A Waltz for Matilda (13 page)

‘You’ll never take me anywhere.’ He bent and kissed the top of Matilda’s head, then suddenly swung away. Before anyone could stop him he had flung himself into the billabong.

Water splashed over Matilda, frightening the sheep. It gave a startled baa, and ran to Matilda. She put her arms around its woolly neck automatically. The flat-footed horse tried to shy, till its rider hauled on the reins again.

Matilda stared into the billabong. Her father had vanished.

Seconds passed, then minutes.

The trooper on the piebald cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You think he’s gone and drowned himself?’

No, thought Matilda. She remembered her father’s words last night.
Can swim underwater right across the billabong, I reckon.

How long could you hold your breath underwater? She gazed around the billabong, expecting to see her father’s head slip from the water on the other side. The ripples from the splash had died away. The water was still; not even a breath of wind stirred the water lilies. All at once it began to move again, as though the sand under the water shivered. But it was impossible to tell exactly where the movement had begun.

Mr Drinkwater looked uncertain. ‘You,’ he said to the troopers. ‘Get in there and look for him.’

‘Can’t swim, sir.’

Mr Drinkwater swung off his horse. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘I can swim,’ said Matilda. She began to slip off her shoes.

‘You’ll do no such thing. Hold her,’ he said to the first trooper.

One of the others put up his hand. ‘I can swim.’

‘Then get in there, man!’

The trooper swung off his horse. He unbuttoned his shirt, then began to slip off his boots.

‘Hurry!’ Mr Drinkwater pulled off his own boots and slid into the water. The trooper followed him gingerly. At first the water only reached their waists, then slowly it grew deeper as they trod forward, peering at the surface. At last Mr Drinkwater bent down and began to swim. The trooper waded around toward the other side of the billabong.

How long had it been now? Matilda tried to hold her breath, to see how long she could last. The men were still searching when she let it out. The sheep began to graze again.

Suddenly the trooper ducked under the water by the far side of the billabong, then stood up. ‘Sir! I think I’ve got him. Sir!’

‘Help him, you fools!’ Drinkwater began to swim across the billabong as the trooper reached down into the water. The other troopers ran around the edge, then leaned out toward the now murky water.

‘He’s caught in the water weed!’

‘No!’ Matilda stared. Dad wasn’t caught. He was escaping.

The trooper pulled something grey and limp into the air. An arm, in a grey sleeve.

Mr Drinkwater had reached them now. He too pulled at the man in the water. All at once her father popped to the surface, a rope of weed about his neck. Like a noose, thought Matilda vaguely. Her father …

She felt hot … or was it cold? The world seemed to swim around her.

‘You sit here, girly.’ Somehow one of the troopers was back, supporting her, lowering her to the ground. He ran to the others
again. The four of them pulled the body onto the far bank of the billabong, laying Dad on his back. Matilda forced herself to her feet.

‘Dad!’ She ran around the sandy edges of the pool, startling the sheep.

‘Baa,’ it complained.

She bent down and touched his cold white face. ‘Dad! Wake up! Wake up!’ She stared up at Mr Drinkwater. ‘You have to make him breathe again!’

‘I can’t,’ said Mr Drinkwater quietly. ‘Child, I can’t do that.’

‘You killed him! You killed my father!’

‘He killed himself.’ Mr Drinkwater’s voice was flat. He added quietly, ‘I’m sorry.’

She hauled her father’s head up onto her lap, desperately seeking some sign of life. ‘You know he didn’t steal the sheep. You know!’

‘Child, you’d better come with us. Up on my horse with you.’

‘No!’ She kicked out as he reached for her, hitting him on the knee. ‘Don’t touch me! I’m not leaving him. I’m not!’

‘We’ll take the body too.’

All at once the breath left her. The body. That was her father. Not a man, not Dad. He was ‘the body’.

It had been too quick. This was the man she had dreamed of most of her life; and he was so different — so much more — than she had ever guessed. Now not just the man had gone, but the life she was going to have with him.

She felt cold, but curiously strong. It was like when Aunt Ann died, and Mum couldn’t stop crying, and she had had to talk to the undertaker instead. It was like when the jam had tipped over Tommy. Lost. They were all lost. And now her father too.

