A Waltz for Matilda (48 page)

It had been unfamiliar, at first, living without drought. This was a new land — one where rain came regularly, where grass grew and new trees sprouted. But the bones of the land she knew were still there under the lushness.

The older sheep grazed steadily, their noses down, as though each blade of grass was precious. Their lambs nosed out the best, most luscious tussocks, and played king of the castle on any rocks, no longer bound to spend all their energy finding food.

The roos bred faster than the sheep; the rabbits bred even faster — a sea of white tails raced away when Matilda took a lantern out at night. She read every farming magazine she could to discover a way of stopping them, and longed for Tommy’s ingenuity so she could trap them.

She hadn’t looked at the photo again. But she refused to envy his wife. If James had chosen South Africa, she had chosen to stay here, not run after Tommy’s bicycle and call, ‘Take me with you. I want to be with you.’

This was who she was.

The best way to trap rabbits, according to the
Agricultural Weekly,
was to make a V-shaped fence each side of the most distant waterhole or trough, where the rabbits would gather to drink at night. Pull a gate across the top of the V and you had them.

The new fencer was waiting for her in the kitchen, eating a slice of Mrs Murphy’s date loaf and drinking tea from a mug — no matter what Matilda said Mrs Murphy believed that china cups were strictly for those who had ‘drawing room’ tea. He stood up as Matilda came in.

‘Ma’am.’

She smiled. It was a nice change from ‘Mornin’ Boss’. He was a good-looking young man too, if you ignored the shaggy beard. She felt his eyes assessing her, and flushed slightly. The Drinkwater workers were used to her trousers now, but newcomers still found men’s clothes on a woman a shock.

‘Mr Gotobed says you’ve been working down the Mallee.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said again.

‘Mr Gotobed will show you where we’ve pegged out the fence line. Should be easy work till you come to the ridge — it’s shale there: crowbar work, I’m afraid.’

The young man gave a pleasant grin. ‘I don’t mind crowbar work, ma’am.’

‘Good. Everything all right in your quarters?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Never seen men’s quarters with a bathroom before.’

It had taken three days of arguing with Mr Drinkwater before he’d agreed to put that in, though Matilda suspected he’d held
out for an extra day just for the pleasure of showing he was still boss too.

‘I’ll let you get on with it.’ She turned to go.

‘Ma’am?’

She looked back. ‘Yes?’

‘The men say there’s a dance in town this Friday night,’ he said slowly.

‘There usually is.’

‘Are you going?’

She shook her head, smiling. ‘No.’

‘You should go, miss.’ Matilda looked at Mrs Murphy in surprise. The older woman smiled at her from the stove where she was stirring the Irish stew for lunch. ‘Do you good to have a night out, miss.’

Matilda was silent. Mrs Murphy usually never offered an opinion — she kept them for her husband and sons when she went home at night. But Matilda knew what she was really saying. It was time to leave the ghosts behind.

I like my ghosts, she thought. James, Dad, Auntie Love, Mum, Aunt Ann … They’d approve of who I am now.

But it had been months since she had gone beyond the Drinkwater-Moura boundaries except for business. The men she had loved were gone, in their different ways both lost to her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend time with another man — not yet. But it
was
time to join the world again. Every one of her ghosts, she realised, would probably tell her: ‘Go and dance.’ What harm was there in going into town to dance?

‘All right. I will.’

The young man grinned again. ‘Grand. I’ll be waiting for you at five o’clock.’ He headed out the door.

Matilda glanced at Mrs Murphy. Had he misunderstood, thought that she had agreed to let him ‘take her to the dance’ instead of simply driving in together? No, impossible. She was the boss. He was just being kind.

Mrs Murphy smiled at her Irish stew.

She dressed carefully in a gown she hadn’t worn since Christmas: not an evening dress with a low neck, the sort she changed into these days for dinner with Mr Drinkwater, partly to give the old man pleasure and partly because despite her comfortable work clothes she also loved the feel and drape of silk, of satin and brocade. I’m my mother’s daughter too, she thought.

But ordinary townsfolk didn’t wear silk dinner dresses. Tonight’s frock was pale blue muslin, its bodice embroidered with darker blue flowers, with lace at the neck and in three tiers low on the skirt. A pretty dress, she thought as she secured her hair with the extra pins needed for dancing, but not one that called out, ‘Look at me! I’m the rich Miss O’Halloran of Drinkwater.’

She glanced down at her jewelled timepiece on its silver chain. Mr Drinkwater had given it to her for her last birthday. Five o’clock. She hurried down the stairs, then into the drawing room to kiss the old man’s bald spot. ‘I won’t be late.’

‘Be as late as you want,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m glad you’re going out, my dear.’

So he, too, thought she let her ghosts rule. She smiled, and walked out onto the verandah.

The buggy was waiting in front of the steps. The young man stood next to it. Matilda stared at him in dismay.

The shaggy beard was gone. His skin looked pale and slightly raw where he had shaved it too close. His hair was trimmed, and slicked down with hair oil. Even his suit looked new.

No, she thought. I can’t do this. Can’t give a man hope that I would be interested in someone like him. Not because he wasn’t rich, but because even in the short time she had known him she’d seen he simply didn’t have the strength, the dreams, the … the backbone of the men that she’d loved and had admired.

