Matilda's Last Waltz (3 page)

Underground springs kept the home pastures green. Close by several horses cropped contentedly, seemingly undisturbed by the clouds of flies swarming around their heads. The shearing shed and wool barn were quiet now the season was over, the wool on its way to market. The mob would be kept in the pastures nearest to water until the rains, but if the drought lasted much longer they would lose even more.

As Matilda walked across the yard she whistled and from under the house came an answering yelp. A shaggy dark head appeared, followed by a wriggling body and wagging tail. ‘Come on, Blue. Here, boy.'

She mussed his head and pulled his ragged ears. The Queensland Blue was almost seven and the best sheep herder in the business. Her father refused to let him in the house. He was a working dog like all the others, but so far as Matilda was concerned, she couldn't have had a better friend.

Blue trotted beside her as she passed the chicken runs and stock pens. The wood pile was stacked behind the storage shed and the clear, bell-like ring of an axe told her one of the black jackaroos was working hard to make it bigger.

‘Hello, luv. Hot, ain't it?' Peg Riley mopped her scarlet face and grinned. ‘What I wouldn't do for a long cold dip in the creek.'

Matilda laughed. ‘You're welcome, Peg. But there's not much water in it, and what there is is green. Why don't you drive up to the water hole under the mountain? The water's cold up there.'

The Sundowner shook her head. ‘Reckon I'll give it a miss. Me and Bert gotta get to Windulla by tomorrow, and if he hangs about for too long, he'll lose his wages on the two-up game goin' on at the back of the bunkhouse.'

Bert Riley worked hard and travelled in his wagon all over central Australia, but when it came to gambling he was a loser. Matilda felt sorry for Peg. Year after year she came to Churinga to work in the cook house whilst Bert bent his back shearing. Yet only a fraction of their earnings went with them to the next job.

‘Don't you get tired of moving around, Peg? I can't imagine ever leaving Churinga.'

Peggy folded her arms beneath her pendulous bosom and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘It can be hard leaving a place, but you soon forget and look forward to the next one. Course, if me and Bert could have had kids it would be different, but we can't so I suppose we'll just keep going until one of us drops dead.'

Laughter rippled through her ample body, making it dance beneath the cotton dress. She must have noticed Matilda's concerned expression, for she reached out and swamped her in an affectionate hug. ‘Don't mind me, luv. You take care of yourself and we'll see you next year.' She backed away, then turned to the horse and wagon and mounted up. Grasping the reins, she let out a mighty yell.

‘Bert Riley, I'm leavin', and if you ain't here in one second flat, I'm going without yer.'

Snapping the whip between the horse's ears, she headed for the first gate.

Bert came shambling out from behind the bunkhouse with the peculiar gait synonymous with all shearers and hurried after her. ‘See yous next year,' he yelled over his shoulder as he climbed on to the wagon.

Churinga seemed deserted suddenly. As Matilda watched the wagon disappear in a cloud of dust, she stroked Blue's ears and received a lick of comfort in return. After checking the wool shed and shutting down the ancient generator, she turned her attention to the cook house, which Peg had left spotless, then the bunkhouse. The termite damage was worse, but there wasn't much she could do about it, so after a quick sweep round and a minor repair to one of the beds, she closed the door and stepped back into the heat.

The Aboriginal men were lounging around outside their gunyahs as usual, swatting flies, chattering listlessly amongst themselves as their women stirred something in the black pot over the fire. They were of the Bitjarra tribe and as much a part of Churinga as she was – but she wished they'd earn their bread and tobacco instead of sitting around or going walk-about.

She eyed Gabriel, their leader. A semi-literate, wily old man who'd been brought up by the missionaries, he sat cross-legged by the fire, whittling a piece of wood.

‘G'day, missus,' he said solemnly.

‘Gabriel, there's work needs doing. I told you to see to those fences in the south paddock.'

‘Later, missus, eh? Got to have tucker first.' He grinned, showing five yellow teeth, of which he was very proud.

