Matilda's Last Waltz (22 page)

Hal's colour rose. ‘That feed's probably full of weevils by now, and I reckon the rats have chewed it and all.'

‘Not in my barn, they haven't,' Matilda said roundly. ‘I put feed in metal containers with airtight lids.' She drew herself up to her full height and glared at his shirt buttons. ‘Do we have a deal?'

An almost imperceptible nod came from the big man as Sean's elbow dug into his ribs, and Matilda smiled inwardly. Hal had always coveted Mervyn's ornate saddle – and although she'd probably have got more by taking it into town to sell it, she'd known he would find it hard to refuse.

Joe Tucker stepped forward and handed her a clutch of paper. ‘These are Merv's IOUs. Some of 'em go way back.'

Matilda's pulse quickened. Unlike the other debts, she'd had no way of knowing how much Mervyn owed the landlord. As she read the scraps of paper with her father's scrawled signature, her spirits plunged. So much money. So many bets placed and lost. So much whisky. The sum was beyond her.

‘Sorry, Matilda. But I got bills to pay too, and I can't afford to let these just go. Things ain't so good right now.'

She gave him a tremulous smile. Poor Joe. He was a kind man trying to do his best. It was obvious this was as painful to him as it was to her. She stared out across the yard to the home paddock and the horses grazing there. She had her own horse, the chestnut that was part broken, two brumbies that were still wild, and Dad's grey.

The silence was tense, broken only by the creak of the verandah chair as the banker, Simmons, rocked back and forth. Matilda shivered. It was as if her father had returned and was waiting to catch her out.

She pulled out of her thoughts and concentrated on Joe. ‘Tell you what. You take the two brumbies and sell them on. Should get a good price if you can break them first, and they're both stallions, so why not try Chalky Longhorn over at Nulla Nulla? He's looking for new bloodstock.'

His expression was mournful. ‘I don't know nothing about breaking horse, Matilda. Now, if it was the chestnut as well as the brumbies, I could be sure of getting me money back.'

Matilda eyed the chestnut. She was a bonzer horse, fast and sure-footed, with just enough wildness still in her to put up a good show at the local races. Mervyn had put one of the jackaroos up last time and won a fair amount in side bets. But she couldn't afford to lose her as well as the others. It would leave her exposed if her own horse was injured. Lady was getting on, and soon she wouldn't be able to keep up with the work.

‘The chestnut or the brumbies,' she said firmly. ‘I can't let you have all of them.'

Joe's confidence seemed to have grown for his stance became more belligerent, his expression determined.

‘Yer dad's owed me a long time, and it's only out of respect for you I haven't sold these IOUs to Squires. He was willing to settle them, you know. Can't wait to get his hands on Churinga.'

Matilda noticed how his eyes shone as he played his ace. She knew she was beaten. ‘Thanks for coming to me first,' she said quietly. ‘You can take all these horses if it means Squires keeps his hands off my land.'

Simmons rose from the rocking chair, his bulk making the loose verandah boards groan. ‘None of this will make the slightest difference, Miss Thomas,' he said in his pompous voice. ‘The bank won't be bought off with horses and feed and saddles. And if you can't repay the loan your father took out, then regretfully we'll have to call in the receivers. There should be no problem selling. We've already had enquiries.'

Matilda could see no regret in his expression as she took the IOUs from Joe and stuffed them in her pocket. No doubt Squires was the one who'd made the offer. She was aware of the other men leaving the verandah to collect their bartered goods but her whole concentration was on the man in front of her. She knew why he'd come, she'd found the papers after Mervyn was buried.

‘You'd better come inside. We need to discuss this properly,' she said firmly. ‘I don't want the others hearing what I got to say.'

He looked at her askance but followed her indoors without speaking. Once a cup of tea was placed in front of him, Matilda sat down, her arms on the table between them.

‘Show me the terms of the loan, Mr Simmons,' she said quietly.

He opened his leather brief-case and pulled out a sheaf of papers, then settled back to drink his tea. His eyes remained firmly on her face, reminding her of a stalking dingo waiting his moment to grab a lamb.

