Matilda's Last Waltz (41 page)

A slim, elegant woman in her late fifties pushed her way through and helped the old man to drink from a glass of water. She shot Charlie a disapproving glare. ‘I told you not to get him excited. You should know better than to provoke him.'

He grasped Jenny's elbow as if in self-defence. ‘Dad doesn't need provoking. He's just enjoying himself in his usual way.'

The woman raised her eyes skyward and sighed. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Sanders. You must think us very rude.' She held out a manicured hand that glittered with diamonds. ‘Helen Squires. I'm married to Charlie's brother James.'

‘Jenny.' She returned the friendly smile and firm handshake, and gratefully allowed the older woman to lead her aside.

‘He's been looking forward to having a go since he heard about your arrival,' Helen said conspiratorially. ‘Charlie really should have warned you about his rudeness. I'm sorry if Dad offended you, but you can't shut him up once he get's going.'

‘No worries.' Jenny smiled, but beneath that polite facade she was still quaking from the shock. ‘Let's hope he calms down enough to talk to me about the history of Churinga.'

She saw a silent message transmitted between brother and sister-in-law, but before she could say anything was firmly led away by Charlie to meet the other guests. ‘There'll be plenty of time to chat with Dad but for now I think it's best to let him simmer,' he murmured. ‘Let's get on with the introductions.'

Jenny shook hands and smiled into faces. Tried to remember names and family ties as she answered the same questions and uttered the same banalities. She felt naked beneath their curious scrutiny and was grateful when Charlie finally drew her out on to the verandah for brunch. She sipped the chilled champagne and forced herself to relax as a maid placed a dish of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of her.

‘Bit of an ordeal, eh? Sorry. I think you handled things rather well – especially Dad's outburst.'

Jenny looked across at him. ‘That was a strange thing for him to say, Charlie. What on earth did he mean by it?'

He shrugged and sipped his champagne. ‘An old man's ramblings. Don't take any notice.'

‘It sounded more direct than that,' she said thoughtfully.

He concentrated for a long moment. ‘I suppose he saw something of Matilda's independence in you. That gleam of stubbornness – the haughty glare that promises fire if crossed.' He smiled back at her. ‘Your quick riposte merely emphasised the similarity. I knew her once, she was not easily forgotten. You should be flattered.'

Jenny thought about it. ‘Yes, I am.' She was about to ask him about the abrupt ending of his friendship with Matilda then decided maybe it would be better to get to know him better before she said anything. He wouldn't know about the diaries, and it might be wise to keep their existence secret.

His tone was brighter as he threw the napkin aside and leaned against the cushions of the wicker chair. ‘It feels like the whole of New South Wales has turned up this year. But of course you don't need me to remind you who they've come to see. Two months of gossip and speculation has whetted their appetites.'

‘I'll be yesterday's news soon enough.' She looked towards the paddock where she could see Brett amongst a knot of men leaning against the fence. Two months. It hadn't seemed that long, she thought. But winter was almost here, and soon she would have to make a decision about Churinga.

‘Dollar for 'em.'

‘They're not worth that much,' Jenny said lightly. ‘When does the parade begin?'

He looked at his watch. ‘In about two hours. We'd better get everybody on the move. I hope you'll do me the honour of riding in my car?'

Jenny smiled at his old-fashioned courtesy and glanced across the yard. She'd have preferred to travel with Brett and the men from Churinga, but they seemed to have made their own arrangements. The knot of men moved to the utilities. ‘Thanks, Charlie,' she said. ‘It would be an honour.'

The cenotaph was at the end of a dusty street on the outskirts of Wallaby Flats. Jenny was sheltered from the billowing dust and debilitating heat by the air-conditioned interior of Charlie's car. She looked out of the window at the crowds that lined the street and wondered where they had come from. There were stockmen, drovers, shearers, jackaroos and shopkeepers. Squatters, rich and poor, in cars or on horseback. Overlanders and sundowners in their dusty wagons that clanged and banged with pots and pans. Women in bright cotton frocks and garish hats held on to small children; men lined up in their uniforms, medals proudly polished, slouch hats set at a jaunty angle over furrowed brows. Shifting and jostling against the backdrop of dark red earth and dappled sky, it was a kaleidoscope of colour, and Jenny wished she'd thought to bring her sketchbook.

