Matilda's Last Waltz (28 page)

‘We only keep a few head of cattle. They're not as profitable now as sheep, but they provide us with milk, butter and cheese, and the occasional steak to vary the diet of mutton.'

Brett moved on to the stockyard which sprawled over several acres behind the jackaroos' bungalow and leaned on the fence. ‘Most of these are hard-mouthed, bad-tempered bastards, but can turn on a pin and will give you a good day's work. We rotate them so they don't get blown. No stockman will ride the same horse two days running unless he's out in the pastures and can't get back.'

‘Do you breed them here?'

He shook his head. ‘They're all geldings or mares. Stallions are a pain in the neck, so we don't keep them. If we need new stock, we buy in.'

Jenny stroked the twitching neck of the bay mare. The flies were swarming around her eyes, and her tail never seemed to stop flicking at them. ‘She seems quiet enough.'

‘She's one of the few, but she's still a good stock horse.' He took the reins and climbed into the saddle. ‘Come on. I'll take you to the dog pens, then we'll head out.'

The pens were fenced, the kennels merely rough, low shelters filled with straw. The blue-grey dogs snapped and snarled, leaping at the wire, teeth barred.

‘We keep the bitches separate so we can breed them properly,' he said pointing to the far pen where puppies suckled their mothers. ‘We have some Kelpies, like Ripper, but there's nothing like a good Queensland Blue for herding sheep. Reckon it's all that a dog should be – intelligent, aggressive, alert. Not like the pampered lap dogs in the cities.' His sideways glance was mocking.

‘Everything out here seems to be half wild,' she said quietly as two cats came storming out of a nearby barn and rolled in a frenzy of fur, claw and tooth.

Brett drew his heavy stock whip from the saddle and flicked it with deadly accuracy at the snarling, hissing flurry, the crack thunderous, centimetres above their ears. They ran off as if scalded, and he and Jenny laughed.

Jenny climbed into the saddle, turned the mare's head and followed him out into the paddock. ‘How many men are left here after the shearing?'

‘Usually ten, sometimes twelve. Stockmen are notoriously hard to keep for more than a couple of seasons. They're always moving on to what they think are bigger and better stations, real swaggies if the truth be told. But we still have to look after the animals all year round.'

Jenny screwed up her eyes as she looked out over the dry, silver grass that shone glaringly bright in the morning sun. Blasted trees stood as lone sentinels in the sweeping acres. The bark peeled in stiff ribbons down the trunks, and tiny whirlwind spirals of dust moved dead leaves and grass from one listless heap to another. One careless match, a tin can in the grass or a piece of glass, and Churinga would perish.

As they rode through the stand of box, coolibah and stringybark, a swarm of budgies darted and weaved above them, joined by a pink cloud of galahs which finally settled in the two pepper trees on the far edge of the timberland. Bell birds called their fluting song, and a kookaburra chortled a warning before descending with a flap of brown speckled wings on to a low branch in front of them. Vast spider webs laced the leaves of the trees, crystal drops of dew sparkling in the sun, their hairy, long-legged inhabitants making Jenny shudder. She was used to the redback spider in Sydney, but these were monsters, and probably twice as deadly.

She began to relax as they left Churinga homestead behind. Despite the heat, the flies and spiders and snakes, it was majestic. But could she live here?

She was used to the city now, enjoyed the sea and the feel of salt spray on her face. She thought longingly of soaking in a tub of gin-clear water instead of the sludge green showers she'd endured recently. Thought of Diane and her other friends who understood her need to paint. Who shared her interest in the theatre and art galleries, and brought colour and life into her world. Once Simone moved on to the next shed, she would be the only woman on Churinga. Alone amongst men who said little, who lived for the land and the animals they cared for – and probably resented her being there.

‘How you doing, Jenny? The heat and dust got to you yet?'

She grimaced. ‘I seem to be permanently covered in dust. It's everywhere, and I've given up trying to clean the house. But the flies don't bother me, and I'm used to the heat.'

They rode in silence as the crows cawed and the cockatoos shrieked. And yet Churinga was growing on her, she realised. There was something here which seemed so familiar – so much a part of her that although this was her first visit, it felt like coming home.

