Matilda's Last Waltz Part 18

Jenny looked at it. It was enormous and hopelessly old-fashioned, but if she tied the straps together at the back, and used her trouser belt to cinch in the waist, it would do. But to be on the safe side, she'd keep her underwear on.

When she'd finally tied and belted and tucked the vast costume around herself, she hesitated before stepping out from the bushes. She was barefoot and although her little toe was covered with a plaster it was still obvious she always dreaded it when people commented on it and asked questions. It was something the nuns had believed to be the sign of the Devil, and although she knew better now, she was still ashamed of it.

The heat and the sound of the water was too enticing. Jenny took off her locket and peeked from behind the bushes. Brett was already in the water. He was wearing black trunks that showed off his muscular legs, flat stomach and broad chest to perfection. As he floated on his back, the sunlight glinted on his dark hair, turning it almost blue.

Jenny hutched the straps over her shoulders. Ma was blessed with a comfortable bosom, and no amount of tying and hitching could disguise the fact that Jenny had rather less to cover. She dived into the water and surfaced quickly. It was freezing, taking her breath away. But as she broke through the clear green depths into the sunlight, she realised Simone's costume had filled with water, and was ballooning around her like an inflatable life-jacket.

What the h.e.l.l? she thought as she floated luxuriously. I'm decent enough, and this water's wonderful after those showers.

She watched as Brett struck out with clean, sure strokes to the other side of the pool where a small waterfall plunged through creepers and down the rocks. He swam beneath it then stood in the shallows, the water tumbling over his head. He gave a whoop of delight, sending the birds into startled flight.

Jenny laughed with him, and as she felt the costume sink further and further, decided she'd rather swim in her underwear than drown. Unfastening the belt, she pulled it off. It landed with a soggy plop on to an overhanging rock, and she kicked out and swam free. Diving into the cool depths after having swum back and forth for several minutes, she resurfaced on the far side where the rocks lay in great slabs beside the trees, and hauled herself out.

She lay there, gasping with the cold and the effort, basking in the warm caress of the dappled sun and the stones. The sound of Brett's splashing and the birds' chattering began to fade as weariness from the long ride took over. Her eyelids grew heavy and with feline pleasure she fell asleep.

'Jenny ... Jenny.'

His voice came from far away. It was almost a lullaby in tune with the orchestra of birds and water.

'Jenny, wake up. It's time to eat.'

She reluctantly opened her eyes and found herself mirrored in clear grey that was flecked with blue and gold. Like precious opals, they gleamed with fire. She sat up, confused by the things she read there, and shook out her wet hair to cover her embarra.s.sment. 'Have I been asleep long?' she asked quickly.

'Drifted off a bit there. You looked so peaceful seemed a shame to wake you.' His voice was different, as if he was having difficulty breathing, but before she could a.n.a.lyse it he became brisk. 'Come on. Ma's packed us another picnic and there'll be h.e.l.l to pay if we don't eat this one.'

He held out his hand, and as she grasped it, pulled her to her feet. They were closer now, the warmth of their bodies mingling in the dappled sunlight. She noticed how his eyes had darkened, felt the tremor of his fingers, heard the catch of breath.

'Mind your step,' he said gruffly as he released her hand and turned away. 'It's slippery.'

Jenny dragged herself back from the spell he'd woven and followed him through the undergrowth. Common sense told her she'd misread his signals. He was merely being polite to his boss, showing off his Churinga, pleased with her reaction to it. But a small, insistent voice niggled deep in her subconscious. She'd thought he was going to kiss her and she'd been disappointed when he hadn't.

As she stumbled into the gra.s.sy clearing on the other side of the pool, she realised with horror that her wet underwear was transparent. Grabbing her shirt, she dived into the bushes and covered herself quickly. Hot with embarra.s.sment, she chided herself for being a fool. No wonder there'd been a change in him, seeing her like that, as good as naked, stretched out on that b.l.o.o.d.y rock. It wasn't surprising he hadn't bothered to wake her. Must have got a real eyeful.

She fastened the b.u.t.tons, tucked the shirt into her trousers and pulled on socks to hide her toe. As reason returned, she acknowledged that at least he'd been a gentleman about it. Most red-blooded males would have jumped her but, with her being his boss, he'd obviously decided discretion was better.

But how to face him again? How to brazen it out and act as if nothing had happened? She took a deep breath and stepped out of the bushes. Nothing had happened, and if he didn't say anything then neither would she.

Brett had his back to her as he laid out the picnic on the rocks. There was chicken and ham, damper bread, cheese, tomatoes and a large bottle of homemade lemonade as well as beer and a flask of tea.

Jenny avoided eye contact and tucked in. She hadn't realised how hungry she was and the chicken was delicious. Brett was either unaware of her earlier discomfort or had decided nothing had happened to merit comment. He spoke only of Churinga.

She listened as he told her about wool and sheep auctions, and about the problems of transport and finding reliable men to work the place. The minutes slipped past with no mention of the swim and she began to relax and enjoy his company.

When the sun dipped behind the trees they fished out a dozen yabbies to take back for supper and made their way back to the homestead. Jenny was bone weary, and yet it was a satisfying feeling one that came after a pleasant day and exercise. As they approached the home paddock, she looked forward to a good night's sleep.

