Matilda's Last Waltz (62 page)

‘You were a poor little scrap. Yelling for your mother's breast and filling the house with your noise. Your poor father was heartbroken and at his wit's end.'

The silence was almost tangible as he paused for breath. Jenny was only half aware of Diane's hand gripping hers. Images from the diary were coming alive, parading before her, tearing her apart. And yet his voice would not be stilled.

‘We buried your mother in the little cemetery on Churinga. And it was right she should be laid to rest with prayers and holy water. She had not knowingly sinned – was more sinned against. I stayed on for a few days to help Finn. He needed someone to see him through that most terrible of times.'

The priest fell silent as if lost in his memories. The only sound in the room was the rattle of air in his lungs as he breathed.

The tears were hot against Jenny's chilled face but the compulsion to know everything had grown even stronger. ‘Go on, Father,' she urged. ‘Tell me the rest.'

‘Finn read the diaries.' He turned his blind gaze towards her and tried to sit up. ‘Finn was a God-fearing man. A good man. But reading those diaries so close after her death turned his mind. It was his darkest hour. Far darker than any battlefield. He told me everything. 'Tis a terrible sight to see a man destroyed and to have to watch as his spirit's crushed. There was nothing I could do but pray for him.'

The image this conjured up was too painful to bear. Jenny fought hard to maintain control. Give in now and she would be lost.

The old priest rested back on his pillows, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I've never felt so helpless in my life. You see, Finn couldn't believe that God would forgive him. And that's what finally destroyed him.'

The door opened and the nun stood on the threshold, arms folded, face grim. Jenny glared at her – wanting her gone – needing to hear the rest of the old man's story, knowing it could only bring pain.

‘It's time for you to leave. I won't have Father upset.'

Father Ryan seemed to have found an inner strength. He raised himself on his pillows and shouted, ‘You'll shut that door and leave me with my visitors.'

The austere expression faltered into confusion. ‘But Father…'

‘But nothing, woman. I have important things to discuss. Now go. Go.'

The nun eyed each of them with cold fury, then sniffed and shut the door rather too firmly on her way out.

‘That one will never learn humility,' he muttered as he reached for Jenny's hand. ‘Now, where was I?' His breath wheezed in his chest as he collected his thoughts.

Jenny couldn't answer him. She was in an agony of bewilderment and disbelief.

‘Finbar sat for hours holding you. I hoped it would bring him some kind of peace. But Matilda had left him a letter telling him to take you away from Churinga and he desperately wanted to do the right thing.'

The priest patted her hand and smiled. ‘He loved you very much, Jennifer. I hope that's a comfort to you.'

She squeezed his hand. It was a gesture that helped them both, and with it came the realisation that his words had indeed brought a degree of comfort to the torment of the past few minutes. ‘Yes, Father,' she murmured finally. ‘I think it is.' She wiped away the tears and squared her shoulders. ‘But I need to know what happened next!'

The priest sighed and a tear slowly trickled down his own sunken cheek. ‘Your father drew up a will and I witnessed it. He spoke to the manager of the Bank of Australia in Sydney and arranged for Churinga to be held in trust for you until your twenty-fifth birthday. Then, against my advice, he called in the manager of Wilga and arranged for him to take over.'

He grasped Jenny's hand tightly and she leaned towards him – dreading what was to come, but knowing she must hear it all if she was to understand anything of what her father had wanted for her.

‘I had no idea what was going through his mind, Jennifer. No idea at all. He wouldn't listen, you see, and not even prayer could make him see reason. I failed as a priest and as a man. There was nothing I could do but stand by and watch him destroy everything he and your mother had built between them.'

‘Destroy? You mean he wanted to destroy Churinga?' Jenny leaned forward and stroked back the wisps of hair from the old forehead and wiped away his tears.

‘No.' The priest's voice was bitter. ‘He wanted to keep it for you. He destroyed himself. Destroyed your life and any hope he might have had of making a home for you.'