He smiled at her, and held out his hand to help her up into the buggy. If the two of them appeared at the dance like this the gossip would be all over the district by smoko tomorrow.

‘Hoy, Boss, wait for us!’

She sighed with relief — or would have if her stays had let her — as Mr Gotobed limped around the corner of the house, Curry and Rice clicking the wagon reins behind him.

‘Hey you, young Rogers. Buggy ain’t no use for a dance. How’s we all goin’ ter fit in?’ Mr Gotobed bowed low to Matilda. ‘Yer look as pretty as a peacock with two tails, Boss. Ma’am, yer carriage awaits yer.’

‘You’re a darling,’ said Matilda. She caught his eye. He had known exactly what was going on, and exactly how to save her too.

She smiled at the young man, safe now. ‘Come on. We don’t want to be late. You’re looking grand tonight,’ she added. ‘I’m sure every girl in the hall will want to dance with you.’

‘I bags the first dance with you, Boss,’ said Mr Gotobed.

‘Of course,’ said Matilda.

FEBRUARY 1910

What would my father have thought of an electric shearing machine? she wondered, licking the envelope. What would he have thought of the coal strike, crippling transport across New South Wales and Victoria, stopping even steamships carrying wool? The miners wanted more money and safety underground. She wanted her wool to get to England …

So much had changed, she thought, running her eyes over the newspaper. Women lifesavers, women telegraph operators, wireless transmissions, old Queen Victoria dead and King Edward on the throne, cable trams and telephones, aeroplanes.

So much was still the same too — Mr Canning the Central Australian surveyor defending his chaining of the natives he used to establish his route across the country; the New South Wales government’s new law threatening twelve months’ prison for anyone who threatened ‘essential services’ with a strike; children still slaved in factories, some for no wages at all.

It was Wednesday, mail day, and, as well as the latest papers, old Jack had brought the post from town, which included a letter from Mrs Hindmarsh, a box of vegetable seeds and a dozen new apple trees that Matilda had ordered from Green’s catalogue for the Drinkwater garden, a copy of
The Bulletin,
along with the sacks and tins and boxes of groceries for the rations that were part of the men’s wages.

Matilda had hauled old Bluey out of his bunk — he’d lie there all day drinking rum for his arthritis if no one pushed him out into the sunlight — and given him the trees to plant and promised to read him the new union monthly after work. Then she had checked the stores were safely locked in the farm shop, and the seeds in their rat-proof box for spring planting, and given Mr Drinkwater the newspapers.

Now she sat at the table in the drawing room, while he lay on the sofa. He was no weaker these days, but no stronger either. He had begun to greet her at breakfast every morning with, ‘Another morning and I’m still alive.’

He had withdrawn even further from the world, not even questioning her decisions for the farm and most times not even showing curiosity. She missed their discussions, his insights.
But he still enjoyed the papers every week, the brief window on the world.

Now he peered at her over his broadsheet. ‘Says here that there’s another entry for the 5,000-pound competition to build an all-Australian flying machine.’

Matilda looked up from the account book. ‘What’s his name?’

‘John Duigan.’

‘Oh.’ She had thought it might be Tommy. There had been no other mention of him in the newspapers. ‘Inventor and businessman’ could have meant anything. It’s an exciting time for men like Tommy, she thought, the world of horses and steam giving way to machines and electricity, humans taking to the sky as well as the sea and land. ‘Any other news?’

‘A concert in town. Excerpts from a thrilling performance in
Madam Butterfly.’
He looked at her over his glasses. ‘Are you going?’

She smiled. ‘No. The only butterflies I’m interested in are the ones laying caterpillar eggs on my feed turnips.’

‘There are other reasons to go to a concert,’ he said mildly.

‘I know. But none that concern me.’

‘My dear, there is more to life than turnips. Or looking after an old biscuit like me.’

She put down the account book and smiled. ‘I’ve grown fond of the old biscuit.’

‘But still … I wouldn’t expect you to move out if you married,’ he said suddenly. ‘In fact, the opposite.’

‘You want me to marry a good farm manager for you? Sorry, Mr Sampson is already married.’

‘I would quite like a child about the place,’ he said softly.

She walked across and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry. But no one has asked me lately.’

‘You terrify them,’ said Mr Drinkwater dryly. ‘There is a rumour that when that nice land surveyor took you to the Mayor’s Gala you fixed the engine when his motor broke down.’

‘Someone had to. He didn’t know a carburettor from a radiator. Who told you that?’

‘Mrs Murphy, who got it from her sister Sarah.’

‘Has Mrs Murphy told you anything else?’

‘Just that one of the new hands has been complaining about you appearing in the shearing shed while they’re dagging the sheep.’

‘It’s my shed — sorry, your shed. I’ll appear when I want to.’

‘No women allowed.’

‘I’m not a woman. I’m the boss.’

‘That,’ he said softly, ‘is what I’m afraid of.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled at him ruefully. ‘I can put on a skirt again. But I just can’t see myself ever giving control of the place to a man.’

‘That is evident.’

She said nothing, looking out the window. She could see the shearing shed from here, and beyond the garden the pale green winter grass and the darker patch of the experimental turnip crop. She wouldn’t plant them next year; the sheep weren’t really fond of turnips.