Matilda's Last Waltz

 

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my sons Brett and Wayne who finally understand why I love Australia. And to my daughter Nina, who searched for and found the hero inside herself – I'm so proud of you. Thanks to Marcus for his computer tuition, his drilling and guitar serenades, and to his sister Gemma for her support. My love to Ollie who has to put up with me when I'm writing, and last, but never least, thank you to my step-father, Eric Ivory, for his love, his humour and his ability to smell snakes. He is a true Tasmanian.

 

‘And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong, You'll come a-waltzing, Matilda with me' –

Andrew Barton ‘The Banjo' Paterson, 1917

Prologue

Churinga. The sigh of the warm wind in the pepper trees seemed to whisper its name. Churinga. A place of magic, of sacred mystery, carved from the bush and scrub by her grandparents. It broke hearts and backs but until now Matilda had been willing to pay the price. For this was all she had known, all she had ever wanted.

Her throat constricted as she looked beyond the family graveyard and out into the wilderness. She must not cry, no matter how deep the pain, no matter how sharp the loss – for the memory of her strong, seemingly invincible mother forbade it. Yet in all her thirteen years, there had been nothing to compare to this sense of abandonment, this feeling that childhood was over and she was destined to follow a lonely trail in this great, beautiful, dreaming place that was home.

The horizon shimmered, diffusing the bright ochre of the earth with the impossible blue of the enormous sky, and all around her were the sounds to which she had been born. For this vast, seemingly empty land was alive with a voice of its own, and she took comfort from it.

The fretting of the sheep in the pens, the quarrelling of the galahs and sulphur-crested cockatoos, the distant cackle of the kookaburra and the soft jingle of harness, were as familiar as the rhythm of her pulse. Even now, in her darkest moment, Churinga's magic had not deserted her.

‘You wanna say a few words, Merv?'

The shearer's voice broke the silence of the graveyard, jolting her back to the present and reality. She looked up at her father, willing him to speak, to show some kind of emotion.

‘You do it, mate. Me and God ain't what you might call on speaking terms.'

Mervyn Thomas was a giant of a man, a stranger who'd returned five years ago from Gallipoli, scarred in mind and body from the things he'd seen – things he never spoke of except in the night when his dreams betrayed him, or when the drink loosened his tongue and his temper. Now he stood sombre in dusty black, leaning heavily on the makeshift walking stick he'd carved from a tree branch. His face was in shadow, the brim of his hat pulled low, but Matilda knew his eyes were bloodshot and that the trembling of his hands had nothing to do with remorse, merely the need for another drink.

‘I'll do it,' she said softly into the awkward silence. Stepping out of the small circle of mourners, she clutched her tattered prayer book and approached the mound of earth that would soon cover the rough timber of her mother's coffin. There'd been little time to mourn. Death had come swiftly at the end and the heat made it impossible to wait for neighbours and friends who would have had to travel hundreds of miles to be here.

The sense of isolation grew as she felt her father's animosity. To give herself a moment to regain her courage, Matilda trawled the familiar faces of the drovers, shearers and jackaroos who worked Churinga.

The Aborigines were clustered outside the gunyahs they'd built near the creek, and watched curiously from a distance. Death to them was not something to mourn, merely a return to the dust from which they'd come.

Her gaze finally came to rest on the crooked headstones that marked the history of this tiny corner of New South Wales. She fingered the locket her mother had given her and, with courage restored, faced the mourners.

‘Mum came to Churinga when she was just a few months old, wedged in a saddle-bag on my grandfather's horse. It was a long journey from the old country, but my grandparents were hungry for land and the freedom to work it.' Matilda saw the nods and smiles of agreement on the sunbaked faces around her. They knew the story – it echoed their own.

‘Patrick O'Connor would have been proud of his Mary. She loved this land as much as he did, and it's because of her that Churinga is what it is today.'

Mervyn Thomas shifted restlessly, his belligerent glare making her falter. ‘Get on with it,' he growled.

She lifted her chin. Mum deserved a decent send-off, and Matilda was determined she would have it.

‘When Dad went to war some people said Mum would never manage, but they didn't know how stubborn the O'Connors can be. That's why Churinga's one of the best properties around, and me and Dad intend to keep it that way.'

She looked at Mervyn for confirmation and received a resentful glower in return. It didn't surprise her. His pride had never recovered from returning from the Great War to find his wife independent and the property flourishing. He'd found consolation in the bottom of a glass soon after that, and she doubted the death of his wife would change him.

The pages of the prayer book were well thumbed and brittle. Matilda blinked away tears as she read the words Father Ryan would have said if there had been time to fetch him. Mum had worked so hard. Had buried her own parents and four children in this little cemetery before she was twenty-five. Now the earth could claim her, make her a part of the Dreaming. She was finally at rest.