Matilda eyed him for a moment and knew it was pointless to argue. He would simply ignore her and do the job in his own good time. She walked back to the house and climbed the steps to the verandah. The sun was high, the heat intense. She would rest for a couple of hours, then check the accounts. She'd let things slide during Mum's illness.

*   *   *

Matilda hauled the great copper boiler off the range and poured water into the wash tub. The steam rose in the torpid heat of the kitchen, and sweat ran into her eyes as she struggled with the copper's weight, yet she barely noticed. Her mind was on the accounts, the figures that wouldn't add up no matter how many times she tried. She'd had little sleep the night before, and after a morning spent in the saddle overseeing Gabriel's repair to the fences was bone weary.

The account books lay open on the table behind her. She'd hoped morning would bring a solution – but all she'd got for her troubles was a headache and the knowledge the wool cheque wouldn't be large enough to pay off their debts and see them through to next season.

Her anger rose as she prodded Mervyn's moleskins down into the water with a stick. ‘I should have kept an eye on his spending like Mum told me,' she muttered. ‘Should have hidden the money properly.'

His moleskins floated in ghostly swirls as she jabbed them, eyes misted over with the injustice of it all. She and Mum had managed all right, even made a small profit during the war years, but Dad's coming back had spoiled everything. Grasping the heavy working clothes, she began to scrub them with an energy that released her temper and frustration.

She remembered his homecoming as if it were yesterday. She supposed she should have felt sorry for him, but how could she when he'd done nothing to earn either her respect or pity? There had been few letters during his years away, and only a brief note from the hospital describing his injuries. He'd been brought home in a wagon almost two years later, and she and her mother had not really known what to expect. She'd remembered him vaguely as a big man who smelled of lanolin and tobacco, whose bristles scratched her face when he'd kissed her goodbye. But she'd been only five years old then, and more interested in the brass band that played so loudly on the platform than in the men in dull brown who boarded the train. She hadn't understood about war, and what it could mean to her and Mum.

Matilda's hands stilled as she thought of those two years he'd been bed-ridden. Remembered her mother's worn face as she fetched and carried and got nothing but abuse and a sharp slap if his bandages were too tight or he wanted a drink. His home-coming had changed the mood of Churinga. From magic to misery. From light to dark. It had been almost a relief to see him climb on to his horse and head for Wallaby Flats, and even her mother had seemed less weary in the days that followed.

But of course he came back, and the pattern of their lives was changed forever.

Matilda leaned on the wash tub and stared out of the window at the deserted yard and sheep pens. The three drovers were herding the mob towards Wilga, where there was still water and grass. Gabriel and the others were nowhere to be seen, and she suspected they'd gone walkabout now the shearing was over. It was peaceful, despite the parakeets squabbling over the insects in the red gums and the constant sawing of the crickets in the dry grass. She wished it would stay that way. Yet, as the days had passed with still no sign of Mervyn, she knew it couldn't last.

With the washing finished, she hauled the basket around to the back of the house and pegged it out. It was cooler out here in the shadows of the trees, and she had a clear view over the home paddock and the graveyard. The white picket fence that surrounded it needed painting, and the kangaroo paw and wild ivy had taken over several of the headstones. Purple bougainvillaea entwined itself around a tree trunk, alive with the hum of bees and the flutter of glorious butterflies. A bell bird chimed somewhere in the distance and a goanna stared back at her from a fallen log where he'd been sun-baking. Then, with a scrabble of his lethal claws, he disappeared into the dappled undergrowth.

Matilda sank on to the top step of the verandah, elbows on knees, chin cupped in her hand. Her eyelids drooped as the hypnotic scent of hot earth and dry grass lulled her to sleep.

*   *   *

Despite the heat, Mervyn felt chilled. The fury of his humiliation at the hands of Ethan Squires, and the duplicity of his own wife, no longer burned in his gut but had settled within him, cold and malignant, as he rode towards Churinga.

