Matilda's Last Waltz (32 page)

The shearing shed was fully operational within hours of the storm's departure, the shearers making up for lost time. A gun shearer can get through over two hundred sheep in a day. They wielded the narrow boggies with a co-ordination of grace, strength and endurance, sweeping the length of the sheep's body, keeping the razor close enough to the loose, fragile skin to free the wool in one piece and please the most demanding shed boss. It was exacting work, done in an atmosphere of sweat, noise, flies and the stink of a thousand woolly backsides.

When Matilda could escape the kitchen, she would hurry to the woolshed to watch these master craftsmen, for unlike some sheds, Tom had no qualms about women helping in his. She would grab a bucket of fresh water and a ladle, and pass each stooping shearer a drink. Each man would need about three gallons of water a day in this heat. She watched them work. Most of them were short, wiry little men who had the permanent stoop of a life-long shearer and the elongated arms necessary to sweep the boggies through the fleece that went right down to a Merino's hoofs and nose.

There were no dreadnoughts in Tom's shed this year, she realised. None of the rare breed of men who could shear over three hundred in a day, and who made a fortune on side bets. She watched the shed boss stride up and down the lines of sweating, cursing men. His word was absolute and the shearers were expected to reach his high standards. No second cuts and no ripping of that fine skin.

Fergus McBride and Joe Longhorn patrolled the lines as their sheep came to be shorn. They tipped their hats to Matilda but in their shyness found it awkward to strike up a conversation and concentrated on their woolly harvest instead.

It was almost six weeks before the shearing was over. The days had been filled with a keener heat, as if soaked by the storm. Matilda sweated in the kitchen and sought relief in the pens and sheds, where it was just as hot, but less humid. She felt stifled, being shut in the house all day, and liked to feel the sun on her face, and the weariness of hard labour in the stock pens.

As McBride and Longhorn followed their newly fleeced mobs to their own winter pastures, the shearers climbed into their wagons and left Wilga. The wool was already baled and on its way to the rail head at Broken Hill.

Matilda had wondered if she would see Peg and Albert this year, but no one could remember seeing them for a long time and she supposed they'd gone back up towards Queensland this season. Probably too ashamed at having filched her meat and flour, she thought. No, she wasn't surprised they'd decided not to show their faces around Churinga this season.

Her last supper with Tom and April was over, the dishes washed and put away, the children finally in bed and asleep. Matilda sat on the veranda with the others, in her mind turning over the words she wanted to say to these kind people. And yet she was finding it hard to express her thanks in a way that would truly show the depth of her feeling for she'd learned too well how to hide her emotions. ‘Thanks, Tom,' she said finally – knowing it was inadequate.

He seemed to understand. He nodded, patted her shoulder awkwardly and returned to his perusal of the yard. ‘Reckon me and some of the blokes better come with you tomorrow, Molly. The storm fair kicked up a lot of damage and I wouldn't like to think of you stranded for the winter.'

‘No,' she said quickly. ‘You and April have done enough already. I'll manage, Tom. Really.'

‘You always were stubborn,' he said without rancour. ‘April could never have fed all them men on her own, Moll. I reckon you earned the cost of your shearing.'

‘But you've got to get the mob to winter pasture, Tom, and there's things to do here yet,' she protested.

‘No worries,' he said calmly. ‘Our repairs are almost finished, the drovers can muster the mobs. And besides,' he looked at her with laughing eyes, ‘what the hell are neighbours for if they can't help one another now and again?'

April put down the sock she was darning. The mending basket was overflowing as usual, and despite the long hours she'd spent doing the household chores, she couldn't sit idle even though she seemed permanently tired. ‘We'd be happier if we knew you was all right, Molly. I don't know how you can bear it out there all on your own.' She shuddered. ‘It's bad enough here when Tom's away with the mob. I don't think I could survive at your place.'

Matilda smiled and picked up a sock. ‘It's surprising what you can do when you have no choice, April.'

The other woman watched her thread the needle and inexpertly begin to darn one of Tom's socks. ‘But I thought Ethan offered to buy you out?' she said softly.