‘How did he do that, Father?' she whispered, already suspecting the answer.

‘He decided to take you to Waluna. To the orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy where your identity would be concealed by a new name. The only link with Churinga was your mother's locket which he gave to the nuns for safe-keeping until you came into your inheritance. I tried to stop him but no words could reach him by this time. I had to watch him drive away with you in a basket on the seat beside him.' Father Ryan sniffed and blew his nose. ‘If only I'd known what he was planning to do, maybe I could have stopped him. But hindsight makes fools of us all.' He faded into silence.

So that was how Peter had come by the locket. His research had taken him to Waluna and the orphanage. Jenny looked at the priest through fresh tears. He was old and tired and the burden he'd carried for so long had exhausted him. She sat back in the chair, his frail hand still cradled in her own as she tried to imagine that last journey with her father. What terrible things had been going through his mind? How had he been able to hand her over, knowing he might never see her again?

The priest's voice startled her from her thoughts, bringing her back to the cheerless room.

‘I went back to Wallaby Flats. My conscience was bothering me, and for the first time in my adult life, my faith deserted me. What good was I as a priest when I couldn't find the right words to help a man in torment? What good was I as a man when I'd never known what it was to love a woman – or have to make a decision about my child? I had failed on both counts. I spent many hours on my knees but the peace I had always found in prayer seemed to elude me.'

Jenny felt a sickening plunge in her stomach as she waited for the old priest to put into words what she dreaded hearing.

‘I wrote to Waluna and they told me you'd arrived, and that your father had arranged for money to be paid regularly into their account for your keep and well-being. I asked after you but all they would say was you were thriving. I kept up a regular correspondence with them over the years but they never told me much. You see, my child, I felt responsible for you. If I'd been strong enough in my faith, I could have stopped your father from committing the greatest sin of all.'

Here it comes, she thought. I don't want to hear. I don't want to believe it – yet it's inevitable.

‘Finn went missing shortly after you were left at Waluna. I thought perhaps he'd gone walkabout to try and recapture some sense of peace in isolation. In a way it was a relief because I'd feared something far worse…'

The spark of hope died in the cold reality of his next words.

‘A couple of drovers found him out in the bush and called the police. Luckily I had some influence. After they'd established his identity, I managed to persuade the police to keep it hushed up. It wasn't difficult. The drovers were only passing through, and the police didn't care one way or the other – they weren't local, you see.'

He patted her hand, his old face creased with concern. ‘I knew you'd come back one day, Jennifer, and I didn't want your future tainted by what happened. But I suppose you've already guessed, haven't you?'

‘Yes,' she said softly. ‘But I'd like you to tell me anyway. It's better to know it all, then there's no room for doubt.'

He rolled his head against the pillow. ‘'Twas a terrible thing that he did, Jennifer. A mortal sin in the eyes of the church – and yet, as a man, I could understand why he did it. He had driven into the bush and turned his own gun on himself. The coroner said he must have been there for six months or more before the drovers found him. But I knew when he'd done it. It must have been the day he left you at Waluna. He'd planned it all along.'

Jenny thought about the loneliness of her father's death. Of the torment and pain such a gentle, religious man must have gone through to drive out into the middle of nowhere and put a gun to his own head. She dropped her face into her hands and gave in to the anguish.

Yet the tears weren't for herself alone, but for her parents who'd paid such a terrible price for falling in love, and for the priest who'd carried the burden of his loss of faith to this cheerless place where he would end his days, never knowing what he could have done to prevent such a tragedy.

When the tears finally ran dry and Jenny felt more in control, she looked once again at the old priest. He seemed very grey against the whiteness of the sheets and pillows – as if his life-force had been spent in the effort of relieving his burden.

