Matilda's Last Waltz (55 page)

Yet, as she stood there in front of a particularly fine oil painting of an isolated cattle station, she felt that surge of longing return. Life had changed for her since the war. With money in the bank and men to do the hard work, there was time for the things she had neglected. With rising excitement, she walked through the gallery until she came to the counter.

There was such a confusing array of artist's materials set out that it took her a long time to decide but finally she chose a box of watercolours, some fine brushes, pencils, paper and a light easel. Guilt surged through her as she handed over the money and waited for them to be wrapped. This journey was proving to be expensive and self-indulgent.

It took a few minutes to sign the papers and lodge them with the bank for safe-keeping. When she eventually returned to the street, she realised she'd had enough of Broken Hill. The hotel was expensive, the people were strangers, and she missed Churinga. Climbing back into the utility, her shopping loaded up beside her, she headed for home.

At Churinga Matilda settled down to doing the things she had always wanted to do but never had the time for. There were books to be read, clothes to be made on the treadle machine she'd unearthed from one of the barns. A dollop of oil and new needles and it worked like a charm.

Then there was the joy of painting. The pleasure of fine, new paper beneath a brush. The soft sweep of colour that took her away from her day-to-day problems and completely absorbed her.

Matilda eyed her latest effort critically. It was better than she could have hoped she realised, as she studied her impression of how Churinga had once been before the improvements. Who would have guessed that these stubby, work-worn hands could manipulate brush and colour to create such delicate beauty? She grinned with pleasure but knew she had a long way to go to even being to compare her work with that in the gallery.

The clash of gears startled her and she glanced at her watch. The time had flown while she'd been painting. Now Finn was here and she hadn't even started on dinner. She hastily stuffed her brushes in a jam jar of water and took off her apron. The new cotton frock was mercifully clean of paint but her hair was as usual flying in all directions. She pinned it back with clips and grimly eyed herself in the scrap of mirror she'd hung on the wall.

What a sight, she thought. Baked by the sun, freckled and wild-haired, you're beginning to look your age.

Yet, without really knowing why, she'd begun to take care of her appearance since Finn began his visits, making sure her dress was clean and pressed and her shoes polished. Gone were the old moleskins and boots, the felt hat and unbrushed hair. She told herself it was because she was the owner of a wealthy station, and as such, it was only proper for her to appear a lady and not a hoyden. But deep inside she wondered if perhaps it had more to do with Finn's visits than anything else.

He knocked on the door and she called out to him to come in. She looked forward to their evenings together and had meant to try the new recipe she'd found in a magazine but now it was too late. They would have to do with the left-overs of last night's roast.

‘G'day, Finn,' she said as she walked into the room. ‘Caught me on the hop. Time sort of runs out on me when I'm painting.'

‘If that's the reasons, then it's good enough for me. You've really caught the spirit of the old place in this one. I didn't realise how clever you were.'

He turned from the watercolour on the easel and smiled at her. For the first time Matilda noticed the subtle changes in him. His shirts were crisply laundered, his trousers pressed. He'd shaved and cleaned his nails, cut his hair. His efforts to tame the wild Irish curls by plastering them with water were commendable but not particularly successful. But that was all a part of his charm.

She blushed and turned away. ‘Dinner will have to be make-do and mend tonight. I hope you aren't too hungry?'

‘No worries,' he said in his mellow voice, ‘Give me a beer and I'll do the spuds.'

They worked together in silence, and when the meal of cold meat, potatoes and pickles was ready, they ate it in the glow of a kerosene lamp on the verandah. Matilda found herself responding to his gentleness as he described his day with his beloved horses. He was a man in tune with his life and land. As she listened to the deep, melodious voice, she knew these moments were precious. For he was young and handsome and soon he would meet a girl and fall in love, and their friendship would necessarily take a back seat.

She pushed the thought away and took a sip of beer. Perhaps it was time to make him aware of how their innocent friendship was being discussed, give him the chance to back off before it was too late. ‘The gossips are having a field day, you know,' she remarked quietly.