Matilda closed the book in the ensuing silence and bent to gather a handful of soil. It trickled between her fingers and gently scattered on to the wooden box. ‘Sleep well, Mum,' she whispered. ‘I'll look after Churinga for you.'

*   *   *

Mervyn was feeling the heat and the effect of the whisky in his belly as the horse plodded towards Kurrajong. His shattered leg throbbed, and his boots felt too tight. This did not improve his temper. Mary had been put in the ground two weeks ago but he could still feel her presence, her disapproval, everywhere.

It had even manifested itself in Matilda, and despite his giving her a touch of his belt after that embarrassing performance at the funeral, still she eyed him with her mother's customary contempt. Two days of frosty silence had passed before he'd slammed out of Churinga and headed for Wallaby Flats and the pub. A man could drink in peace with his mates there. Could shoot the breeze and garner sympathy and free whisky as well as a tumble with the barmaid.

Not that she's much to look at, he conceded. In fact she was just a ripe old tart, but then he wasn't particularly fussy when the urge took him, and he didn't have to look at her while he did it.

He leaned precariously from the saddle to fasten the last of the four gates to his neighbour's property. The sun beat down, the whisky churned, and his own sour smell drifted up from his clothes. The horse shifted restlessly, jarring Mervyn's bad leg against the fence post, and with a yelp of pain, he almost lost his balance as well as his breakfast.

‘Keep still, you mongrel,' he growled, jerking the reins. He leaned on the pommel and wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he waited for the pain to ease. His head was a little clearer now he'd thrown up, and after straightening his hat, he slapped Lady's flank and urged her forward. The homestead was visible on the horizon and he had business to discuss.

Kurrajong stood proudly on the crest of a low hill, sheltered from the sun by a stand of tea trees, its verandah cool and welcoming beneath the corrugated iron roof. It was a quiet oasis amongst the bustle and noise of a busy station. Horses cropped the lush grass in the home paddock which was watered by the bore hole Ethan had dug a couple of years back. Mervyn could hear the ring of the blacksmith's hammer coming from the forge. The shearing shed was still busy if the noise was anything to go by, and the sheep in the pens were kicking up a racket as they were herded and bunched by the dogs towards the ramps.

He took it all in as he rode up the long drive to the hitching post, and nothing he saw made him feel any better. Churinga's land might be good but the house was a dump compared to this place. God knows why Mary and Matilda thought so much of it, but then that was typical of the bloody O'Connors. They thought themselves better than anybody else because they had come from pioneer stock, which in these parts was considered almost royal.

Well, he thought grimly, we'll see about that. Women should know their place. I've had enough. They don't own me.

His belligerence stoked by alcohol, he slid from the ornate Spanish saddle. Grasping his crude walking stick, he made his erratic way up the steps to the front porch. The door opened as he was about to knock.

‘G'day, Merv. We were expecting you.' Ethan Squires looked immaculate as usual, his moleskins gleaming white against the polish of his black riding boots, open-necked shirt crisp over broad shoulders and flat stomach. There was very little grey in his dark hair. The hand he offered Mervyn was brown and calloused but the nails were clean and the ring on his finger sparked fire in the morning sun.

Mervyn felt overweight and old by comparison, and yet there was only a few months' difference in their age. He was also aware he was in dire need of a bath and wished he'd taken up the offer before leaving the hotel.

But it was too late for regrets. To hide his discomfort he gave a bark of laughter and pumped Ethan's hand rather too jovially. ‘How're ya goin', mate?'

‘Busy as always, Merv. You know how it is.'

Mervyn waited for Ethan to sit down, then followed suit. Ethan's greeting had thrown him. He hadn't announced any intention of calling so why had the other man been expecting him?

The two men remained silent as the young Aboriginal housemaid served drinks. The breeze on the verandah was cooling Mervyn off and now he wasn't on the back of a horse his stomach was more settled. He stretched out his bad leg and rested his boot on the verandah railings. No point in worrying over Ethan's welcome, he always had talked in riddles. Probably thought it was clever.

The beer was cold and slid easily down his throat, but it didn't quite shake the bitterness he could taste at the thought of how lucky Ethan was. Not for him the carnage of Gallipoli but an officer's billet miles from the fighting. No shattered leg, no nightmares, no memory of mates without faces and limbs, no screams of agony to haunt him day and night.

But then Ethan Squires had always led a charmed life. Born and raised on Kurrajong, he'd married Abigail Harmer, who was not only the best-looking widow around but also one of the richest. She'd brought her son Andrew with her and given Ethan three more before she died in that riding accident. Three living, healthy sons. Mary could only manage one scrawny girl – she'd lost the others.