Matilda's Last Waltz (14 page)

Jenny had held tightly to Diane's hand. They had made a pact not to be separated – and despite their longing to escape the nun's clutches, they knew that if they were to leave Dajarra, their real parents wouldn't be able to find them.

Jenny smiled as she remembered Ellen and John walking down the long line of children. Ellen had stopped in front of her for a moment, but Reverend Mother had shaken her head and pressed her forward. Jenny hadn't caught the muttered comment as they proceeded down the line, but knew that once again she and Diane were not to be picked.

The children were finally told to leave the room and scampered back to the library to finish the dusting. Jenny remembered feeling disappointed and glad all at the same time, but as this was nothing new she dealt with it as she had done before, and simply tucked it away out of sight.

The surprise had come when Sister Michael fetched them both and told them they would be going with the Careys. She'd looked up into that cold, emotionless face and wondered if this was just another way of punishing her. Yet within days she and Diane were on their way to a new life, a new home, with a promise from Reverend Mother that they would return immediately if their real parents turned up.

Jenny stared into the distance as the old doubts closed in. Other children from Dajarra were adopted, but for her and Diane it had been different. And she'd always wondered why. She sighed. Ellen and John had been old enough to be their grandparents, but they had given them a good life and it was because of them she and Diane were able to face the world with a sense of worth. The years on Waluna had seen them flourish, and although those two wonderful foster parents were gone now, she still remembered the place and its people with deep affection.

She came out of her daydream and looked around. It was time to explore Churinga.

The kitchen was basic and utilitarian. A line of cupboards ran along one wall, filled with unmatched crockery and one good dinner service. A stained porcelain sink with wooden drainers was set beside rickety cupboards under the window and the centre of the room was dominated by a large, scrubbed wooden table. The two-way radio squatted in the corner, silent and brooding – the only life-line to the outside world.

She stood by the table and looked around. The kitchen had been extended so there was an area of over-stuffed chairs which looked out through long windows to the back of the house. Book shelves and several quite good watercolours lined the walls.

On closer inspection she could see that the paintings were all of the outback, but it was one particular painting of Churinga that caught her eye. It must have been done years ago, for the house was smaller and more dilapidated, the stand of trees less shady than now. There were only a few ramshackle sheds beyond the front yard, and the weeping willows by the creek were saplings, their fronds barely touching the water.

Jenny eyed the painting critically. There was no signature, and it was obviously amateur, but there was a certain quaint charm about it. The artist, and she was convinced it had been a woman, clearly loved her subject. But who was she, this woman with such a delicate touch? A squatter's wife, a Sundowner adding a few bob to her husband's wages, or a wandering artist earning bed and keep?

Jenny shrugged. It didn't really matter because whoever painted it had left a potent history of the property that was unassailable.

Returning to her exploration, she discovered a small bathroom complete with lavatory and shower. It was all a bit Heath Robinson, but no matter – a shower was a shower, and she couldn't resist. Peeling off her sweat-stained clothes, she stood beneath the sluggish drip of murky water and scrubbed away the dust of her travels. Then, with a clean towel wrapped around her, she padded down the narrow corridor to find the bedroom.

As she opened the first door, she realised she'd trespassed on Brett's territory. There was a clutter of boots and discarded working clothes on the floor. The bed was unmade and there was a strong smell of lanolin, shaving cream and the stable-yard. She eyed the mess, and wondered if she really wanted this moody, unpredictable man in quite such close proximity.

She closed the door and went on to the next room. It looked out over the paddocks at the back of the house, was freshly swept and polished, and someone had put a jam jar of wild flowers on the window sill. A thoughtful touch, but more likely to be Ma Baker's than Brett's she decided.

The head and foot of the bed was ornate brass, the covers a patchwork quilt of soft colours. A rag rug covered the wooden floor, and there was a chair and a white-painted wardrobe and dressing table. She stood for a moment in the twilight, trying to imagine the people who'd once lived here, but all she could see was the empty bed. All she could hear was the life going on outside in the yard. Her own bereavement swept over her unexpectedly, and she sank on to the bed. ‘Oh, Pete,' she sighed. ‘I wish you were here.'

