A Waltz for Matilda (29 page)

She put her pencil down. She didn’t want to write or even think. There was too much to think about, and only her to do it.

It had been nearly dark when the Drinkwater wagon brought them back three nights before. Most of the sheep were still up behind her house, though some had ventured out as the land cooled. She had let Tommy and Mr Sampson bring the bedding down from the cave. When she woke next morning from her makeshift bed on the verandah most of her other belongings were back too.

Now …

She shut her eyes. The Sampsons had lost almost all they had. Her roof needed repairing. But the sheep …

One hundred and forty sheep and no food. Almost everything that could be eaten in the gorge was gone. The sheer force of bodies had broken the garden fence. The vegetables were trampled to shreds, as was the corn.

Mr and Mrs Sampson and Tommy were up on the cliffs with Hey You, chopping down branches of what Mr Sampson called ‘old woman’ trees for the sheep to eat.

But the trees down in the valley were mostly gums and wattles, and the leaves of the few old woman trees were dry and wrinkled from the heat. Outside the valley the world was black with twists of smoke from smouldering coals, the trees like crumpled ruins. Mr Sampson assured her it would all shoot again.

By then her sheep would be dead. By then the humans of Moura might be starving too.

No roos for Mr Sampson to hunt. They would have fled the fire. The possums would have burned in their trees. A wallaby or two, perhaps, survived up among the cliffs. Lizards … even if Auntie Love could catch lizards there couldn’t be enough to keep the four of them for long.

She would have to sell the sheep. They would be half starved by the time they drove them into town, their fleeces black with soot. No one would pay much for sheep like that.

She bit her lip. But there’d be some money. Mr Sampson would know how to make new shingles for the roof. She’d work as a maid if she had to, let the Sampsons and Auntie Love live here, bring them food from her wages, save what she could. Then, when it rained, she’d buy some more sheep … three or four lambing ewes, perhaps.

And then she’d start again.

‘Matilda!’ It was Tommy, peering through the door. Hey You was at his heels, glancing each way in case one of the sheep decided to climb into his territory on the verandah. ‘Someone’s coming. A wagon.’

Matilda stood up, wincing. Her feet hurt. The soles were still puffed with blisters from the heat — it was impossible to put shoes on. She had a burn on one arm too. The rest of her skin felt like it had been cooked, and was hot to touch under her dress. She limped out, wishing the verandah floor was smoother.

The sheep parted, bleating irritably, as the wagon made its way up the track, followed by four men on horseback: Mr Drinkwater, leading a second horse, James looking tall and straight, and two stockmen she didn’t recognise. One of the stockmen led another horse too.

For a moment she felt protective fury, strong as she had felt before the fire. Were the Drinkwaters going to try to buy her land again, knowing she was desperate? But then she looked at the wagon, piled with corrugated iron and lengths of timber. You didn’t bring corrugated iron to buy a farm.

Mr Drinkwater lifted his hat as she came out. ‘For your roof,’ he said.

‘You’re bringing me corrugated iron?’

His lips twitched, despite the strain on his face and the shadows under his eyes almost as dark as the land he’d ridden through. ‘You brought me my sheep.’

‘We look after our own,’ said James. He too looked thinner, and had dark circles under his eyes. Drinkwater had been badly wounded as well as Moura. But Mr Drinkwater and James were here, not there, and they were offering help. Vaguely she wondered where Bertram was, then forgot him, gazing at the father and son sitting so confidently on their horses.

She didn’t know what to say or do. Aunt Ann would have offered them tea. But Matilda would have to strain the dead leaves and sheep droppings out of the water; nor had she lit the stove — she couldn’t face any flames as yet. ‘I … thank you …’

Mr Sampson came around the side of the house and stopped when he saw the men.

Mr Drinkwater nodded. ‘Sampson.’ He gestured to the horse he had led. ‘This is yours, I believe.’

Mr Sampson stood stock-still for a moment then strode over and took the reins, looking dazed. The horse reached down to whicker at his shoulder. ‘How you goin’, old boy?’ said Mr Sampson softly.

Matilda felt a lump in her throat. But how were they going to feed a horse if they couldn’t even feed the sheep?

‘The other is for you,’ said Mr Drinkwater. ‘His name is Timber.’

‘Me? But I don’t ride.’

‘Time you learned. There’s a saddle for you in the wagon — not sidesaddle. Too dangerous.’ His lips twitched again. ‘But given your usual choice of — costume — I don’t suppose you’ll need it.’

