers from the gas fridge. She opened them, passed one to Brett and tipped the other to her lips and took a long drink.

He watched the way her neck arched and her throat moved and looked quickly away, wondering what game she was playing. She had to realise what effect she was having on him. He'd finish this beer and go.

Jenny sat across the table from him and watched the pup chew a pair of her shoes. ‘Thanks again. That was real nice of you, Brett.'

‘No worries,' he mumbled. He saw fresh tears in her eyes and looked firmly at his beer. He would have liked to ask what was troubling her, but he didn't know how. He just hoped she didn't start crying again. Dammit, he thought. Wish Ma was here. She'd know what to do.

‘I mean it, Brett. It was thoughtful and kind, and although I probably don't deserve it after being such a bitch this morning, I need a friend just now.'

Brett looked across the table as she flicked her hair over her shoulders and gave a tight, false laugh. This woman was hurting, but it wasn't his place to pry into the reason why. It had to have something to do with her bereavement, and no doubt the diaries weren't helping.

She must have sensed his awkwardness. She turned away and watched the pup for a moment before speaking again. He'd discovered a pair of socks and was happily snuffling and chewing his way through them.

‘Reckon his name should be Ripper,' she said finally. ‘What do you think?'

‘Too right,' he said quickly, relieved the tense moment was over. ‘Bit of a larrikin, that one. Runt of the litter, but full of energy.'

The silence grew and Brett took a swig of beer. He didn't know what else to say and as the moments passed began to feel more uncomfortable. He was on the point of getting up from the table when her hand crept across and rested on his fingers.