‘Father Ryan, I want you to believe you couldn't have done more. I've returned to Churinga strong and healthy, and because of my mother's diaries I now know my parents wanted only the best for me. I've come to love them through you, and the diaries, and to understand why my life began as it did. You have nothing to feel guilty about and I'm sure your God is waiting to welcome you with open arms. You're a good, kind man. I wish there were more like you. God bless you, and thank you.'

She leaned over the bed and kissed his cheek before cradling him in her arms. Their tears intermingled as their heads rested together on the pillows. He was so frail and she wanted to find the right words to comfort him, but she knew his redemption could come only from the restoration of his faith.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Father? Anything you need?' she said finally.

‘No, my child,' he whispered painfully. ‘I can die peacefully now in the knowledge some good has come out of the tragedy. On your way out, would you ask Sister if Father Patrick could come and see me? I think it's time I made my last confession.'

Jennifer gripped his hand. ‘Father, don't let go now. I'll stay here in Broken Hill and visit you every day. I'll bring you fruit and little treats, keep Sister off your back. Anything.'

The priest smiled. It was a gentle, sweet smile. ‘'Tis time, my child. Life is a circle and you have returned where you belong. As we all return eventually. Now go and get on with your life and leave an old man to his confessor.'

Jenny kissed the gnarled hand. ‘Goodbye then, Father. God bless you.'

‘God bless you, child,' he whispered as he lay back against the pillows. Then his eyes closed and his face became serene.

‘He hasn't…?'

‘No, Diane. He's just sleeping,' said Jenny softly.

‘Come on, you two, let's get out of here,' hissed Helen. ‘I'll look for the dragon lady, you wait for me in the ute.'

Jenny took the keys and she and Diane began the long walk down the silent corridors. She could hear their footsteps on the polished wood. They made a lonely sound, echoing the emptiness in her heart.

As they stepped out into the fragile sunlight, she looked up at the lowering sky. How she wished she could turn the clock back to the time of ignorance. What good was her inheritance when it had been forged in deception and betrayal? How was she supposed to live now, with the knowledge that her father had died by his own hand and her mother of a broken heart?

Sister Michael had been right all along. She was a freak. A bastard born from an unholy union, with the Devil's mark on her foot to prove it.

Blindly she clambered into the utility. ‘It's all so unfair,' she choked. ‘Why, Diane? Why did it have to happen to them – to me?'

‘I don't know, darling. For once in my life I can't find the words you need me to say. I'm so sorry.'

‘I need to be alone, Diane. Please try and understand.'

Jenny stared out of the window as her friend went back into the rest home but saw nothing through the tears. John Wainwright had lied – he'd known all about the trust fund, known about her real identity. He just didn't have the balls to tell her. Peter must have known too. That was why Churinga had been kept such a secret. Why she hadn't been able to inherit until her birthday. Secrets and lies. What a tangled web they'd woven.

Pain turned to rage, then sorrow. She lost all sense of time and place as she stared through her tears out of the window. Then the faint, distant chords of an orchestra drifted back to her and she thought she could see a woman in a green dress, waltzing with her handsome husband. They were smiling at each other, lost in happiness.

Just before they faded into the great stretch of the outback, they turned towards her and Matilda whispered: ‘This is my last waltz, darling. Just for you.'

Jenny collapsed over the steering wheel as her redemption came. It cleaned deep and began to heal the wounds.

When she finally dragged herself back to reality, she realised she'd been given a choice. Matilda and Finn had died in the hope the past would be buried so that she could take over the running of Churinga and bring new life and a brighter future to the land they had worked with such love. She could either fulfil their dream or turn her back and run away to Sydney.

The words of the old Aborigine came back to her.

‘The first man said to the first woman, “Do you travel alone?”

‘And the first woman replied, “Yes.”

‘The first man took her hand. “Then you will be my wife and we will travel together.”'

Jenny sat very still. She finally understood what her decision must be. She loved Brett and couldn't imagine Churinga without him. Despite all that had happened between them, she would tell him how she felt. If he really didn't care for her, she would have to travel alone for a while. But if he did. Then …