Matilda's Last Waltz (34 page)

He almost turned to John and demanded they go back to the airfield – but reason took over, keeping him silent. Regardless of his fears over Jenny, John had to be his first priority. There had to be some way of persuading him to leave the cane, if only for a break. He would achieve nothing by returning home so soon.

‘Deep in thought there, Brett. Problems?' John had one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the window.

‘Nothing I can't handle,' he said shortly.

John chuckled as he swung the truck into the parking bay of a ramshackle building that called itself a hotel. ‘Oh, you mean a woman?' He switched off the engine and turned to face his younger brother. ‘Love 'em and leave 'em, bruv. They tie a man down, make demands on his time and his money. You take my advice, mate, travel alone. It's quicker.'

‘Not as simple as that,' Brett mumbled, reaching for his bag. John had always had little regard for women, and his attitude was already beginning to grate.

‘I'd have thought you learned your lesson with that wife of yours. What was her name? Merna? Martha?'

‘Marlene,' Brett said flatly. ‘This one's different.'

John hawled phlegm and spat. ‘All cats are black in the dark, Brett. Take it from one who knows.'

‘One night stands don't interest me. I want a wife, children, a place of my own.'

John eyed him scornfully. ‘You tried that before. It didn't work. Reckon you'd be better off with that barmaid you mentioned last time we spoke. Seems a willing sort, and you wouldn't have to marry her.'

‘Lorraine's good company, but that's as far as it goes.' He thought of her and of the way she'd been angling for more than friendship. He'd been stupid not to put a stop to it. Arrogant in thinking he could have things as he wanted them without committing himself. Of course she'd wanted more from him. More than he'd been willing to give. ‘You're wrong about the marriage part, John. I reckon she sees me as a meal ticket out of Wallaby Flats.'

His brother grimaced. ‘Could be right, mate. Most women want something from a bloke. Now come on, I need a beer.' He winced as he shoved open the door and climbed out. His face was grey with pain and dewed with sweat.

Brett knew better than to offer to help, so he followed the shambling figure across the parking lot and up the steps to the front door. It was all very well for John to spout his dubious wisdom, he thought. His life was already tied to the cane, which was far more demanding than any woman. Only he would never see it like that so there was no point in arguing.

The hotel was perched on stilts halfway up a hill. Surrounded by tropical trees and bright creeping flowers and vines, its verandahs and open windows caught the slightest of breezes. The air was less humid, up here in the hills, but the smell of the molasses was still strong as it wafted up from the refinery chimneys in the valley.

Brett followed his brother along the cracked linoleum in the dim passageway to the uncarpeted stairs. John threw open the door of his room and collapsed on the old iron bed. ‘Beers are in the fridge,' he said wearily.

Brett grimaced as he took in the room he'd be sharing with his brothers. Even the jackaroos on Churinga had better accommodation than this. There were three beds, a side table, no curtains, no carpet, bare light bulb. The paint was peeling, mould grew in the corners, dust lay inches thick on everything, and the bedding looked as if it hadn't been washed for months. A ceiling fan squeaked listlessly and the fly papers obviously hadn't been renewed for weeks. He dropped his bag on the nearest bed and opened the fridge. The sooner he could persuade John out of this hell hole, the sooner he could take the plane back to Maryborough.

The beer was ice cold, burning his mouth and throat, freezing his taste buds, sending a jolt of pain into his head as he swallowed. But nothing had ever quenched his thirst so well, or brought relief from this torpid heat so instantly. He drained the bottle, dumped it into the overflowing garbage can and uncapped another. Stripped to his shorts, boots and socks kicked to the floor, he collapsed on the bed. As fast as the beer cooled him, he sweated it out. He was exhausted.

‘Why the hell do you live like this, John, when you know it's killing you?' Brett was deliberately blunt, because diplomacy was a foreign language to John.