Matilda stabbed herself with the needle, watched the drop of blood blossom, and stuck her finger into her mouth. ‘He did,' she mumbled. ‘And I told him where he could stick his offer.'

Tom roared with laughter. ‘You sounded just like your mum then, Molly. Good on yer. You'll make a squatter yet.'

*   *   *

They were up before dawn, breakfast eaten as the light diffused a soft glow over the land. Matilda kissed the boys who rubbed their faces and raced off yelling, then turned to April. ‘It's been good having another woman to talk to,' she said. ‘Nothing like a gossip about the neighbours to get the day going.'

April wiped her hands on her apron and took Matilda into an embrace. ‘It's been lovely,' she said wistfully. ‘Please promise you'll come again.'

Matilda felt the unborn child squirm between them and pulled away. The pain was returning, making her weak, grinding her aspirations to dust. She forced a smile. ‘I'll try and get over sometime, but you know how it is.'

They moved off the verandah and crossed the broad sweep of yard that until yesterday had been busy with men and horses and thousands of sheep. Blue heard her whistle and leaped out of the dog pens to follow closely to heel. Gabriel, who'd been sharing a gunyah with three other Aborigines, drifted towards the paddocks and collected the two horses. The sheep were released from the stock yards, the dogs began to work, and they all headed towards Churinga.

Matilda could follow the path of the wind through the grass, and saw changes on the horizon. Trees had been blown down, fence posts uprooted and left in a tangle of wire fencing. Familiar landmarks, like the old blasted tree, were gone forever. And yet the mountain never changed. It was as solid as ever, still covered in thick, green trees. Still the sentinel of Churinga station.

She was breathing a sigh of relief when they came to the home paddock for there seemed to be no real damage.

‘Jeez. Will you look at that?' Tom's hoarse whisper made her follow the direction in which he was pointing.

One of the cast iron water tanks had been blown on to the roof, smashing its way into the house. It lay drunkenly amongst the remains of the south wall, the corrugated roofing rising above the devastation like great rusty wings.

Matilda turned to Tom, relief and anguish mixed curiously within her. ‘You saved my life,' she whispered. ‘If I hadn't come to Wilga…' She licked her lips. ‘That fell right on top of my bedroom.'

He took immediate charge. ‘You and Gabe see to the sheep. We'll see to the repairs. Looks like you escaped the worst of the storm, there's not much more damage.' He eyed her closely. ‘Thank God you were with us, Molly.' Then wheeled his horse towards the house, shouting orders to the drovers who'd come with them before Matilda could think of a reply.

She and Gabriel mustered the sheep into the stock pens. It wouldn't hurt to have them there a few days while the repairs were done. Gabriel returned to his newly erected gunyah and his new baby – now he'd received his baccy and flour, he considered his work over.

Matilda couldn't get into the house, even though most of the damage was only on one side, so she dug a pit in the yard, circled it with stones and built a fire. With a billy and a rather battered old frying pan, she managed to cook for Tom and the two drovers over the next few days, and at night they slept wrapped in their horse blankets.

Tom and the others rigged up a pulley and sweated and strained to get the heavy tank back on its pilings before turning to the repairs of the fences then the house. The timber walls were splintered into a thousand pieces, the windows smashed, the verandah railings snapped like twigs, the roof just a jumble of corrugated iron. He took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘Reckon we should start again, Moll. This old place is falling down round your ears.'

She looked at him in dismay. ‘You haven't got time to do that, Tom. What about your sheep?'

‘Bugger the sheep,' he drawled. ‘The men are looking after them, and I want to make sure you're warm and dry for the winter.' He stomped off before she could say anything more.

The men worked flat out for more than a week. One drover returned from Wallaby Flats with a wagon load of timber he swore was being given away by an old squatter who'd decided to pull down one of his sheds. Matilda looked at him in disbelief, but as he seemed set on sticking to his story, she realised there was nothing she could do but believe him.