But she had coped before. And she would now. She just had to get through the … the wobbly bits, the confused time till she could work out what to do.

What did she have, now that they were all gone?

Where could she go? Impossible to face Mrs Dawkins’s now, and Grinder’s Alley, after she had seen the sunlight on the hills.

A breeze tickled the edges of the billabong, sending ripples on the water and fluttering the leaves. It was almost as though a ghost was whispering.

And then it came to her.

The land. The land her father had loved, had chosen to stay with — in her grief she admitted it — rather than go to the city with his wife and child. His land was hers.

His dreams were hers, as well. She knew what her father wanted for her now, as surely as if he had spoken.

She took a deep breath. She put her father’s head onto the ground, then bent to kiss his cheek, like Mum had shown her how to kiss Aunt Ann, like she had kissed Mum, just a couple of weeks before. His flesh felt cold already.

He is really dead, she thought.

She looked up at Mr Drinkwater. His face was twisted, his expression impossible to read. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘But you have to take the swag. It’s mine.’

He nodded.

‘And the sheep.’

He stared. ‘What do you want with a sheep?’

‘It isn’t yours. There’s no mark on the ear. That’s right, isn’t it?’

He didn’t answer. She took silence for agreement. ‘If the sheep is mine it proves my father wasn’t a sheep stealer.’

‘How am I supposed to transport a sheep?’

Suddenly she knew. ‘The same way you brought it here.’ One of the troopers sucked in his breath. She knew now that she was right.

Murderer, she thought.

Mr Drinkwater seemed to come to a decision. ‘The sheep is yours. Now will you come with me?’

‘I’ll come.’

Sitting on a horse was strange. It was higher than she’d expected, and curiously easy, though maybe that was because Mr Drinkwater kept them to a walk, steadying her in front of him while he held the reins. Or maybe it was because nothing felt real now, not even the trees that she and her father had passed only the day before.

Her father. Her father. The man who held her on this horse had killed her father.

One of the troopers rode beside them. The other two troopers walked, one leading the horse laden with her father’s body; the other leading his horse and the sheep, a rope around its woolly neck. They were far behind by the time Mr Drinkwater directed his mount into the long, tree-lined avenue to the house.

The sound of the horses’ hooves changed as they hit the gravel of the circular drive in front of the house. Mr Drinkwater pulled at the reins. The horse stopped. A man came running and took the bridle. Mr Drinkwater dismounted, then held out his hand. ‘Come on, girl.’

She looked at the hand, then at his face. He put his hand down and flushed. He watched as she slid down the horse herself, then began to climb the steps to the verandah.

‘Hello, cocky! Hello, cocky!’ The big white bird edged back and forth along the perch in its cage.

Matilda followed Mr Drinkwater through a door with stained glass on either side, and wooden latticework above to catch the breeze, then into a wide hallway, with sombre paintings along the walls, and the smell of polish and roasting lamb.

It was cool inside, despite the warm scent of cooking. She stood, while Mr Drinkwater opened a door. ‘Wait in here.’ His face looked strange, his mouth twisted. He is upset too, thought Matilda. She wondered if it was because her father had finally escaped him. There would be no one to imprison for the burned shearing shed now.

‘He’s beaten you,’ she said.

He blinked, as though his mind was somewhere else. ‘What?’

‘My father. You can never catch him now.’

‘You know nothing about it, child. Go and sit down.’

She stepped into the room as he marched down the hallway. It was a parlour, as big as the whole house at Moura. The floor was dark and polished, like at Aunt Ann’s. Bright coloured mats, shining like silk, lay next to three giant sofas. There were soft-cushioned chairs, small tables with carved legs and those deep, rich, green velvet curtains at the windows.

She was afraid to sit down in case she made the chair dirty. This was the sort of house she had always dreamed of. Everything so smooth, from the furniture to the rugs. So many colours … she felt a pang of guilt at her own disloyalty.

Her father’s house — her house — had been made with hope and love. This place had been furnished with money, by the man who had killed her father.

She sat on the nearest chair without even trying to brush the dirt from her skirt.

How long was she supposed to wait here? If it was going to be hours then maybe she could cry.

The door opened. It was the woman from the train. She had evidently been told what had happened — or a version of the story, anyway. She recognised Matilda too. ‘My dear, I’m Mrs Ellsmore. We met briefly a few days ago. I am so very sorry about your father.’