His brother lay supine on the grubby mattress, his thin arms beneath his head. ‘'Cos it's the only life I know and I'm good at it.' He rolled painfully on to his side, his parchment pale face animated, high spots of colour on his sharp cheekbones. ‘There's nothing can beat the feeling of knowing you're king of the cane. I can still cut with the fastest of them, and although I'm a bit skinny at the moment, I ain't beat. A couple more weeks and I'll be right. We all get crook, it's part of the life. But there ain't nothing like living with a bunch of cobbers, working your bollocks off and seeing the money build up in the bank.'

‘What's the point of all that money if you aren't gonna use it? You been talking about owning your own place for years. Why don't you get out while you can, buy your own place, retire and let some other mug do the work?'

John sank back into the pillows. ‘Nah. Place I want will take all Davey and I got, and more. Should be about there in a coupla years.'

‘Bullshit! You sound just like Dad. There won't be a place for you and Davey, John, and you know it. Just another bunkhouse, another rundown hotel, until you get too old and sick to work. All that money you've been saving will be eaten up with hospital bills.'

John seemed untouched by his younger brother's outburst. ‘Remember me telling you about that place at Mossman? Real nice it is, with a house and everything. I reckon me and Davey'd be just fine there if we could get the bucks together.'

‘How much do you need? I'll stake you the shortfall if it means getting you out of the fields.'

‘Thanks for the offer, but me and Davey can manage without your handouts.' John finished his beer and reached for another.

Brett noticed how his hand shook, and the painful way he swallowed. This was a very sick man, and although he probably had more money tucked away than Brett could imagine, his stupid pride would never let him leave the fields until he dropped down dead. The offer of part of Brett's own savings would have meant his dream of a sheep station would never be fulfilled – but it would have been worth it to see John well and strong again.

He eyed his brother for a long moment. The years between them and the great distance of their separate lives had made them strangers. If someone had asked, Brett couldn't have told them what John felt about anything other than the cane. His life was a mystery, neither of them understanding the pull of the other's different ambitions, neither acknowledging their mutual estrangement. His reason for coming this year was obvious. But why had he come all those other years? The ties of blood were tenuous – almost at breaking point – and yet something drew him back to the roots he despised. Something intangible and ultimately frustrating.

His thoughts were shattered by the crash of the door and before he could escape he was almost flattened by Davey. Laughing and choking, Brett tried to fight him off but his brother had a stranglehold on him that was unbreakable.

‘Okay, okay,' he yelled. ‘I give in. For Christ's sake, let go of me, you wowser.'

Davey disentangled himself and pulled Brett to his feet and into a bear hug. ‘How are ya, mate? Jeez, it's good to see you. This miserable old bludger won't wrestle, just lays around all day feeling sorry for hisself.'

Brett grinned. Nothing about Davey ever changed but his size. Taller by two inches, his shoulders and chest broader than ever, his arms were muscled, his skin tanned. At least the cane hadn't begun to wither him.

Brett's own wiry strength was no match and only the promise of beer brought an end to the friendly tussle. ‘Look a bit crook there, Davey,' he teased.

‘Bugger off.' his brother grinned. ‘Bet I'm stonger than you.'

Brett had only just caught his breath from the last bout of wrestling. He held up his hands. ‘Too hot for all that. I believe you. Have another beer.'

Davey drained the second bottle and reached for a third before collapsing on the end of Brett's bed. ‘So. What's life like out in the Never Never where men are men and the sheep are nervous?'

Brett raised his eyes to the ceiling. It was an old joke. ‘Might have to leave Churinga soon. New owner's turned up,' he said nonchalantly.

Davey eyed him over the lip of the beer bottle. ‘Tough going, mate,' he said finally. ‘This mean you'll be coming home?'

‘Not bloody likely! Cane's not for me. Never has been. Reckon I'll have to find another station, that's all.' Now Brett's thoughts were out in the open they were more painful than ever but he knew better than to whinge to his brothers.

John plumped the damp pillows and dragged himself up the bed. Sweat beaded his skin and Brett could hear the rattle in his lungs as he fought for breath. ‘What's yer new boss like? Mean bastard, is he?'

Brett shook his head, reluctant to discuss Jenny. ‘It's a woman,' he said flatly. Then rapidly changed the subject. ‘How about another beer? I've sweated the last few out,' he finished in a rush.

