Matilda's Last Waltz (54 page)

‘That was some story,' muttered Diane.

Jenny nodded. ‘It explains a lot. Mervyn must have suspected Matilda wasn't his child – that was why he did what he did. Out of spite.'

Diane yawned. ‘I don't know about you, Jen, but I've got a headache. Time for bed.'

Jenny agreed. The storm and the gin were having the same effect on her. The last of the diaries would have to wait until morning.

*   *   *

Brett had not been surprised to see Helen drive into Churinga. After all, he reasoned, if there was to be a wedding, she would be the one to make all the arrangements. But he was surprised she had come alone. Ethan might be an old man and confined to a wheelchair, but this wedding was the culmination of years of plotting and Brett was puzzled that he hadn't made sure he was in at the death. How he must be rubbing his hands at the thought of finally getting Churinga into the family.

The day had dragged on, the work around the station making it necessary for Brett to remain close to the homestead. He watched the women surreptitiously as they ate on the verandah, and although he could hear their laughter and chatter, was never close enough to overhear what they were discussing so earnestly. Yet he suspected a plot was being hatched, a wedding being planned. As soon as Helen left he would face Jenny and hand in his notice. There was no point in staying once Squires owned the place.

He found it almost unbearable to be around the homestead and finally managed to escape to the paddocks, but his mind wasn't really on what he was meant to do. Jennifer was different from any other girl he had met and Brett acknowledged sadly that even after three months she was still a mystery to him. They had sparred with words and gestures to begin with but he'd sensed a gradual change in her and in himself. The night of the dance had been his chance to make his feelings known.

Yet he'd blown it because he'd lacked the courage to speak to her. He'd been afraid of rejection. Afraid that his mates' taunting gibes of making up to the boss had reached her, and she would think the same.

His smile was bitter as he turned the horse towards home. The rejection had still come – had been far more painful because of the distance she had put between them. Lorraine wasn't helping either, and her recent behaviour did nothing to ease his conscience. She'd made herself look cheap by sleeping with one of the stockmen in the bungalow he'd shared on the night of the dance. It had been impossible to stay there with all that noise coming from the other man's room and Brett had been made all too aware the next morning that she'd done it out of spite.

He thought of how he'd taken a bed-roll and bunked in with the horses. Of how she'd come creeping into the stall at first light and told him what a great time she'd had. Then how she'd cursed and reproached him before tottering back out.

His sigh was deep. It was time to move on. Jenny would soon be married and Squires would put his own men on Churinga. The little sheep station in Queensland was beginning to look an attractive alternative.

He looked up at the looming sky and watched the heavy clouds roll. There was one hell of a storm brewing, he'd better make sure the mob was secure and that the penned animals couldn't break loose. One bolt of lightning and he'd have bloody woollies everywhere.

It was dark when he finally returned to the homestead. The Holden was gone, and the lights were out. The thought of handing in his notice depressed him.

‘Jeez, Brett,' he muttered. ‘You're getting to be a bloody old whinge. For Christ's sake, pull yourself together,' he muttered crossly as he rubbed down the horse and headed for his bungalow.

Slamming the door behind him, he threw himself on to the bed and stared at the ceiling. If the storm hit in the night there wouldn't be much sleep for anyone, but he doubted he would sleep anyway. All he could see was Jenny's face, and no matter how much he tossed and turned, the image refused to fade.

Chapter Nineteen

The deep, menacing growl of thunder finally woke Jenny up. Her sleep had already been disturbed by dreams and images from the past. They paraded before her, faces indistinct and voices unintelligible.

She lay there for a while, hoping the images would fade. Yet even as they drifted away with the final tendrils of sleep, she could still feel their presence. They seemed to be all around her. Hiding in the shadows. Hovering close to her bed. Entwined in the very fabric of the old building.

Jenny swung her legs out of bed and padded into the kitchen. Her nightshirt was soaked with perspiration. The temperature was high even though it was a winter midnight and the thunder rolled mercilessly on over the land as if in search of a place to rest.

