Matilda's Last Waltz (15 page)

She nodded. ‘Stan and me got together more years ago than I care to remember. I was looking after a squatter's kids out in Queensland then, and he'd come with the others to shear the mob.' She drank her tea, eyes misty with memory. ‘He was a good-looking bloke in them days. Tall and straight, with arms like rope – all muscle.' She shivered at the recollection. ‘Wouldn't think so now, would you? Shearing bends a man's back and makes him old. But my Stan can still get through more sheep in a day than most of those buckaroos.'

Simone snorted, her elbows on the table. ‘Took me a while to catch the old bugger, though. Slippery as a dipped sheep. But I'm glad I did. We bought a horse and wagon, and from that day to this we've been on the road. Bit grim at times, but I wouldn't swop with the squatters and their fancy houses. Reckon I've seen more of Australia than anyone.'

Jenny felt a tingle of anticipation. Perhaps she knew about the previous occupants, and could explain that mysterious epitaph? ‘You must have seen a great deal of change over the years, Simone. Did you come this way in the early days?'

She shook her head. ‘Mostly Queensland. We only come this way about five years ago.'

It was strange how disappointed Jenny felt, but there was no point in dwelling on it, she decided. ‘I didn't thank you for the flowers or for cleaning my room so nicely. It was lovely to be welcomed like that after such a long journey.'

‘Think nothing of it, luv. Glad to do it.' Ma smoked her cigarette in silence.

‘What happened to the clothes in the wardrobe? I assume there must have been some because of the mothballs.'

Simone looked away and became engrossed in the pattern on the cigarette tin. ‘I didn't think you'd want those old things cluttering up the place. So I cleared 'em out.'

Jenny's curiosity was piqued. There it was again. The sideways glance, the studied air of ignorance. ‘I'd love to see them. I'm an artist, you see, and one of the things I liked best at college was history of dress. If they belonged to the people who once lived here then…'

‘You don't want to be messing about with the past, Jenny. It won't do you no good, never does. Besides, they was mostly old rags.' Simone's expression had grown wary, and she couldn't quite meet Jenny's eye.

Jenny kept her voice low and coaxing. ‘Then there's no harm in letting me see them, is there? Go on, Simone. The more you try to hide them, the more I'm going to want to see them. Let's get this over with here and now, eh?'

Simone sighed. ‘Brett won't like it, Jenny. He told me to burn the lot.'

‘Why ever would he want you to do that?' she asked in horror. ‘Besides,' she added roundly, ‘they aren't his to burn.' She took a deep breath. ‘For goodness' sake, Simone. If it's only a collection of old clothes, why the mystery?'

Simone eyed her for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘Beats me, luv. I just do as I'm told. Come on, they're out the back.'

Jenny followed her into the kitchen where a mound of washing up was stacked by the sink. It was bright in here with checkered curtains and a scrubbed pine table. Stacks of fresh vegetables were piled in sacks on the floor, and pots and pans hung on hooks from the ceiling.

‘I put everything in this old trunk. Seemed a shame just to burn it all.' Simone's expression was mulish, but there was a hint of colour in her face that had nothing to do with the heat in the kitchen.

Jenny knelt before the battered trunk and unfastened the leather straps. Her pulse was racing though she couldn't understand why. After all, she told herself silently, it was only a bunch of old clothes.

The lid slammed back against the wall and Jenny gasped. These were no old rags but a collection of shoes and dresses that dated way back into the last century.

Simone knelt beside her, her confidence suddenly deserting here. ‘Course, if I'd 'a known you'd be interested, I'd 'a never…'

‘It doesn't matter, Simone,' Jenny said softly, as she looked at the treasure trove. ‘But I'm glad you didn't burn them.' One by one she lifted out the neatly folded clothes and inspected them. Finest lawn nightdresses that were handstitched and still perfect nestled in tissue paper. Victorian lace on the collars and cuffs of a nineteenth-century day dress was still as white as the day it had been made. She unwrapped the beautiful watered silk of a wedding gown that must have come all the way from Ireland and pressed its creamy softness to her face. She could still smell the lavender. There were cotton dresses a child might have worn in the first half of this century, and tiny, intricately stitched baby clothes that didn't look as if they'd ever been worn. There were dropped-waisted dresses of the early nineteen twenties, and post-war dresses of inferior cotton that still had matching belts and interchangeable collars.

