Matilda's Last Waltz (47 page)

Matilda had returned to Churinga to collect a delivery of feed that had come that morning by dray. The sheep were surviving but it was a never ending task to make sure they were fed properly. She and Gabriel were loading sacks on to the back of the utility she'd bought a few months previously when she heard the familiar bray of the priest's mule.

‘Take these up to the east field, Gabe. I'll catch up with you later,' Matilda said quietly.

‘Trouble, missus?'

She nodded. ‘I think so, Gabe. Better to leave it with me.' She heard him rev up the engine and go but her concentration was on the priest.

Father Ryan was a thin, dark man who had refused to move with the times and still rode his vast parish on the creaking seat of a buck board. The war years had made him old and now there was silver in his Irish black hair, the weight of too much sad news bringing a stoop to his shoulders.

‘It's bad news, isn't it?' Matilda asked as she waited for him to climb down and water the mule.

He nodded and she slipped her arm through his and led him into the house. Her heart thudded painfully as she thought of the inevitability of what she was about to hear. But not yet, she pleaded silently. I'm not ready.

‘Let's have a cup of tea first. I've always found it's better to hear bad news when you're sitting down.' She bustled about the kitchen, avoiding his gaze, refusing to contemplate which one of the Finlay men wouldn't be coming back. Soon enough to find out – nothing could change it now.

Father Ryan sipped his tea and nibbled on a couple of biscuits she had made that morning. ‘These are tragic times, Matilda,' he said mournfully. ‘How are you coping out here on your own?'

‘I have Gabe here at Churinga, and April has the boys and the two drovers. We've put the mobs together for the duration. It's easier that way.'

‘She is going to need all the strength she can muster in the coming days, Matilda. But you already know that, don't you?' His gentle smile was weary as he took her hands and held them.

She nodded. ‘Which one, Father?' she asked gruffly – although she didn't want to know, couldn't bear to face the reality of war out here in the land she loved so much.

Silence stretched between them into what felt like an eternity. The priest's hands were warm and comforting, an anchor in the stormy sea of emotion that was sweeping through her.

‘All of them, Matilda.'

She stared at his ashen face and empty eyes. ‘All of them?' she whispered. ‘Oh, dear God,' she moaned as the full horror of his message sank in. ‘Why, Father? In God's name, why? It's not fair.'

‘War is never fair, Matilda,' he said gently. ‘And you can't blame God for making it. Man did that, and it was man who killed them. Tom in a trench outside El Alamein, Sean in a rocket attack on the same battlefield, and Davey by a sniper's bullet in New Guinea.'

Tears blinded her as she thought of the two boys she had loved as dearly as her own, and of the man who'd been as close as a brother. She would never see them again. And that knowledge opened up a void so vast it encompassed her world. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Father Ryan gently prised her fingers from their stranglehold on his arm and came to sit beside her. Matilda leaned her head on his shoulder and breathed in the faint perfume of incense and dust as her tears dampened his shabby cassock.

‘There are others who share your pain, Matilda. You are not alone.'

His voice was soothing and through the darkness of her sorrow she listened with that deadly calm that comes before the storm.

‘Kurrajong has lost Billy,' he said softly. ‘Sure, 'tis a terrible thing, this war.'

She pulled away from him, angrily smearing the tears from her face. ‘Yeah. But it doesn't stop those bloody fools from going off with their guns and their ballyhoo to prove what great big brave men they are, does it?' she yelled. ‘What about the mothers, the wives and sweethearts? They have a different war to fight, you know. The enemy might not be firing at them but the scars are real enough. What's April going to do without a husband? How's she going to face a future without her two eldest boys? Has your precious God got an answer for that one, Father?'

Glaring at the priest, her chest heaving, she was immediately sorry for her outburst. She'd been angry, yes. But it was anger born out of sorrow – out of the futility of war.

‘I understand your feelings, Matilda. It's right you should be bitter. There have been too many telegrams over these past few years, and I'm not immune to the suffering they have caused.'