Matilda read the papers, and when she'd finished pushed them back over the table. ‘They aren't legal. I owe you nothing but the small loan Mum took out five years ago.'

He sat very straight in the hard wooden chair. ‘I think you'll find they are, Miss Thomas,' he boomed. ‘I had them drawn up by my own solicitor.'

‘Then you should get rid of him, Mr Simmons,' she said acidly. ‘Because he doesn't do his work properly.'

Simmons lost his composure. ‘I hardly think you're in a position to question one of the finest legal minds in Australia, Miss Thomas.'

‘I am when a loan is taken out on my property without my consent, Mr Simmons,' she fired back.

His pomposity and bluster were replaced by confusion. ‘But I saw the deeds … Your father owned the land at the time of the loan.'

Matilda shook her head. ‘He had the right to live here and farm the land until his death. Nothing more. Here's the rest of the paperwork. Read it for yourself. And if you don't like it, I suggest you question Mr Squires' lawyer. He set up the deed of covenant for my mother.'

Simmons took out a very white handkerchief and mopped his bald head as he read through the documents. His hands were shaking, and sweat darkened his shirt front.

Matilda waited until he'd finished reading. Her pulse was racing as she memorised the words of that important deed. Her mother had made her understand fully what she'd planned, and she knew the deed almost by rote.

‘I'll have to take advice on this, Miss Thomas. It seems your father was not wholly honest with us.'

‘He wasn't straight with a lot of people, Mr Simmons,' Matilda said dryly.

‘The debt will still have to be paid. It was quite a substantial sum and can't be just written off.'

Matilda stood up. ‘Then take me to court. You don't get Churinga without a fight, Mr Simmons.'

He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘How old are you?'

‘Fifteen. But don't let that fool you.' Matilda folded her arms over her chest and stared him down.

‘There's still the last of your mother's loan to clear. How do you propose to do that?'

Matilda heard the note of sarcasm and reached for the tin box she'd been so careful to hide from Mervyn. It represented almost a year of searching his pockets, of scrimping and saving and lying for just this one moment. It was all she had until the wool-cheque.

She tipped the coins on to the table where they glittered in the sunlight. ‘This covers half of what we owe. The other half, as arranged by my mother, will come when this year's wool cheque is paid.'

He frowned as he eyed the pile of coins. ‘By the look of your stock, Miss Thomas, I doubt you'll make much money this season – and how will you manage until then? This is all you have, isn't it?'

She didn't want his sympathy, Didn't want him in her kitchen. ‘That's my business, Mr Simmons. Now, if that's all, I have work to do.'

She followed him out on to the verandah and watched as the four men filled their water bags and remounted their horses. Joe led the way to the first of the dilapidated gates, the brumbies and the chestnut on leading reins behind him. The lambs and ewes ran in a woolly bunch ahead of the horses. She waited until their dust was a speck in the distance before returning to her roof repairs.

Gabriel was straddled over the roof, his back resting against the chimney. He'd done nothing since the men had arrived, she noticed.

She caught her breath and eased the pain in her back as she reached the top rung. It was getting more difficult to move around quickly, and the baby was lying low and heavy beneath the concealing clothes.

‘Let's get this over with, Gabe. Then we can have tucker.'

He grinned down at her. ‘No nails, missy.'

‘Then go down and bloody well find some,' she snapped.

Chapter Eight

Matilda knew time was running out. Soon it would be impossible to disguise her condition, so a week after she'd dealt with the banker, she harnessed Lady between the wagon traces and with Bluey loping beside her, headed for Wallaby Flats. Supplies were dangerously low, and there was only one way of getting the money to restock.

As they trotted towards the distant town, she remembered her last journey away from Churinga. It had been a desperate run for escape then, but she'd been a child. Now she was a woman with her destiny firmly grasped. The debts were paid, Churinga was still hers, and the spring grass was fattening her sheep. Life was good.

She camped out that night, wrapped in a blanket under the wagon, Bluey growling and snuffling at the slightest sound, Lady's harness jingling as she cropped the grass. Then, as dawn filtered across the horizon, she rose to make tea in the billy, and eat the damper bread she'd brought with her.