‘Simone,' she gasped, ‘these aren't rags. They're probably collectors' items.'

Her round face reddened. ‘If I'd known you'd want them, I'd have never taken them out of the house. But Brett said you wouldn't want them cluttering up the place.' She fell silent.

Jenny eyed her, her understanding of what Simone had really planned for these lovely things remaining tacit. She patted the workworn hand. ‘They're still here. That's all that matters.'

She pulled out riding breeches and boots, scuffed and worn with work, and a beautiful silk shawl that had a tear in the fringing. Holding it to her face, she breathed in the scent of lavender. Had these things been worn by the woman whose picture was still in her locket! Then her eye caught a glimpse of a sea green peeking from beween the folds of a white linen sheet. It was a ball-gown, incongruous amongst the plainer working clothes. Soft, dainty and shimmering, its full skirt rustled with chiffon over satin, roses of the same material clinging to the tiny waistband and ruched shoulders.

‘That colour would suit you,' said Simone. ‘Why don't you try it on?'

Jenny was tempted, but something about the dress made her reluctant to share the moment and she put it aside. ‘Look!' she cried. ‘It's even got shoes to match. It must have been made for a very special occasion.'

Simone seemed unimpressed, her tone suddenly brusque. ‘That's about it, luv. Only a load of old books and things in the bottom.'

Jenny stayed her hand as she began to pull the lid down. ‘Books? What kind of books?'

‘Look like diaries, but most of 'em are falling to bits.'

Jenny looked hard at the other woman. ‘What is it about this place that makes everyone so secretive – and why the fuss over these clothes? Has all this got anything to do with that strange headstone in the cemetery?'

Simone sighed. ‘I only know there was something bad happened here a long time ago, luv. Brett thought it best you shouldn't be worried by it, seeing as how you'd just had a tragedy of your own.' She paused. ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband and little boy.'

Brett Wilson should mind his own bloody business! ‘Thanks, Simone. But I'm not as delicate as everyone thinks.' Jenny dived back into the trunk and plucked out the books. How intriguing – they were diaries, but Simone was right, some of them were falling apart. The newer ones were covered in find, hand-tooled leather; the others and less recent were yellow and watermarked. There were twelve in all: some thick and heavy, spanning one or two years; others simply exercise books covering a few months.

While Simone watched disapprovingly, she carefully placed each of them on the floor in chronological order. They spanned the years 1924 to 1948. She riffled the pages, noticing how the childish, ill-formed writing had become a firm flourish as the years passed.

Yet the last diary was puzzling. The writing was jagged and almost illegible – as if it had been written by another hand.

‘That's it then. Want me to help you put it all back?'

Jenny held the last diary close. It was as if she could feel the presence of the woman who'd written this – and it was such a strong feeling, she wasn't aware Simone had spoken.

‘Jenny? You all right, luv?'

She drew away reluctantly from her thoughts. ‘Yes, I'm fine. Let's pack the clothes up again and get the trunk over to the house. I'll carry the books.'

Minutes later the straps were tied and they were crossing the deserted yard. The murmur of voices was muted in the bunkhouse, and most of the lights had been dowsed. Once the trunk was deposited on the floor in the kitchen, Simone said goodnight.

‘Ready for me bed. We start early out here before it gets too hot.'

Jenny looked at her watch. It was only ten o'clock, but she too was tired and ready for bed.

‘You look wore out, if you don't mind me saying so,' said Simone. ‘I put clean sheets on the bed. If you get cold in the night there are blankets on top of the cupboard. Keep the shutters closed or you'll be eaten alive by mozzies.'

‘Thanks, Simone. I'll square this with Brett in the morning. Don't you want a hand with the washing up?'

‘Nah. She'll be right. Besides, you're the boss. You shouldn't be helping me with my work.'

Jenny smiled. ‘Good night then, and thanks.'