Tears pricked and she brushed them away as she unpacked her things and pulled on fresh shorts and shirt. ‘You're tired, hungry and feel out of place,' she muttered. ‘But there's no point letting it get to you.'

With rather more determination than she felt, she grabbed the rest of her things and set about making herself feel more at home. As she opened the wardrobe door, she was assailed by the heady scent of moth balls and lavender. There was no sign of any clothes and she assumed Ma Baker must have cleared them away. Shame, she thought. Might have been interesting.

Restlessness filled her. Having seen everything in the house, she was drawn to the home paddock and the small cemetery she'd noticed earlier.

The evening shadows had lengthened as she stepped down from the porch and picked her way through the long grass. The back of the house overlooked the pasture where the horses drowsed beneath the trees and a smaller, overgrown plot that had been fenced in by white pickets. Wooden crosses marked burial mounds that were smothered in kangaroo paw and wild lilies. It was a peaceful resting place for the family who'd once lived here. So much more personal then a public graveyard on a hill outside Sydney, she thought sadly.

She opened the gate, noticing that the hinges had been oiled and the grass recently cut. ‘At least someone still cares,' she muttered, picking her way through the tangle.

There were eight grave markers still standing. The others were almost engulfed by the encroaching wilderness. Jenny read each of the epitaphs on the weathered crosses. The O'Connors had died in the late eighteen hundreds, and must have been pioneers from the old country. Mary and Mervyn Thomas had died within a few years of each other shortly after the Great War.

The smaller memorials were more difficult to decipher. The lettering was worn, the wood paper thin. The tiny crosses stood close to one another as if embracing, and Jenny had to clear away the creepers before she could read them. Each bore the same sad legend: ‘Boy child. Taken at birth.'

She swallowed. Brett was right – Churinga country could be cruel.

She moved on to the two most recent headstones. Roughly hewn in the same dark rock, the lettering still glimmered white within the lichen – but the epitaph on the woman's gravestone made no sense at all, and she sat back on her heels and pondered why such a thing should have been put there.

‘Tucker's ready.'

Jenny looked up, startled from her thoughts. ‘Does that mean what I think it does?' she asked, pointing to the stone.

Brett tipped back his hat before jamming his hands into his pockets. ‘I don't know. Mrs Sanders. Before my time. Rumour has it there was a tragedy here years ago. But it's only gossip, so I shouldn't let it worry you.'

‘Rumours? What rumours?' Jenny stood up and brushed the dirt from her hands. She loved a good mystery.

‘Nothing to get steamed up about,' he said nonchalantly. ‘Come on. Tucker'll all be gone.'

Jenny stared at him but his gaze slid away. He knew something and had obviously decided to keep it to himself. She followed him out of the cemetery and across the yard, her appetite sharpened by the thought there might be a mystery attached to the history of Churinga.

Chapter Four

Brett hadn't been surprised to find her in the cemetery; it was, after all, an intrinsic part of Churinga, and after being widowed so recently herself, it was logical she should go there. Yet he regretted having mentioned the rumours. Mrs Sanders was obviously inquisitive and resourceful, and like most women he'd come into contact with, would probably go on endlessly until he told her what he knew.

His thoughts were troubled as they crossed the yard to the cookhouse. He'd learned enough to know Churinga's past was better left buried.

He tugged his hat over his brow as she walked beside him. He was more accustomed to the smell of the wool shed than exotic perfume from Sydney. Mrs Sanders disturbed him. The sooner he was back in the bunkhouse the better. Should have moved his things from the house last night, and would have done too if his mare hadn't thrown a shoe and made him walk the five miles back.

Brett opened the screen door to let her pass, then slung his hat on to the peg beside the door. Ma had a strict rule about hats indoors. The noise in the cookhouse was loud and cheerful, but at the sight of Mrs Sanders it fell like a stone.

‘This is your new boss, mates, Mrs Sanders.' Brett grinned as their astonished eyes took in her long legs and shiny hair. That fair shook 'em up and no mistake, he thought. ‘Move up, Stan mate. And let me sit down.'