He paused as if to find the right words. ‘But anger is what killed our men. An inability to find peaceful solutions is at the heart of all this. Anger, although good for the release of heartache, won't bring them back.'

‘I'm sorry, Father.' She sniffed. ‘It's just that the whole thing seems so pointless. Men killing men over a piece of land. Women fighting to survive droughts and bombing raids. What's it all for?'

The priest hung his head. ‘I can't answer that, Matilda. I wish I could.'

The long ride to Wilga was passed in silence as each kept to their own thoughts. Matilda was dreading having to face April and tightened her grip on the reins as she saw they had been spotted from the homestead.

The look on her friend's face was enough to tell Matilda she already knew why they had come yet the full horror of their news would surely be enough to break the little woman who had struggled so hard to overcome her frailty – and Matilda dredged the last ounce of her own strength in readiness for what was to come.

April refused to let them into the house. Refused to let either of them near her, but stood on her front porch, features etched as though in stone as she listened to what the priest had to say.

Finally, after an unbearable silence, she took a deep trembling breath. ‘Thank you for coming, Father, Molly, but I'd rather be alone right now.' Her voice was dull, lifeless, devoid of all emotion, and with her chin tilted defiantly, she turned her back on them and closed the door behind her.

Matilda wanted to go after her, but the priest stilled her. ‘Let her be. We all have our own way of mourning and she needs to be with her children.'

She stared at the closed door and nodded reluctantly. April's reaction to the news had surprised and worried her, but she knew she would come to her when she needed help.

‘I'll carry on with the work, then,' she said finally. ‘At least I can do something useful to take my mind off things.'

Father Ryan patted her hand. ‘You do that, Matilda. And remember, God will give you the strength to see you through.' He flicked the whip between the mule's ears and headed north. There were other telegrams to deliver – other families to comfort and pray for.

Matilda watched him go, and wondered where his God had been when Mervyn raped her. Where he had been when Davey and Sean and Tom needed protecting. What was the use of a god if it still meant a woman like April had to lose two sons and a husband to satisfy some nameless, faceless general's lust for battle?

She turned her horse and headed for the Wilga pastures. The shearing season was about to begin, and there was work to do – and even Father Ryan's all-knowing, all-seeing God couldn't shear thirty thousand sheep.

It was another three days before Matilda saw April again. She arrived late in the afternoon in Tom's old utility. The children were sitting beside her, and the flat-bed was loaded high with household possessions.

‘I'm going back to Adelaide,' she announced as she climbed out of the truck. ‘My parents are there and they've offered us a home.'

Her voice was controlled. Matilda could only guess what an effort it cost her not to break down in front of the children.

‘What about Wilga? You can't just leave it behind. Not after all the work you and Tom have put in over the years.'

April's eyes were cold. ‘What's the use of land when I have no man to help me work it?'

‘You and I have managed pretty well so far. And the boys are getting real good with the sheep.' Matilda reached out to touch April's arm but she drew away. ‘Wilga's been in Tom's family for three generations, April. You can't just walk away from it.'

‘Then make me an offer,' she said implacably.

Matilda stared at her. ‘You need time to think this through, April. A hasty decision now will rob your kids of their inheritance. And you know that's not what Tom worked so hard for.'

April shook her head as she took the youngest boy on her hip. ‘I never want to see the place again,' she said bitterly. ‘Every tree, every blade of grass, every bloody rabbit and sheep reminds me of what I've lost. It's yours Matilda. For whatever price you want to pay me.'

She saw the resolute little face and knew that in April's current frame of mind she could not be persuaded to take her time over such a momentous decision.

‘I don't know how much Wilga is worth, April, but I know I probably don't have enough money in the bank to cover it. Perhaps you should wait a while and put it on the open market? You could get a good price and it would set you and the kids up good.'

‘No.' Her tone was vehement. ‘Tom and I discussed the possibility of his not returning and we agreed you should have it.' She riffled in her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of documents. ‘Here are the deeds and the keys to the house. And here,' she dragged a pile of books from the utility's front seat, ‘are the stock listings and the account books.'