She stared at the horse longingly. Tall and brown with liquid eyes, he stood steadily even with the sheep nosing around. A week
ago she’d have longed for a horse like that. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t look after him. There’s no feed.’ Nor any for us, she thought, but she wasn’t going to sound like she was begging.

She glanced down at James. The young man looked back at her, his gaze steady. If she had to work as a maid it wasn’t going to be at Drinkwater. Then to her shock James smiled at her. ‘You looked like an amazon herding those sheep through the smoke.’

Amazons were women warriors, weren’t they? She vaguely remembered them from school. Was he saying she looked dirty? But the look on his face almost seemed like admiration.

James was already off his horse, helping the stockmen unload the wagon. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added. ‘We’ll take care of things now.’

She wanted to tell them to shove off, despite all Aunt Ann’s lessons in manners. But she had the Sampsons and Auntie Love to think of too. And that horse was so beautiful …

Mr Drinkwater gazed at her, looking like a benevolent sultan. ‘There’s another cart bringing hay out from town. There’ll be supplies for you too — flour, potatoes — I had the Doos add to the usual rations. Sampson, I’ve left Farrell and the others putting up your shearing shed again. I thought you could store the hay there. They’ll work on your house next. You’d better get round there, tell them how you want things done.’

Matilda shut her eyes wearily. The old biscuit was solving all her problems. She waited for Mr Sampson’s grateful, ‘Yes, Boss.’ It didn’t come.

She opened her eyes as Mr Sampson nodded, then levered himself up onto his horse. For just a second it looked like man and horse were one creature, both more at home together than apart. For the first time in months Matilda saw him smile. He rode off, between the cliffs.

Matilda pushed her hair away from her face. She wished she’d
at least brushed it, redone her plaits. She must look more of a slattern than Mrs Heenan.

‘The Heenans? Did they get to town?’

James looked up at her, holding a sheet of corrugated iron. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘They didn’t leave.’ She hadn’t expected the genuine pity in his face.

‘Oh.’ She hadn’t liked the Heenans. Had almost despised them. The land needed strength to face it, and they had given up. Perhaps, she thought vaguely, I can cry for the children and for what they might have been. She thought of the boy throwing stones at the hens, the woman with her single red geranium.

‘Will someone write to Mr Heenan?’

‘I already have,’ said Mr Drinkwater. ‘Someone will read it to him.’

So you are taking care of us all, thought Matilda. All of us around the kingdom of Drinkwater. Behind the house she could hear James ordering the men, telling them what parts of the roof needed to come down before they put up the iron.

He hasn’t even asked me if I want an iron roof, she thought. But of course she did. The hard wood of the house had turned black in the fire’s heat, but not burned. The shingles had blazed with a single spark.

Mr Drinkwater was watching her. ‘I’m not going to thank you,’ he said abruptly. ‘You did what one neighbour does for another. It’s about time we did the same.’

He nodded at the sheep, gathered around the pool. ‘The flood’s gone down already. There’ll be green pick all along the river flats by tomorrow. Take your sheep down there.’

‘You mean put them with your sheep?’

‘The river flats will feed them all for weeks.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘There’s usually rain after a fire. Not much maybe, but I
reckon it’ll be enough to get the grass growing.’ His lips twisted, but Matilda didn’t think it was a smile. ‘The old woman will know when it’s going to rain.’ He hesitated. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Just tired.’ It was too much to take in, especially with the pain in her feet, her boiled skin, the hoarseness when she breathed. Managing all this was even harder than the fire. But she had to keep going. ‘How will we know which sheep are ours?’

‘There’s a blue raddle to mark your sheep in the wagon. Don’t worry, the dye won’t stain the fleece. The wagon is yours too,’ he added. ‘I owe you that at least.’

You owe me my father, she thought. I didn’t save the sheep for you or James and Bertram. But somehow she was just too tired for enmity. And the old man was right. When a land could burn you, starve you, kill you from thirst or snakes or flood, you needed neighbours. She knew the anger this man and James were capable of. Far better to be within the protection of Drinkwater than outside it.

But words wouldn’t come. They didn’t teach us what to say at times like this at Miss Thrush’s School for Young Ladies, she thought. James’s voice rose again behind the house, laughing at something the sheep had done.

‘Go and rest,’ said Mr Drinkwater, and for once there was understanding in his tone. ‘We’ll do what’s needed here.’ He bit his lip. ‘The old woman … where is she?’

‘She’s sleeping.’

‘She’s all right?’ he asked a second time.

Matilda nodded tiredly.

‘There’s a box of apples in the cart. She used to like apples. There’s one of Mrs Murphy’s fruitcakes in there too. Tell her —’ He stopped, and shook his head, then turned his horse around.

APRIL 1896