Charlie parked the car next to the others from Kurrajong and they walked back slowly to mingle with the roadside crowd. She looked for Brett amongst the jostle and noise but couldn't find him. Then, with a strangled whine of a bagpipe, her attention was drawn to the start of the parade.

With a jingle of harness the horses trotted behind the Wallaby Flats brass and pipe band. The dust was lifted by many marching boots. The crowd lifted by a wave of patriotism as the band led more than three generations of servicemen to the cenotaph. There were faces she recognised, faces that passed by with eyes averted, chins lifted in pride as their medals glinted and swung – faces of men who rode out with sheep on Churinga, men she hadn't thought old enough to have gone to war.

Local dignitaries, resplendent in their finery, awaited their arrival. Then a priest, black cassock billowing in the breeze, began the service. The hymns were old favourites, sung with lusty enthusiasm, and Jenny was swept up in the patriotic fervour. And when the wreaths of blood red poppies were laid on the stone steps and the impossibly young soldier began to play the Last Post, she felt the tears well in her throat, and as the sad final note drifted off into silence over the land, she and the crowd gave a tremulous sigh.

‘Now the fun begins,' said Charlie as he nodded towards the pub. There was already a crush of men at the door. ‘There'll be more than a few sore heads by tonight.'

Jenny dragged her attention back to him, the sadness of the moment lost in his cheerful smile. ‘What now?'

‘Back to Kurrajong,' he said briskly. ‘Before everybody grabs the best picnic spot.'

*   *   *

The Culgoa River rippled in the sunlit breeze. By the time Charlie and Jenny arrived there were already a great many blankets and picnic baskets laid out under the trees. Children splashed in the cold water and played football on the grass. Brightly coloured stalls had been set up and were busy. There were jugglers and fire-eaters, boxers, fat and bearded ladies, a carousel and swing boats.

‘As host there are things I have to do, Jenny.' Charlie looked down at her solemnly. ‘I could ask someone to keep you company if you'd prefer?'

She shook her head. ‘You go on. I'm quite happy to explore on my own.'

He eyed her for a moment, then left. Although she'd enjoyed his company, Jenny was glad Charlie had other things to see to. She was looking forward to wandering on her own, and to a treat of candyfloss and toffee apple. The sounds and smells of the country fair had brought back memories of childhood at Waluna.

She picked her way around the picnic baskets and acknowledged cheerful greetings. It seemed everyone knew who she was, but thankfully only a few wanted to stop and chat. She walked past the beer tent. It was packed, and the pile of empties already stacked outside was growing by the minute. A heated argument was going on behind the tent, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, but within minutes the two protagonists were arm in arm, singing an old shearing song.

Jenny walked on, enjoying the taste of the sticky candy floss, and wondered if Brett was nearby.

She saw him finally, standing in a crowd that had gathered around the boxing ring. After pushing her way through, she came to a sudden halt. He was with Lorraine. Arm in arm, looking down at her as if quite at ease. They looked right together, as close as any couple enjoying a day out in each other's company.

Jenny turned swiftly before they caught sight of her. The day had somehow lost its promise.

Chapter Fifteen

As Brett looked up, he caught sight of Jenny's stricken face before she turned away. His spirits plummeted as he realised how it must have looked, and he pulled himself free of Lorraine's grasp. She'd pounced minutes earlier, and rather than cause a scene he'd been waiting his moment to escape. ‘I'd better get going,' he mumbled. ‘The horses need seeing to.'

She pouted. ‘I thought we could have our picnic together. I've set it out under the trees down by the water.'

‘Can't eat before the races, Lorraine.' He saw the glint of obstinacy in her eyes. ‘And I promised the Squires I would join them for a drink.'

‘Promised that Sanders woman more like,' she sneered. ‘You're making a fool of yourself, Brett Wilson. Her sort only go for money. I bet she's well in with that Charlie by now.'