The night had been spent in a bedroll under the stars, his saddle for a pillow, a meagre fire his only warmth in the freezing darkness of the outback. He'd lain there, staring at the Southern Cross and the great sweep of the Milky Way which touched the earth with lunar light, frosting the red landscape, enhancing the grey of the giant ghost gums – and seen no beauty in any of it. This was not how he'd envisioned his future during those years in the trenches. Not the way heroes should be treated. He was damned if he was going to let a slip of a kid steal what Patrick had promised would be his.

He'd risen at first light, boiled the billy and eaten the last of the mutton and damper bread the cook at Kurrajong had given him. Now it was late afternoon, the sun blinding him as it sank towards the distant mountain that had given Churinga its name.

He hawked phlegm and spat on to the corrugated earth. The Abos called it the charmed place, the protective amulet of stone which had dreamtime power – a Tjuringa. Well, he thought sourly, it held no charm for him, not any more. And the sooner he was rid of it, the better.

His spurs dug into the mare's sides as the first of the barred gates came into view. It was time to assert his rights.

The homestead was visible as he closed the last gate behind him. A wisp of smoke drifted from the chimney and deep shadows bled across the yard as the sun dipped behind the trees. It looked deserted. No ring of an axe, no fussing of sheep or dogs, no black faces peeking from the gunyahs. The shearing must be over, the Sundowners and shearers gone on to the next station.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Matilda must have had enough money hidden away to pay them. He wondered where her new hiding place could be, he'd thought he'd known them all, but after tonight it wouldn't matter. It was time she learned her place and stopped meddling in things which didn't damn well concern her. He would make her tell him. Make her finally accept that he was in charge – and then find a way to take Churinga away from her.

He unsaddled the horse and led it into the home paddock. Hoisting the saddle-bags over his shoulder, he stomped up the steps to the verandah and crashed through the screen door. Rabbit stew simmered on the range, its pungent aroma filling the little house, making his belly grumble.

The silence was oppressive. The shadows almost impenetrable where the light of the kerosene lamp couldn't reach. ‘Where are you, girl? Get out here and help with these bags.'

An almost imperceptible shifting of shadows caught his eye. There she was. Standing by the door to her room – staring at him. Her blue eyes glistened in the meagre light and the halo of hair was burnished in the dying rays of the afternoon sun that trickled through the shutters. It was as if she was made of stone – mute and all-seeing in her condemnation of him.

A ripple of apprehension ran through him. For a moment there, he'd thought it was Mary come to haunt him. But as the girl came into the light, he realised it was only his imagination. ‘What you creeping about for?' His voice was loud in the silence, harsher than he'd intended as he strove to recover from his fright.

Matilda took the saddle-bags in silence and dragged them across the kitchen floor. She unpacked the calico sack of flour and the parcel of sugar and put them in the larder. The candles and matches were stacked above the range and the can of tea placed next to the smoke-stained billy.

Mervyn slapped his slouch hat against his thigh before throwing it in the vague direction of the hooks by the door. He drew the chair from the table, deliberately scraping it across the floor because he could see she'd recently scrubbed it.

There was no reaction, and as he watched her move around the little kitchen, he was once again reminded of her mother. Mary had been a good-looking woman before the illness took her. A bit skinny for his liking, but what she lacked in height and breadth, she made up for in spirit. If she hadn't been so damned arrogant, she'd have made a good wife – and Matilda had all the makings of just such a woman. Perhaps not so forceful, but just as self-assured. Damned O'Connors, he thought. Arrogance was in their blood.

‘Stop messing with that,' he rasped. ‘I want my dinner.'

He felt a squirm of pleasure as she fumbled and almost dropped the precious bag of salt she'd been so carefully tucking into an old tea tin. He slammed a fist on the table for added effect, then laughed as she scurried to ladle the stew into a chipped bowl and spilled some of it on the floor.

‘Now you'll have to clean it again, won't you?' he said nastily.

Matilda brought the bowl of stew to the table and placed it in front of him. Her chin was high and there was colour in her cheeks, but he noticed her self-possession hadn't given her strength enough to look him in the eye.

Mervyn grasped her skinny wrist as he saw Bluey skulk across the kitchen floor and lap at the spilled dinner. ‘What's that bloody animal doing in here? I told you not to let it into the house.'