His eyes were dark jewels in the flicker of the lamp light as he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What about?'

‘Your visits here, Finn. Don't tell me you haven't heard them?'

He smiled and shook his head. ‘Never listen to gossip, Molly. Got better things to do with my time.' He paused as he took a drink. ‘Anyway, what business is it of anyone's if I decide to spend my free time on Churinga?'

She laughed. ‘None. But that doesn't stop them. The mothers of the outback are sharpening their claws, Finn. You don't seem to realise you're the object of fevered speculation. The natives are getting restless, they have daughters to marry off.'

Finn laughed and returned to his dinner. ‘Let them fuss and bother, Molly. Gives them something to keep their tiny minds occupied. Besides,' he added, looking into her face, ‘I think I'm old enough to choose who I want to spend my time with – don't you?'

Matilda studied him. It was pleasant to have him here, sharing dinner and the wireless concerts. His company meant a great deal to her after all the years of loneliness, but she could understand why the gossip had started. She was much too old to be keeping company with Finn. He should be out looking for a companion of his own age – a wife.

The thought made her lose her appetite, and the swift, almost painful realisation made her pulse race. How foolish she'd been to encourage his visits! One day he would bring a wife to Wilga and then their close friendship would fade to polite conversation as they passed one another in the fields or in town – and with a sickening jolt of horror she realised she was jealous of this future wife, couldn't bear the thought of his being with someone else, sharing dinners and quiet confidences that up until now had been hers alone.

Matilda sat there in silence, her dinner forgotten as the appalling truth dawned. She had begun to see Finn through the eyes of a woman – and one who was old enough to know better. For what would this young, handsome man ever want with a dried up, middle-aged old maid?

‘Molly? You feeling crook?'

His voice made her jump even though the words had been softly spoken. She looked away, afraid he could read her thoughts in her eyes. The muscles were tight in her face as she forced a smile. ‘Just a bit of indigestion,' she muttered. ‘I'll be right.'

He eyed her for a long moment as she fiddled with her napkin and cutlery. ‘Gossip doesn't worry me, you know, and you shouldn't let it worry you either. Live in Tassie long enough and you'd soon get used to it.'

‘I keep forgetting you don't come from around here,' she said with a lightness she didn't feel. ‘Somehow I think of you as part of this place. You seem so at home here.' Her newfound emotions were troubling and she dropped her gaze swiftly to her glass of beer.

Finn pushed back his chair and crossed his booted feet as he lit a cheroot. ‘I've never really told you much about myself,' have I?' he said finally. ‘We always seem to be discussing the land and the properties, not what really brought us both to this place.'

‘You know most of my history,' she said quietly. ‘But I'd like to know about your life before Wilga.'

He puffed on his cheroot as he stuck his thumbs in his trouser pockets and stared out over the paddocks. ‘Mum and Dad had a small place in the centre of Tassie, called Meander. It's in a vast plain surrounded by mountains and it gets very hot and very cold. We raised horses. I can't remember a time where there weren't horses in my life. That's why, after the war, I decided to take the government's offer to start my own place here.'

She studied him in the lamplight and saw something shadowing his eyes. ‘Why didn't you go back to Tassie and begin again there?'

Finn shifted in his chair, took the cheroot out of his mouth and inspected it closely before flicking the ash into a saucer. ‘Dad died several years back and I kept the place going until Mum passed on. The war came then and I was soon old enough to be called up so I sold everything and put the money into the bank for when I returned. Somehow the place just wasn't the same without Ma.'

Matilda sighed. ‘I know what you mean. I'm sorry if I've pried into things you'd rather not talk about.'

He shrugged. ‘No worries, Molly. The old man was a bit of a bastard, and to be honest it was almost a relief when he went. But Ma … Well, that was different.'

Matilda watched the conflicting emotions flit across his face and in his eyes. Finn rarely talked about his past but tonight he seemed to want to unburden himself of whatever it was that troubled him and she was loath to disturb the thread of his thoughts.

