Matilda's Last Waltz, Page 2

  ‘I was merely doing the neighbourly thing by lending her the services of my solicitor.’ Ethan’s face was stony as he picked up Mervyn’s hat and held it out to him. ‘I might want Churinga but not enough to break my word to someone I respected. And I think you’ll find that goes for most of the other squatters around here. G’day Mervyn.’

  * * *

  Ethan dug his hands into his pockets and leaned against the white verandah post as he watched Mervyn limp down the steps to his horse. The man’s tug on the rein was vicious as he led it across the hard-baked dirt of the front approach to the cookhouse, and Ethan wondered if that temper had ever been loosed on Mary – or, God forbid, Matilda.

  He glanced at the shearing shed before going back into the house. The season was almost over and the wool cheque would be welcome. Lack of rain meant expensive, bought-in feed, and if the sky was anything to go by, the drought would be with them for some time yet.

  ‘What did Merv Thomas want?’

  Ethan eyed his twenty-year-old step-son and gave a humourless smile. ‘What do you think?’

  Andrew’s boots rang on the polished floor as they went into the study. ‘It’s Matilda I feel sorry for. Fancy having to live with that mongrel.’

  Andrew flopped into a leather chair and slung one leg over the arm. Ethan eyed him fondly. He might almost be twenty-one, but his strong, wiry figure and dark mop of auburn hair made him look younger. Although the boy had turned his back on the land, Ethan was as proud of him as if he’d been his own. Andrew’s English education had been worth every penny. Now he was doing well at university and would afterwards take up a partnership in a prestigious law firm in Melbourne when he qualified.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s much we can do, is there, Dad?’

  ‘Not our business, son.’

  Andrew’s blue eyes were thoughtful. ‘You didn’t say that when Mary Thomas showed up here.’

  Ethan swivelled his chair to face the window. Mervyn was heading down the track towards the first gate. It would take at least another day and night for him to reach Churinga. ‘That was different,’ he muttered.

  Silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock Abigail had brought with her from Melbourne. Ethan’s mind drifted as he stared out over his land. Yes, Mary had been different. Tough, indomitable little woman that she was, she’d had no armour against the terrible thing that had slowly eaten away at her insides. He could see her so clearly, it was as if she stood before him again.

  Unlike Abigail’s cool, fair beauty and striking height, Mary was small and angular with an abundance of red hair which she squashed beneath a disreputable felt hat. Freckles dusted her nose, and wide blue eyes and dark lashes stared back at him as she wrestled to still the black gelding dancing beneath her. She’d been furious, that first time they’d faced one another after her return to Churinga. The fences were down and her mob had got mixed in with his.

  He smiled as he remembered the Irish temper of her. The way her eyes flashed and she tossed her head as she yelled into his face. It had taken the best part of a week to sort the mobs out and repair the fences, and by that time they had called an uneasy truce that hadn’t quite become a friendship.

  ‘What’s so funny, Dad?’

  Andrew’s voice dispelled the memories and Ethan dragged himself back to the present. ‘I don’t think we need worry too much about Matilda. If she’s anything like her mother, then it’s Merv we should feel sorry for.’

  ‘You liked Mary, didn’t you? How come you never…?’

  ‘She was another man’s wife,’ he snapped.

  Andrew whistled. ‘Strewth! I did touch a nerve, didn’t I?’

  Ethan sighed as he remembered the time he’d had his chance and lost it. ‘If things had been different, then who’s to say what might have been? If Mervyn hadn’t come back so crippled from Gallipoli then…’

  He let the unfinished sentence hang between them as the sights and sounds of war intruded into his mind. They still gave him nightmares, even after six years, but he was one of the lucky ones. Mervyn had finally been released from hospital almost two years after the war was over but was a different man from the one who’d eagerly caught the train in 1916. Gone was the lazy smile and careless charm and in their place was a shambling wreck who, after a long convalescence, found relief only in a bottle.

  It was a poor substitute so far as his wife was concerned, Ethan thought. And I’m to blame, lord help me. He pulled his thoughts together. At least all the time Merv was bed-ridden she could keep an eye on her husband’s drinking. But once he was up and back on a horse, he would disappear for weeks on end, leaving Mary to cope with the running of the station. She’d been tougher than he’d thought, and although his plans had come to nothing, Ethan couldn’t help but respect her strength.

  ‘I admired her, yes. She did the best she could in a tough situation. Although she rarely asked for help, I tried to ease things the best I could for her.’ He lit a cheroot and opened up the wool accounts book. There was work to be done and half the day had already been wasted.

  Andrew unhooked his leg from the arm of the chair and sat forward. ‘If Merv runs up many more debts, Matilda won’t have an inheritance. We could always make her an offer in a couple of years’ time and get the land cheap.’

  Ethan smiled around his cigar. ‘I plan on getting it free, son. No point in paying for something when you don’t have to.’

  Andrew cocked his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘How? Matilda’s trust is hard won. She’s not going to just give it away.’

  Ethan tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve got plans, son. But patience is called for, and I don’t want you shooting your mouth off.’

  Andrew was about to speak when his father interrupted. ‘You leave it to me and I guarantee Churinga will be ours within the next five years.’

  * * *

  Matilda was restless. The silence in the house was heavy and she knew her father would soon return. He never disappeared for more than a couple of weeks at a time, and he’d been gone that long already.

  The heat was intense, even inside, and the red dust she’d swept from the floor was beginning to settle again. Her ankle-length cotton dress clung to her as sweat rolled down her back. She unfastened the sacking apron and folded it over the back of a chair. The aroma of rabbit stew came from the oven and several flies buzzed around the ceiling. The fly papers she’d stuck to the kerosene lamp were black with bodies, despite the shutters and screen doors Mum had fixed a couple of years ago.

  Dragging her hair from her sweaty face, she pinned it in an unruly coil on the top of her head. She hated her hair. There was too much of it and it wouldn’t be tamed. And to add insult to injury, it was a pale imitation of her mother’s Irish auburn.

  Matilda pushed her way through the screen door and stood on the verandah. The heat was a furnace blast, bouncing off the impacted earth of the front yard fire break and shimmering on the horizon. The pepper trees in the home paddock drooped in it and the weeping willows by the creek looked exhausted, their fronds dipping uselessly towards the runnel of green sludge that still remained. ‘Rain,’ she muttered. ‘We must have rain.’

  The three steps leading down to the hitching post and front yard needed mending and she made a mental note to get it done. The house itself could have done with a bit of paint, and Dad’s repair to the roof was already coming apart. But if she stood in the centre of the yard and half closed her eyes, she could see how Churinga would look if they had the money to do the repairs.

  The lines of the house weren’t grand, but the single-storey Queenslander was sturdily built on brick pilings, and sheltered on the south side by young pepper trees. The roof swooped down over the verandah which ran around three sides of the house and was finished off with ornate iron lattice work. A rugged stone chimney stood tall on the north wall, and the shutters and screens had been painted green.

  Underground springs kept the home pastu
res 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 kanga
roo 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.