Davey's eyes were round with shock, but it was John who grimaced and voiced their opinion. ‘Strewth! No wonder you want to leave, with a bloody woman in charge. Tough luck, cobber. Have another beer. We're wasting good drinking time talking.'

Brett took the beer, thankful that neither of his brothers wanted to know more and yet disappointed they weren't even interested in his problems.

*   *   *

John seemed to be pulling through. Hanging on to life with grim determination against all the odds. And yet Brett knew this could be the last time he would see him. His coming here had been a mistake – he'd achieved nothing – and John would just go on until he dropped. Yet the cutters knew how to have a good time, admitted Brett after ten days of solid drinking and carousing. The bagpipes had howled far into the night for the dancing, the beer had flowed in gallons, the fights had been legendary and his hangover seemed to have taken up permanent residence behind his eyes.

He rolled out of bed on that last day, looked at himself in the fly-blown mirror and grimaced. The diagnosis was worse than he'd thought. It even hurt to shave and comb his hair.

After a breakfast of stewed tea, fatty bacon and over-fried eggs, he climbed into the truck with his brothers. ‘Ready?' Davey's expression was serious for once, making him look older, more careworn.

Brett nodded. This pilgrimage was probably the real reason for his visit – the only tie that truly bound him to this place.

The little wooden church nestled in a deep, green valley where palm trees provided umbrella shade from the blistering sun and the lush rainforest crept right up to the clapboard walls. The garden of rest was a carefully tended oasis against the backdrop of riotous wilderness, the marble headstones and crude crosses glimmering in the sun, lined in regimental order over several acres. This was how the cane repaid those who worked it.

Brett knelt by the twin slabs of marble and placed the bunch of flowers they'd brought in the stone urn. Then he joined his brothers and stood in silence as each of them remembered their parents.

His own thoughts returned to his mother. She'd been small and slim, but with a steely inner strength that he now understood had been born of necessity. She'd been a kind and loving mum, despite the poverty and daily grind to make ends meet, and he still missed her, still wished he could talk to her. She was the rock on which their family had been built and now she was gone, that foundation had crumbled.

He looked at his father's headstone. The cane had taken him, just as it had so many of those buried here – just as it would John and Davey if they didn't leave. Dad had been a stranger during their childhood. A man who, most of the time, remembered to send a money order. He'd followed the cutters up north and lived in barracks and flop houses, preferring the company of his cobbers to that of his wife and children. To his older sons he'd been a hero. But to Brett and Gil, he'd remained an enigma.

Brett's memory of him as a young man was vague, but seeing Davey again was a reminder of the strong, boisterous presence that had punctuated their lives. Yet his only true memory was of a wizened old man gasping for breath between sweat-soaked sheets, and the deathly hush in the house as they waited for him to die.

It was only in maturity that Brett had come to understand the strong bond between his parents. The cane was all his father knew and his mother had accepted that because she loved him. Together they had forged a kind of living in the humid hell of the north to raise their kids as well as they could. After Dad had died, Mum just seemed to give up. It was as if she'd lost the will to fight on without him. Her boys no longer needed her, now she could finally rest.

Brett turned away and walked out of the churchyard. It was time to leave the north. The mountains were shutting out the sky, the rainforests closing in, the heat too stifling to endure. He yearned for wide open spaces and the dust of a mob of sheep, wilga trees and ghost gums against pale green grass. Churinga – and Jenny.

Back at the hotel, he threw his clothes into his bag and ordered a taxi. John had insisted upon going to the refinery with Davey today, despite his hacking cough and poor condition, and Brett knew there was nothing he could do to stop him.

‘Time I was gone,' Brett said to John as he drew him into an awkward embrace. He saw the grimace of pain, heard the sharp intake of breath and the rattle in his lungs. ‘Go see a quack. Spend some of that damn money on proper medicine. And take a break,' he said gruffly.

John pulled away. ‘I ain't no bludger,' he growled. ‘Won't catch me pullin' a sickie just 'cos I got a bit of a cough.'