Rooks cawed in the trees as she passed, and a mob of 'roos bounded out of her way as Bluey went off to chase them. She was hot in her father's long droving coat, but it covered her like a tent. Although it was nobody's business, she was not prepared to face the gossips and try to explain either herself or her father. If all went well this trip, she wouldn't need to return to Wallaby Flats until after the baby was born – but she would deal with that when the time came.

Wallaby Flats hadn't changed since Matilda had first been brought here by her mother as a child. It was still dusty and stuck in the middle of nowhere, reeking of sulphur and pitted with opal mines long since played out. The houses were weather-beaten, the pub still had gaps in the fretwork of the verandahs, and the men sitting in its shade still stared off into space.

She tethered Lady to the hitching post by the water trough, pulled the collection of rifles from the wagon bed, and stepped up on to the wooden walkway. The bell jangled as it had always done when she pushed her way into the general store. She was greeted by the heady aroma of sugar and coffee, tea and leather and kerosene. After the jolting, rolling ride in the wagon, this was too much for her stomach, and she swallowed hard until she had the nausea under control. Smells seemed to upset her lately, probably something to do with the baby.

She pulled the coat over the swell of her stomach and walked up to the counter where the shop-keeper was waiting. ‘How much for the rifles?' She didn't recognise him, their supplies had always been delivered with the mail.

The man was thin, with a bad skin and a drooping moustache. He eyed her thoughtfully, then took the rifles one by one and looked down the barrels before checking the breech, the cartridge chamber, firing pin and the sights and balance. He grimaced and placed them on the counter. ‘Already got a fair stock of rifles. These ain't up to much.'

Matilda eyed him coldly. She knew their worth. Mervyn had never stopped reminding her when he'd made her clean and oil them. She selected three of the seven – the most valuable. ‘These two are Winchesters, this one's an Enfield.' She picked them up, drew back the bolt and clicked the firing pin. ‘Smooth as silk. As good as the day Dad bought 'em.'

She waited as he pored over them, touching here, stroking there, his tongue darting over his lips in anticipation of a hefty profit. Matilda knew he was trying to decide just how far he could push his luck, and before he could insult both of them with a ridiculous offer, she broke the silence. ‘I've got a list of supplies,' she said firmly. ‘Those rifles should cover it.'

He rubbed his chin and pulled his moustache, his mean little eyes darting between the valuable rifles and the very long shopping list. ‘It's not my usual way of doing business,' he said finally. ‘But I reckon these should cover the list.' He looked at her more closely. ‘Aren't you Merv Thomas' kid?'

She nodded warily.

His expression was mournful as he picked up the rifle. ‘Thought I recognised the Enfield. Sorry to hear about yer dad. Told him he shouldn't have gone back when he did. But you know Merv.' He smiled. ‘Old bastard never would be told. Good bloke. We miss him around the place.'

Matilda's answering smile was tight. She really didn't want to spend time discussing ‘good old Merv'. She pushed the list over the counter. ‘Can I have my supplies? Got the wagon out front.'

‘Name's Fred Partridge, by the way. How you making out on yer own at Churinga?'

‘I got Gabe,' she said quickly. ‘And with the shearing season coming up, there'll be more.'

‘Want me to put a notice up? How many you hiring this season?'

Matilda was distracted by his question – she hadn't prepared for it. She eyed the collection of notices on the board behind him. Shearing time brought an influx of men from all over the state and beyond. This store was their first call when they came looking for work. ‘I'll let you know,' she said quickly.

‘Have to be pretty quick, luv.' He took a scrap of paper and wrote out a hasty notice. ‘I'll put you down for ten shearers and a cook. Reckon that should see you right.'

He pinned the notice on the wall with the others and Matilda's mouth dried. The only way she could afford to pay so many men was to send Gabe to market with the pigs and two of the cows. That would leave her with very little stock.

‘Make it nine shearers. Peg Riley does the cooking every year, and Bert's still shearing.'

He eyed her closely. ‘Feeling crook, luv? Sit down and I'll get the missus to make you a cuppa.'