‘Don't judge others by your own standards, Lorraine,' he said grimly.

‘Bastard,' she spat. ‘I don't know what I ever saw in you. But if you think you've got it made with that Sanders woman, then you're mistaken. She's one of them. One of the rich – and you're just a hired hand.' She turned on her heel and flounced away, her high heels digging deep into the grassy earth.

Brett watched her retreat, stung by her words and reluctant to believe the truth of them. For the evidence of his eyes had reinforced that intuitive knowledge that Jenny was different to the Squires of this world. She would not be influenced by money and power, would make up her own mind about her future. He pushed his way through the jostling crowd and headed for the Kurrajong picnic area.

Yet as Brett caught sight of the large party, he hesitated. It was an interesting tableau – and one he felt reluctant to enter. Lorraine's words returned full force at the sight of Jenny so happily chatting to Charlie Squires. Her face was animated as he leaned towards her. She seemed at ease with his attentions, and with the lavish surroundings.

Blankets had been spread on the grass beneath the wilga trees. Tables and chairs set in the shade, glinting with silver and blinding white cloth. The Kurrajong women were coolly elegant in their summer dresses and large hats as they sipped champagne from crystal flutes and laughed and chatted to their guests. Old man Squires was holding court beneath a large umbrella, the smoke from his cigar lingering in a pall above his head as he barked orders and orchestrated his guests. Helen was, as usual, in attendance, dancing to his malevolent tune, while her husband James dispensed the drinks.

But it was to Charles and Jenny he turned. They looked comfortable together, he acknowledged. Although Charles was a good forty years older than Jenny, he was still a good-looking bastard who was known to have a way with women.

A rich bastard, too, Brett added in grim silence. One who could give her everything she'd ever wanted – but one whose only priority had to be the acquisition of land.

Brett turned away before they could catch sight of him. He had no part to play in this scene, would only have felt like the outsider he was. And yet his reluctance to leave was fuelled by the thought that Jenny was slipping away from him. Now she had tasted what life could bring a rich squatter, what could he ever offer her that she didn't already have?

*   *   *

Jenny had never seen a picnic like it. There were cold meats and salads, whole smoked salmon and roast chickens, and glossy caviar nestling on beds of ice. A pyramid of fruit graced the centre of the table which had been covered in white damask and glinted with silver and crystal. The masters of Kurrajong certainly knew how to entertain. And yet, for all the gracious hospitality and polite conversation, she felt there was something missing, and as she watched them interact with each other over the weekend, she realised what it was.

This was a family of diverse characters who didn't much like one another. Ethan Squires was the indisputable patriarch who ruled his vast family of children and grandchildren by fear. The fear of being passed over. The fear of being cut out of a will. The fear that Kurrajong wealth would somehow be snatched away if his word was not instantly obeyed. Like many old people, it was within his power to hold them to ransom. And he wielded that power with relish.

James had had any fires of ambition in him burned out by the old man's relentless hand on the reins of Kurrajong. Charlie was pleasant enough company, but his own frustration was evident in the way he talked of plans for Kurrajong which could never be realised in his father's lifetime. Andrew was the only one who seemed comfortable with his life. But even though he'd escaped the old man's clutches to find a career in the city, the ties that bound him to Kurrajong were still strong. For all his sophistication, he was still at the mercy of Ethan's tyrannical rule. All Kurrajong business went through his office, and Jenny suspected Ethan kept tight control of everything.

Languid from too much food and wine and drowsy from the heat, she leaned back on the cushions and closed her eyes. The talk around her was desultory and as she was a stranger amongst these outback people she could take no part in the women's gossip.

‘Strewth! Now that's what I call a bird of paradise.'

Jenny opened her eyes and sleepily wondered what Charlie was talking about. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Diane,' she gasped.

Charlie tore his gaze from the vision in a scarlet caftan and eyed Jenny with interest. ‘You know that exotic creature?'

She grinned and got to her feet. ‘Too right I do,' she replied. ‘And isn't she just a sight for sore eyes?' She didn't wait for a reply from the stunned Charlie. Diane always had that effect on men.