‘Night, luv. It's been bonzer talking to another woman at last. Blokes are all right, but I get a bit tired of hearing about blasted sheep all the time.'

Jenny followed her out on to the porch and watched her disappear into the gloom towards the cookhouse. The air was warm, caressing her face, bringing with it the scent of the night flowers. The reality of what she'd inherited suddenly hit her, and she sank into a chair and stared out over the yard. She could hear the quiet rumble of men's voices over in the bunkhouse, and see the flicker of light from the jackaroos' bungalow and in the windows of the cookhouse. All of this belonged to her. The land, the stock, the house – everything. She had inherited a town. A community which would look to her for its livelihood and well-being.

The enormity of this realisation weighed heavy. She knew so little about this life – the few years as a child on Waluna had taught her only the bare essentials – and the responsibility was awesome.

With a long, deep yawn, she accepted what fate had thrown at her, and decided nothing could be accomplished by worrying about it tonight. She left the verandah and turned back into the house.

It was very quiet and she assumed Brett must already be asleep. Then she noticed the sheet of paper on the table. He'd moved out to the bunkhouse.

‘That's a relief,' she sighed. ‘One less thing to worry about.'

The trunk was a dark shadow in the gloom. It seemed to beckon her, to draw her towards the straps as if willing her to open them.

Jenny knelt before it, fingers hovering over the buckles. Then, before she could change her mind, the straps were drawn, the lid tilted back. The green dress lay shimmering in the pale moonlight, tempting her to pick it up, try it on.

The folds of chiffon and satin rustled as they slid over her nakedness. Cool and sensuous, the material caressed her, full skirt dancing against her legs as she moved. She closed her eyes, her fingers deep within the folds as a waltz from a distant life played in her mind. Then she was swaying to it. Moving around the room, her bare feet silent on the boards. It was as if the dress had transported her from this isolated farm to a place where someone special was waiting.

She felt hands on her waist, breath on her cheek, and knew he'd come. But there was no light, no joyous welcome, for the waltz had grown sombre and a shiver tingled down her spine as his fleeting kiss frosted her cheek.

Jenny's eyes flew open. Her dancing feet stilled. Her pulse hammered. The music was gone, the house was empty – and yet she could have sworn she hadn't been alone. With trembling fingers she undid the tiny buttons and the dress whispered to the floor. It lay in a pool of moonlight, skirts fanned across the boards as if caught in mid-swirl of the ghostly dance.

‘Pull yourself together, for heaven's sake,' she muttered crossly. ‘You're letting your imagination run away with you.'

Yet the sound of her own voice did nothing to dispel the feeling she wasn't alone, and Jenny shivered as she gathered up the dress and returned it to the trunk. Slapping the buckles taut, she picked up her discarded clothes and the diaries, and went to her room. After a hasty wash, she climbed between the crisp cool sheets and tried to relax.

Her back ached and her shoulders were stiff, but no matter how many times she plumped the pillows and turned from one side to the other, sleep refused to come. The memory of that music, of her ghostly partner in the dance would not be dismissed.

Lying there in the half light, her eyes were drawn to the diaries she'd left on the chair. It was as if they too were calling her. Demanding to be read. She resisted, unwilling to be drawn. But the haunting melody drifted around her … the feel of his hands, his passionless kiss making her tremble. Not from fear but from something else she couldn't explain … He was willing her to open those diaries, and before long she was unable to resist.

The earliest book was tattered and bound by cardboard. The pages were brittle and well thumbed, the fly-leaf inscribed in a childish hand.

This is the diary of Matilda Thomas. Age fourteen.

The ghostly music stilled as Jenny began to read.

Chapter Five

Jenny slowly emerged from Matilda's world, tears wet on her face, to find the other girl had taken her through the night, tarnishing the magic of Churinga, showing her how it had become a prison. It was as if Jenny could hear the steady, ever-advancing thud of the horses' hooves as that bastard Mervyn caught her and brought her back. As if she could share the same fear the child must have experienced, knowing there was no one to hear her screams or offer help.

‘Too late,' she whispered. ‘I'm too late to do anything about it.'