‘You might think that a poor way to think about my dad but, you see, he hated me. I was his only son and wanted to please him, but from the very first I can't remember him ever showing me any affection. It was Ma who encouraged me, made me the man I am now,' he finished quietly.

Silence filled the room as he sat there deep in thought and Matilda conjured up a sudden image of Mervyn. Parents had a lot to answer for – it was a wonder she and Finn had grown up at all.

‘After Dad died, I understood the reason behind his coldness,' he began again. ‘You see, I wasn't his son. It was only years later, when Ma was dying, that she told me. I was adopted. But somehow I think deep down I'd already suspected as much. Yet it no longer seemed to matter once it was just me and Ma. She was a good mother and I loved her very much.'

‘What about your real parents? Were you never curious?'

‘Nah. Ma died before she could tell me more and I never bothered to try and find out. Mum was Mum. The only one I had and the only one I wanted. She was a good woman. After she died, I thought about joining the priesthood. It was something she, as a Catholic, had always wanted and hoped for, but I loved the land too much and the freedom of working with horses.'

He grinned. ‘I reckoned I'd be doing the Lord's work better by devoting my life to that rather than being cloistered in a brotherhood.'

Matilda saw the light in his eyes and realised this was a new side to Finn she would never have suspected and it made her uneasy. ‘Religion's not for me,' she said carefully. ‘Too many things have happened in this world for me to believe in an all-forgiving, all-loving God.'

After looking at her for a long moment, he sighed. ‘I take your point. The war was an eye opener for me too. My faith was put to the ultimate test time after time. It's hard to believe in God when you're surrounded by carnage and the death of your closest mates.'

He stubbed out his cheroot. ‘But my faith is a part of me. A very personal part. I'm not about to spout religion or try to convert you, I just want to live my life as best I can.' He grinned. ‘I don't know why I'm telling you all this. You must think I'm some kind of religious nut or at best a whinger. Sorry.'

Matilda leaned across the table and took his hands. ‘Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me how you feel,' she said gently.

He didn't pull away but began to stroke her fingers. ‘You're easy to talk to, Molly. Somehow I knew you'd understand.'

She swallowed the lump in her throat and wished she could stroke back the dark curls that fell over his forehead. Wished she could take him in her arms and hold him until the shadows faded from his eyes. The war had a lot to answer for and she regretted not having his kind of faith.

Then reason took over and she snatched her hand away and busied herself with the dishes. What on earth was she doing? she thought furiously. Pull yourself together, woman, have you lost every grain of sense you ever possessed?

Dumping the dishes in the sink, she turned on the radio and waited for it to warm up. ‘You mustn't bury yourself out on Wilga, Finn,' she said gruffly. ‘There's a good social life to be had out there, and it's time you had some fun.'

A beautiful Strauss waltz drifted from the wireless and filled the silence which had fallen between them.

‘You're being very wise for someone who rarely leaves Churinga. Why have you never gone to the dances and parties? How come you never married?'

‘I've been too busy,' she said shortly. ‘Besides, I don't need a man to make my life complete.'

Finn was swiftly beside her, his warm hands covering hers as he turned her to face him. ‘Why is there so much anger in you, Molly? Who hurt you so badly that you shut yourself away out here?'

Matilda tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She glanced up at him, the top of her head barely reaching his chest. They had never been this close before and it was doing strange things to her insides.

‘I'm not angry,' she said breathlessly. ‘Merely settled in my ways. You seem to forget, Finn, I'm an old woman and it's too late for me to change.'

‘You didn't answer my question, Molly,' he said softly. He put a finger beneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. ‘Something happened to make you hide. Why don't you trust me enough to tell me?'

Some things she couldn't tell him. Didn't have the courage. She swallowed, then after a hesitant start found the words began to flow in an almost never-ending stream as she related some of her past. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She looked up at him, a silent plea in her eyes for him to understand and not question her further.