Lightning forked in yellow veins across the black sky. She shivered. She had always hated storms ever since her first foster father had locked her in a barn and left her there for the night. She'd been terrified as the storm gathered overhead and shook the earth and had screamed to be let out. It was only the threat of fire that had sent his wife to rescue her, and ever since then storms had a way of bringing back that terror.

Reaching for the remains of the lemonade, she took a long drink. Yet it couldn't quench her thirst, or cool her, for the heat seemed to have lodged deep within and nothing could touch it. With restless energy, she wandered through the house.

She could feel Matilda walking beside her but her presence neither soothed nor unsettled Jenny. The memories of the past were too vivid for that – the haunting refrain of the waltz too familiar.

The storm seemed to be growing nearer, the heat pressing down like a great weight, and after a sluice in tepid, murky water, Jenny returned to the bedroom and lay exhausted on top of the covers. The windows were open, only the screens keeping out the bugs, and the night sounds of the outback drifted in beneath the rumble of thunder.

She lay there thinking about what Helen had told her, and finally reached for the last of the diaries. The pieces of the jigsaw of Matilda's life and times were almost in place and, although she doubted she could concentrate with the elements fighting overhead, Jenny was ready to finish the story.

*   *   *

Churinga was at last making a profit. After discussing it with Finn, Matilda decided to seek help in investing that profit for the future. Life out here was uncertain, feast or famine, and after the drudgery of the war years she was determined not to return to grinding poverty.

After a series of letters to and from the business adviser at the Bank of Australia in Broken Hill, Matilda decided to make the long journey and discuss her business face to face with him. She was used to dealing with men who understood the pitfalls of life in the outback and had no idea how the city folk conducted their business.

The thought of having to deal with such an important issue as the future of Churinga with a stranger made her uneasy.

This was the first time she'd left the familiar surroundings of Wallaby Flats and Churinga. Although Finn had offered to come with her, Matilda had declined. She had managed alone this far, she was damned if she was going to let a little thing like this beat her.

It took several days of careful driving on the new highway to reach Broken Hill. At night, as she lay rolled in a blanket on the flat-bed, she rehearsed what she would say to the adviser, Geoffrey Banks.

His office was on the second floor of an elegant Victorian building that Matilda guessed had once been a private house. Fronted by a white colonnade, it was surrounded by well-tended gardens where smartly dressed women sat on benches under the shade of flowering gum trees.

Feeling a little awkward in her new shoes and summer dress, she squashed her hat firmly over her recalcitrant hair and climbed the steps.

Geoffrey Banks was young, with a firm handshake and a pleasant smile. Matilda watched him for signs of duplicity as he told her he understood her problems at Churinga, but when he mentioned that it was his brother who owned Nulla Nulla, her anxiety faded.

It took some time to settle upon a portfolio of investments but finally it was done and Geoffrey poured her a glass of sherry. He eyed her over his glass for a moment then said thoughtfully. ‘Have you considered drawing up a will, Miss Thomas?'

Matilda was startled. It was something which had never occurred to her. ‘Not much point,' she said. ‘No one to leave the property to when I've gone.'

He leaned his elbows on the desk. There was a twinkle in his eye that might have been interpreted as flirtation if Matilda hadn't known better. ‘You're still a young and, may I say, attractive woman, Miss Thomas. Who knows what the future might bring? I suggest that unless you want the government to take over your property when you pass on, you put the whole estate into trust for your heirs – just as your mother and grandmother did before you.'

Matilda eyed him sternly. Who did he think he was, getting fresh with a woman old enough to be his mother? ‘There are no heirs,' she said firmly. ‘And I don't see my life changing.'

‘I understand, Miss Thomas,' he said carefully. ‘But I really do advise you to reconsider. Life has a habit of catching us out, and who knows? You might yet wish to get married, even have a family. If you die intestate, then that family will have to fight in the courts to attain what is their rightful inheritance. Now you wouldn't want that, would you?'