Ma came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Brett liked Ma. She was easy to talk to, and her cooking stuck to your ribs. He winced as she cuffed him none too gently around the ear. ‘What you do that for, Ma?'

‘You've got no manners, Brett Wilson,' she retorted as laughter rang round the table. She turned to Jenny, a broad smile on her perspiring face. ‘No one's got any manners around here, luv. Mrs Baker's the name, pleased to make your acquaintance.'

Brett surreptitiously watched Jenny's face as she greeted Ma and took her place at the table. Those eyes were fairly dancing, and he knew why – she was laughing at him. Bloody women. Always ganged up on a bloke just when he wasn't expecting it.

Ma had her fists on her broad hips as she surveyed the gaping mouths and curious eyes. ‘What's the matter with yous lot? Never seen a lady before?'

Like the other men, Brett ducked his head and began to attack the heaped plate in front of him. It didn't do to cross Ma. The long drive had put an edge to his appetite and eating gave him the excuse to avoid the knowing looks and sly nudges from the others. They could think what they liked. She was just the new boss. Nothing special.

Jenny recognised friendship in Ma's broad smile. She was reminded of Ma Kettle from the old movies on a Saturday morning. A woman of indeterminate age, broad of beam and generous of spirit, who nonetheless stood no nonsense from the men for whom she cooked and washed.

Ma placed a heaped plate in front of her. ‘There you go, luv. Nice bit of roast mutton. You look as if you could do with some feeding up. Too thin by half,' she said with dismay.

Jenny blushed, all too aware that despite their apparent interest in their food, the men were listening. It had been a mistake to come over and eat with them. She'd have been better off back at the house. Brett had brought enough groceries for a month.

As she tried to make a respectable dent in the food on her plate the men seemed to lose interest and, after a false start or two, returned to their own conversation. Sheep seemed to be the main topic, but as the nearest she'd come to one in the past ten years was in a butcher's shop, Jenny stayed silent and took in her surroundings instead.

The cookhouse seemed to be made up of a kitchen and this vast room. The scrubbed table ran the full length of it, benches to either side. The vaulted ceiling was corrugated iron, slung over heavy wooden beams. The aromas of cooking, lanolin, horses and stables, and the honest sweat of a day's work, mingled headily.

As the meal progressed Jenny found it awkward to be surrounded by thirty or more men who, under the watchful eye of Mrs Baker, were obviously toning down their language and trying to display some sort of decorum. The tension in the room was almost tangible. She was ill at ease, and suspected they felt the same.

After what seemed an eternity each man left the table, the relief of escape clear in their rush for the door. She guessed they usually sat for hours over a beer and a cigarette, discussing the day's work, and felt more of an intruder than ever.

As the last man left the table, plate in hand for the kitchen, Ma came back with two cups of tea and a tobacco tin. ‘You don't want to mind them too much,' she said, nodding her head in the direction of the noise and scuffling coming from the front porch. ‘They're good blokes, but they only know how to talk to a barmaid. Not an ounce of heducation between 'em.'

Jenny bit back a grin and declined the offer of a roll-up, although she was tempted. It had been a fraught day. ‘I spoiled their tucker, though. Perhaps I'll eat in the house from now on.'

Ma looked across the broad expanse of oilcloth, her expression thoughtful. ‘It might be best, Mrs Sanders. After all, you are the owner now.'

‘Call me Jenny. I'm not used to all this formality. Is it usual out here?'

Ma laughed and shut the tobacco tin with a snap. ‘Lord, no, luv. Just our way of showing respect. You can call me Simone. I get pretty fed up with Ma all the time, makes me feel about a hundred.'

Jenny looked at her and smiled.

‘Ridiculous name, isn't it? But my old mum read a book once, and the heroine's name was Simone – so I got lumbered. Well, I mean, look at me.' She laughed and the whole of her large body joined in.

Jenny grinned, enjoying the knowledge that here in this man's world there was at least one person she could talk to. ‘Have you always followed the shearers, Simone?'