‘We're on Wilga land now,' said Brett an hour later. ‘See the trees?'

Jenny shielded her eyes against the glare. Thick lime green fronds dipped in perfect symmetry towards the ground, offering sheltered arbours from the sun. ‘Does the wind make them that shape? They look as if someone's come out here and done a bit of barbering.'

Brett laughed, and she noticed the attractive way it crinkled up the corners of his eyes. ‘You're part right. The sheep do the cropping until they can't reach any higher. That's why all Wilga trees are round.'

The horses plodded through the tinder dry grass. ‘Won't the owners mind us trespassing? Should we call in first?'

Brett pulled on the reins and his cranky gelding snorted and stamped as he looked across at her. ‘I thought you knew. Didn't Wainwright explain?'

‘Explain what?'

‘This all belongs to you. It's part of Churinga.'

Jenny absorbed this information with astonishment. ‘But I thought you said we didn't breed cattle? And what happened to the Finlays?'

Brett eyed the prime beef herd that grazed all around them. ‘We don't at Churinga, but Wilga's run separately, with a manager to look after it. The Finlays left after the war.'

The mare dipped her head to crop the grass, her harness jingling pleasantly in the still, warm air. ‘Why the different names? Why not all under the Churinga banner?'

‘Used to be a separate station. The trees gave it its name, of course, and I suppose no one thought to change it when it became part of Churinga.'

‘Everything out here sounds musical.' Jenny sighed. The smell of the baked earth was strong, the sound of the birds and crickets harmonious with their surroundings.

‘The Abos have a musical language. You should hear them jabbering on when they get together for a corroboree. Most of the places out here are called by their Abo names, except for a few which reminded the original squatters of homes back in Europe.'

‘That's true all over Australia,' Jenny said with a smile. ‘Tassie's littered with them.'

They rode side by side through the pastures. ‘Have you travelled a lot, Jenny?' he said finally.

‘A fair bit. When I left the foster home at Waluna, I went to art college. Then after I'd finished, I travelled with Diane through Europe and Africa for a year to study the history of art.' She thought fondly of Diane's flowing caftans and outlandish jewellery. ‘Diane fell in love with all things exotic after we went to Marrakesh but I loved Paris best. Montmatre, the Left Bank, the Seine, the Louvre.'

He must have heard the wistfulness in her voice. ‘Do you wish you could go back?'

‘Sometimes. Maybe I will some day, but it wouldn't be the same. Things never are. The people we knew back then would have moved on, things would have changed. Besides I'm older now, perhaps less careless of the dangers.'

‘Nothing in Paris could be as dangerous as the Tiger snakes you get out here surely,' he said thoughtfully.

Jenny thought of the rat-infested lodgings she and Diane shared, and the lecherous, Frenchmen who thought all young girls were there to be seduced. ‘There are snakes everywhere,' she said bluntly. ‘Not all of them crawl on their bellies.'

‘Cynic,' he teased.

She laughed. ‘That's what travelling does for you. Perhaps I'll take my chances here. There are worse places to live, but at least you know what to watch out for.'

‘I'll remember that.' He gathered up the reins. ‘Come on. I'm going to show you my favourite place. It's similar to where we went the other day, but on the other side of the mountain. It's not far now, and I don't think you'll be disappointed.'

They galloped over the endless plains, through the timber, past the sentinels of blasted trees, and on towards the shimmering blue of the distant mountains. Spidery fingers of acid green traced a web through the grass – evidence of the bore head water that must drain into the pastures somewhere up ahead.

Her joints ached, and her limbs trembled, and as much as she was enjoying the ride, Jenny looked forward to getting off for a rest.

‘Almost there,' Brett shouted about half an hour later.

Jenny saw that the leaves were fat and green on the trees and the grass verdant, startling against the surrounding mirror-bright silver. The thought of water made her urge the mare on until they reached the shade of the outlying trees. Sliding down from the saddle, she took off her hat and wiped away the sweat. Flies buzzed around her, settling, darting, drinking the moisture on her face and arms.