Matilda thought of Ethan and Andrew, and of the way the Squires family had always wanted to get their hands on Churinga. If what he said was true, then the minute she died, they would pounce. She looked back at Geoffrey Banks. He had the cheek of the devil but even though she was likely to remain a spinster, Matilda could see what he was getting at.

‘It probably won't make much difference one way or another but I suppose it wouldn't hurt,' she said finally. ‘What do I have to do?'

Geoffrey Banks smiled. ‘First, we have to decide who you want to inherit Churinga. Do you have anyone in mind?'

She stared off into the distance. Her way of life had left her with few friends and no relatives. She and April wrote to each other but somehow Matilda could feel a distancing between them and as the years passed it had become harder to find things to write about. Their lives were different now, with April living in the city and working in an office among smart, sophisticated people who sounded so interesting after the parochial blinkered people of the outback. April's children would be well taken care of when their grandparents passed on and Matilda doubted they would want to return to the outback anyway.

If she was to keep Churinga out of Squires' hands, then she had to find someone she could trust.

She thought for a moment then came to a decision that surprised her. Yet, as she examined the idea more closely, she realised it made perfect sense. She had been very wary of Finn McCauley when he'd first arrived, but as the months passed realised she had grown to like him and to value his friendship. Despite his youth and his handsome appearance, he was a quiet, almost shy man, who loved the land and was reticent with strangers. Yet he seemed at ease with her, making the three-hour drive to Churinga from Wilga at least once a week, and Matilda had fallen into the habit of cooking a special dinner for them both every Saturday night. After the meal they would listen to the wireless or talk about the week's work then he would leave as quietly as he'd come.

She smiled to herself as she thought of their deepening friendship and the trust which had been forged through it. He was bound to find himself a wife eventually but it would be nice to think she could leave Churinga to someone who would take care of it.

But he must never know what I've done, she told herself silently. I don't want our friendship tainted.

‘I want Churinga to go to Finbar McCauley of Wilga station,' she said finally. ‘And to be held in trust for his heirs.'

Geoffrey didn't question her decision and soon they were shaking hands. ‘The papers will be typed and ready for you to sign in a couple of hours, Miss Thomas. It has been a pleasure to meet you at last.'

Matilda smiled up at him and left the office. She was pleased with the way things had turned out and those two hours would give her time to look around Broken Hill.

She walked along the parade of shops and stared in awe at their windows. Everything was so sophisticated here compared to the ramshackle ordinariness of the shops in Wallaby Flats. Her cotton dress looked drab beside the gowns that hung upon the plaster manequins, and although she knew she would probably regret it, she couldn't resist buying three new dresses, a pair of trousers, a jacket and some new readymade curtains for the bedroom.

But it was the underwear that astounded her. She had never imagined women wore such fine things next to their skin. The cloth was soft and slippery and melted between her fingers like butter. And the colours … So many to choose from after the plain white cotton of the catalogue underwear she usually bought.

Her spirits rose as for the first time in many years Matilda began to have fun.

Loaded with parcels, she finally retraced her steps back to the utility. As she passed the broad, inviting window of the art gallery, she hesitated, intrigued by the bright posters advertising an exhibition.

The only paintings she had seen since she was a child, were in books and magazines she'd borrowed from the travelling library. This was a chance she might never have again.

She paid her sixpence and stepped into a world of outback colour and Aboriginal folklore. The sight of so many paintings took her breath away. The richness of their colour and the clarity with which the artists conveyed the world she knew pricked something deep inside and she recognised it as a longing to be able to create such beauty for herself.

There had been a time, long ago, when she had spent hours watching her mother paint. Watercolours of the landscape of Churinga, and the birds and animals which inhabited it, seemed to appear like magic on Mary's paper and Matilda had been fascinated. It was a gift her mother had passed down to her, but since her death there had been no time for child's play – and her need for beauty had been fulfilled by the sight of her sheep, fat and healthy in the fields.