Tom had a way with the Bitjarra too. He set Gabe and the boys to hold the cornerposts while he and the drovers hammered the new wood of the walls. Gave them hammer and nails to replace the roof, and taught all of them the intricacies of putting new glass into a window frame.

With a new front door, mended screens and shutters, and a fresh coat of paint, Churinga gleamed in the late-summer sun. The verandah now swept all the way around the house, shaded by the new sloping roof and rough pillars.

‘April's put flowers all over our roof, and up the tank stands. Reckons in a couple of years you won't see the ugly old things. You should try it, Moll.'

She eyed her new house, speechless with pleasure, almost blinded by the tears of gratitude. ‘Reckon you could be right, Tom.' She turned to him. ‘How can I ever thank you? You've given me so much.'

He put his arm around her and held her close. ‘Let's just say this is to say sorry for all the times I pulled your hair and dunked you in the river. Sorry we haven't been as close since your mum died too. We're mates, Molly, and that's what mates are for.'

She watched the men ride away, then with Blue at her heels stepped into her new house and shut the door. There were no words to describe how she was feeling when she placed her mother's watercolour of Churinga on the wall, but she knew that at last she had found a man she could trust. An honourable man who could be called friend. Perhaps there were others. Good people in the community she'd shunned until now.

The courage to face them returned and she decided that after taking the sheep to winter pasture she might ride into town and buy a dress. And one day, she promised silently, she would find a way to return Tom's kindness.

*   *   *

Jenny marked the place in the diary. She could understand how Matilda must have felt. Such kindness after the brutality was bound to leave her speechless, perhaps confused – and yet it had given her courage. A different kind of courage from that needed in the pastures and paddocks, one that allowed her to open up – to meet people and learn to trust again.

She eyed the pup who was scratching enthusiastically at his fleas. ‘Come on, Ripper. Time for bed. And in the morning, young man, you are going to have a bath,' she said sternly.

He looked up at her, his adoring eyes following her around the room before he scampered off. Jenny took a long, last look at the silent paddocks and the high black sky that was splashed with a million stars. It was beautiful and cruel – but always rewarding. She was beginning to understand why Matilda and Brett loved it.

Chapter Twelve

The silence had become a living thing that pressed in on Jenny and as the days passed she became more aware of her isolation. And yet she found comfort in her own company, and in that of the men who still remained on Churinga, a kind of peace she had never before experienced.

During the long days she wandered the vast acres on horseback, her sketchpad in a saddle-bag, and in the frosty nights, when dew glittered on the pastures, she swept and dusted and kept house. She washed curtains and bedding, painted the cupboards in the kitchen and moved the trunk into the bedroom. The dresses belonged in the wardrobe, she decided. Not hidden away.

She took out the sea green dress and held it against her. The memory of lavender drifted into the room as the ghostly orchestra struck up the waltz. Matilda's spirit was with her as she danced but there was an echo of sadness in that music too. A tenuous thread of dreams unfulfilled running through the refrain that she couldn't capture or understand.

Jenny closed her eyes, willing the images she'd formed of the ghostly dancers to return. For it was they who were guiding her through the pages of Matilda's life. It was their story that demanded to be told.

‘Jenny? You home?'

Her eyes flew open, the music fragmented and was gone, the images faded. It was as if she'd been snatched from one dimension into another, but despite being disorientated her first thought was that Brett must not find her like this. ‘Wait on. I'll be out in a minute,' she called.

The slam of the screen door was followed by the tread of his boots on the kitchen floor as she hung the dress in the wardrobe. His voice was a baritone against Ripper's sharp yaps of excitement as she left one reality for another and quickly changed into shirt and strides. She took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

‘G'day, Jen.' Brett looked up from the pup who was chewing enthusiastically on his fingers.

She smiled, curiously pleased to see him. ‘I wasn't expecting you back so soon. How did the wool transport go?'

‘OK. We got a good price at auction, and I banked the cheque as usual.' He fished in his pocket. ‘I had to take out the wages and expenses, but here's the receipts.'