Brett took the reins of both horses and led the way through the thick scrub. The heat beneath the canopy of trees reminded her of Queensland, damp, humid, buzzing with insect life. Sweat drenched her clothes and ran down her face as she followed closely behind him. Would this walk never come to an end? she wondered.

Then suddenly they were in a clearing of pure, golden light, where the sound of a waterfall cooled the heat of the day. Brett stood aside and she gasped. It was an oasis, hidden in the folds of the mountain. Trees, verdant and lush, bent their fronds to the wide pool which lay still and clear at their feet. Tumbled, jumbled rocks sprouted flowers and vines which trailed, picture book bright, down crevices and along fissures. Birds, disturbed by their presence, flew in an agitated cloud above their heads. Bright scarlet and blue rosellas swooped with green and yellow parakeets. Tiny finches, sparrows and starlings fluttered and called as they flew from perch to perch. It was as if the world consisted only of birds. They swooped and dived in their hundreds before settling, bright-eyed and inquisitive, to watch the intruders.

Jenny laughed with the sheer joy of it, and the sound caused a flutter of wings as a flock of cockatoos flew out of the trees above them.

‘I told you it was special,' he said, smiling with pleasure.

‘I never thought such a place could exist out here. Not in this wilderness.'

‘You don't have to whisper,' he said with a smile. ‘The birds will soon get used to us.' He caught her arm. ‘Look. There in the mud bank.'

Jenny followed his pointing finger. Crayfish claws were visible in the slimy grey mud, dozens of them. ‘Yabbies,' she exclaimed. ‘We'll have to take some back for supper.'

‘Later,' he said firmly. ‘What we could both do with now is a swim.'

Her spirits fell. The water looked so inviting in that clear pool, but to swim fully clothed would take away the pleasure. ‘You should have warned me. I didn't bring anything to wear,' she protested.

Brett grinned, and like a conjurer, pulled something from his saddle bag and threw it across. It was lurid orange with purple flowers dotted all over the nylon ruching. ‘It's Ma's. I expect it's a bit big, but it's the best I could do.'

Jenny looked at it. It was enormous and hopelessly old-fashioned, but if she tied the straps together at the back, and used her trouser belt to cinch in the waist, it would do. But to be on the safe side, she'd keep her underwear on.

When she'd finally tied and belted and tucked the vast costume around herself, she hesitated before stepping out from the bushes. She was barefoot and although her little toe was covered with a plaster it was still obvious – she always dreaded it when people commented on it and asked questions. It was something the nuns had believed to be the sign of the Devil, and although she knew better now, she was still ashamed of it.

The heat and the sound of the water was too enticing. Jenny took off her locket and peeked from behind the bushes. Brett was already in the water. He was wearing black trunks that showed off his muscular legs, flat stomach and broad chest to perfection. As he floated on his back, the sunlight glinted on his dark hair, turning it almost blue.

Jenny hutched the straps over her shoulders. Ma was blessed with a comfortable bosom, and no amount of tying and hitching could disguise the fact that Jenny had rather less to cover. She dived into the water and surfaced quickly. It was freezing, taking her breath away. But as she broke through the clear green depths into the sunlight, she realised Simone's costume had filled with water, and was ballooning around her like an inflatable life-jacket.

What the hell? she thought as she floated luxuriously. I'm decent enough, and this water's wonderful after those showers.

She watched as Brett struck out with clean, sure strokes to the other side of the pool where a small waterfall plunged through creepers and down the rocks. He swam beneath it then stood in the shallows, the water tumbling over his head. He gave a whoop of delight, sending the birds into startled flight.

Jenny laughed with him, and as she felt the costume sink further and further, decided she'd rather swim in her underwear than drown. Unfastening the belt, she pulled it off. It landed with a soggy plop on to an overhanging rock, and she kicked out and swam free. Diving into the cool depths after having swum back and forth for several minutes, she resurfaced on the far side where the rocks lay in great slabs beside the trees, and hauled herself out.

She lay there, gasping with the cold and the effort, basking in the warm caress of the dappled sun and the stones. The sound of Brett's splashing and the birds' chattering began to fade as weariness from the long ride took over. Her eyelids grew heavy and with feline pleasure she fell asleep.