She dumped them on the verandah table. ‘Pay me what you think is fair, and send the money on when you can. Here's the address in Adelaide.'

‘But, April…'

She waved away the protest. ‘I'll be right, Molly. Mum and Dad have got a good little business in the city – I won't be short of a bob or two.'

‘You can't…'

‘Enough, Moll. You've been a bonzer mate. I don't know what I would have done without you these past few years. I know you must be grieving as much as me but…' Her eyes grew glossy and she cleared her throat and hitched the small boy higher on her hip. ‘This is what Tom and I decided so don't make things harder than they already are. Goodbye, Molly. And good luck.'

Matilda put her arms around the frail little woman who had become her closest friend, and wanted desperately to beg her to stay. Yet she knew April would fare better in the city where she belonged. It would be selfish to try and change her mind.

‘I'm going to miss you,' she said softly. ‘You too,' she added, kissing each small boy in turn.

With a final hug, April herded the boys into the ute and fired up the engine. ‘Goodbye, Molly,' she called, and with a wave of her hand, left Churinga for the last time.

Matilda stood alone in the yard that had suddenly become more deserted than ever, and wondered how to solve the problem of Wilga. The drought was in its ninth year and no one was buying property. The stock was starving, the wool was poor, and as her savings dwindled, the rabbits multiplied. It had been hard enough to cope with the two properties when she'd had April and the boys to rely on. Although the gift of Wilga would have been a godsend in better years, now it was just an added responsibility.

She saddled up her horse and headed for the pastures. Tom had put his faith in her and April needed the money. Somehow Matilda decided, she would have to repay that faith.

Chapter Seventeen

Jenny closed the book and lay staring at the ceiling. She'd heard the war stories of old men as they reminisced in pubs but now she was learning from Matilda's diaries just how hard it must have been for the women who'd been left behind. Their hardships weren't trenches and bullets, their enemy wore a different uniform. Battles were fought against the very earth they depended upon as they struggled against the enemies of drought and voracious rabbits. Their bravery had been unconscious, yet they were as battle-hardened and heroic as the Diggers.

She yawned and stretched before climbing out of bed. Diane was already moving around in the kitchen and Jenny was interested to see what she thought of the early diaries.

‘Morning, Jen. Here, grab some of this. I don't know about you but I was up reading most of the night.' She handed over a mug of strong tea and a slice of toast.

Jenny tasted the tea and grimaced. It had too much sugar in it. ‘So what do you think of them? Strong stuff, eh?'

Diane swept back her dark hair and tucked it behind her ears. She looked tired.

‘I can understand how you got hooked by it,' she said thoughtfully. ‘It's an everyday tale of incest and poverty – all too familiar to people like you and me – but I admit I'm as eager as you to get to the end.'

She paused, staring into the steaming mug before her. ‘I still can't see why you feel so strongly about keeping the diaries here, though. A publisher would snatch your arm off to get hold of them.'

‘Exactly. And that's why they have to stay.' Jenny put down the mug and leaned across the table. ‘How would you feel if your deepest, darkest secret was splashed all over the place? So far there have only been rumours about Churinga and the people who lived here – I would feel I'd betrayed Matilda if I let the truth be known.'

‘She left those diaries to be found, Jen. She wanted someone to read them. Why have you taken this on as a personal crusade? Matilda was nothing to you.'

‘Think about it, Diane. She might have been a stranger, might have lived in a time of terrible hardship that I couldn't begin to imagine if it hadn't been for those diaries – and yet our lives are linked by the things that have happened to both of us. They touch each other time and time again and I feel very strongly that it was I who was meant to find those books and decide what to do with them.'

Diane eyed her as she lit a cigarette. ‘I still think none of this is doing you any good, Jen. Why dredge up the past, relive those years of abuse, isolation and loss, when you've only just come to terms with it all?'