Matilda looked up at her face. It was smooth, and white from a life of hats and veils and parlours. But she seemed sincere.

She stood up as the older woman came into the room. ‘Thank you.’ The politeness was automatic. She wanted to yell at her, ‘Your brother murdered him!’ But then she might have to explain, and the tears would come.

‘Would you like anything to eat?’

‘I’m not hungry. Thank you.’

Mrs Ellsmore looked her up and down. ‘Clean clothes then. My daughter’s should fit you.’

Matilda opened her mouth to refuse again, then shut it. Her dress was filthy. This family owed her more than they could ever give. A dress was nothing. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead.

The door shut. Suddenly her legs would no longer hold her. She sat — not on the chair, but on one of the carpets, her back against the sofa. There was a painting on the wall: a picture of fruit in a bowl. She stared at it, trying to keep her mind away from what had happened — what was happening now. There was a pineapple, two apples, a pear …

‘Who are you? What are you doing in here?’

She scrambled to her feet. It was the older boy. What was his name? James. He wore working clothes, a sweat-stained shirt and dust-stained trousers, unlike his brother when he’d pushed
Florence on the swing. But these clothes were almost new, and had been freshly ironed.

He raised his eyebrow at her, almost amused. ‘Maids stay in the kitchen till they’re needed, in case you didn’t know. They don’t sit on carpets either. You won’t last here long if you do that.’

‘I’m not a maid.’

He stared — at her worn dress, then at her hair. She had plaited it tight yesterday morning, but it must be a mess by now.

‘No,’ he said frankly. ‘You’re too dirty to be a maid. So why are you here? A thief?’

‘No! Your father brought me here.’

He sat on the edge of a sofa and looked at her, interested. ‘Why should he do that?’

‘Because he killed my father!’ The words tumbled out before she thought.

‘What? Don’t be ridiculous.’ He stood up, as though to leave her.

‘It’s true! Your father was going to have my father arrested as a thief. My father drowned trying to get away.’

‘He shouldn’t have stolen then.’

‘He didn’t steal! You’re the ones who are thieves.’

‘What?’ The boy stepped toward her, his hand up. For a moment she expected him to hit her. ‘How dare you?’

‘Your father took my father’s life. Isn’t that stealing? Your father stole this land too.’

‘He did not!’

‘He did! He just squatted here, pretending he owned it all.’

The boy laughed, and put his hand down. ‘Ancient history. It’s paid for now. It’s ours.’

She stared at him. Her father was dead, and this boy laughed. She wanted to hurt him — hurt him like she had been hurt.

‘You’re the son of a thief. You can’t change that.’

‘My father can have you whipped!’

‘He can’t! I’m leaving here now!’

The door opened. ‘Mrs Murphy is bringing the tea tray. I think these should fit you —’ Mrs Ellsmore stopped and stared at the two of them, her arms filled with a froth of clothes. ‘What is going on?’

‘Nothing,’ said Matilda. Or everything, she thought. But she wasn’t going to explain. Not to them. Never to them. ‘Where’s my swag?’

‘Your what?’

‘My father’s belongings.’

Mrs Ellsmore looked puzzled. ‘There’s a bundle on the verandah. Is that what you mean?’

‘That will be it.’ Matilda tried to find the voice Aunt Ann used to the drunk who tried to dance with her in the street. ‘Good day to you.’

She was halfway down the hall before she felt Mrs Ellsmore’s hand on her shoulder. But it was a gentle hand, almost an entreaty. ‘My dear, you can’t go off into the wilderness by yourself.’

‘I’m not. I’m going home.’ She met the woman’s eyes. ‘My father’s house is just down the road. I can be there in an hour.’

‘Not in this heat. Not by yourself.’

‘You can’t stop me.’

The woman gave a wry smile. ‘I probably can. But I won’t. I wish though that you’d wait till one of the men can take you in the wagon. Or James could take you —’

‘No!’

‘My dear, please don’t go. Not like this. Do you have any other family? Someone we could contact?’

Matilda stared at her. ‘My mother is dead. My Aunt Ann is dead. Granny and Grandpa Hills died before I was born. Now my father is dead too. But I am going home.’