With the horses unsaddled, rubbed down and fed and watered, she and Brett leaned on the fence as the world softly descended into night. A canopy of stars covered the earth, so bright and clear she felt she could reach out and touch the Southern Cross. Take it in her palm and hold it close. 'It's been a wonderful day, Brett. Thanks. I've seen some beautiful sights today.'

He looked down at her, mouth twitching, eyes glittering with humour. 'So have I,' he said, and he loped away towards the bunkhouse before she could think of a cutting reply.

Chapter Eleven.

As the shearing season was in full swing and the mobs had arrived from the smaller stations to be shorn, Brett had little time to spare so Jenny would take off with her sketchbook and spend hours capturing the essence of this red earth country. Their evening rides out into the pastures were cool and leisurely after the heat of the day, and as the weeks went by she came to look forward to them and was disappointed when Brett's work made them impossible.

The days were full of noise and bustle. More than four hundred thousand sheep needed to be sent up the ramps to be shorn before the shearers could move on to the next shed. She watched the animals skitter down the ramps where they were grasped by strong brown hands and dipped. Those same hands plunged syringes down their throats, drenching them of intestinal parasites before releasing them into the pens where Brett and the stockmen divided the wethers from the breeding rams, the lambs from their ewes.

Castration of the male lambs was swift and b.l.o.o.d.y, the slaughter of the sheep past their wool prime inevitable, their carca.s.ses fit only for the tannery or the knacker's yard. Life at Churinga was harsh, there was no room for sentiment. Even the cats which slunk between barns and pens were lean and predatory, each one a practised, cunning killer. Never handfed or petted, they were expected to keep the property clear of vermin. As Brett had said, everything on Churinga had to earn its keep.

When Jenny rode out with the stockmen and listened to their stories she began to understand the enormity of what Matilda had taken on. The size of the property meant the men took it in turn to patrol the pastures, their rifles and stock whips always to hand. They would sleep in the fields guarding the sheep, shooting rabbits that ate the gra.s.s and dingoes and rooks hunting the lambs. Wild pigs, black and hairy and as big as a cow, could create havoc in a tightly packed feeding mob and the men were extra vigilant if they knew one was around. One thrust of those long curved tusks and a man could be ripped in half.

Jenny soon got used to being in the saddle for hours on end and even began to learn how to use the impossibly long and heavy stock whip the men seemed able to flick so effortlessly over the sheep. She became immune to the dust lifted by thousands of Merino feet and the swarms of flies that drifted in black clouds, waiting to settle on s.h.i.tty back-sides, as she followed the mob to winter pasture. Her skin glowed from the sun and her hands grew calloused. She fell into bed at night and didn't stir until the cookhouse clanger rang in another day.

Ripper, whose creamy paws, chest and eyebrows had been reddened by the dust, followed her everywhere with adoring eyes and lolling tongue. He seemed to know he wasn't expected to work like the other Kelpies but watched over them all the same, his canine grin revealing a certain superiority.

A month pa.s.sed, then half another. The shearers were packing up and moving on. The bustle of the yard and wool-shed died to a murmur and Brett travelled with the trucks to ensure the wool transportation went smoothly.

Jenny felt peace descend, stillness creep over the quiet stock pens and empty home pastures. Simone and Stan would be leaving tomorrow. Life was about to change once again returning, perhaps, to the isolation Matilda must have experienced.

She thought wistfully of the unread diaries, and of the green dress in the trunk. The enticing music of the past was growing louder as the days pa.s.sed, and she knew she would soon have to return to that world. Return to the haunting but familiar threads of a life she was only just beginning to understand.

The kitchen was sweltering, the temperature way up to a hundred and ten, and as Jenny sweated over dinner she admired Simone's tenacity. To cook in this heat deserved a medal, but to do it every day for such vast numbers of men was worthy of sainthood.

Dinner was to be eaten at ten when the day was done and with it the fierce heat. Jenny was dressed in a cotton shift and low-heeled shoes when her guests arrived promptly at nine-thirty.

Simone was tethered into bright yellow cotton, her face for once made up, her hair in tight curls. Stan, who could never look anything but a shearer with his elongated arms and hunched back, was unusually smart in an ill-fitting suit and water-slicked hair. He shuffled his feet, looking sheepish and uncomfortable out of his usual singlet and flannels.

Jenny led them through the kitchen, where the aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafted from the oven, and out on to the back porch. The French windows of the extension had been flung open, the chairs pulled outside into the cool evening. She'd spent most of the day polishing and dusting, sweeping the verandah and arranging great bowls of wild flowers on the small tables she'd set beside the chairs. The kitchen table was outside as well. It was hardly recognisable beneath white linen and fine china. Silver glittered in the moonlight, and a vase of wild lilies stood between the candlesticks she'd unearthed from the back of the kitchen cupboard.

Simone stood and looked at everything, eyes wide with pleasure. Jenny watched as she wonderingly touched the napkins and the silver cutlery. Perhaps she'd gone too far. These were poor working people, as rough and resilient as the land they worked, not go-getters from Sydney.

'Jenny.' It was a sigh of pleasure. 'Thank you for making dinner so special. You don't know how much I've wanted to sit down at a real nice table with flowers and silver and candles. I'll always remember this.'

'I was worried you'd think I was showing off,' she admitted. 'I got a bit carried away when I found all this locked in the cupboards. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can always put some of it back.'

Simone turned horrified eyes on her. 'Don't you flamin' dare. I'm just Ma to most people. They forget me when they've got full bellies. This is the nicest thing anybody's done for me in years.' She poked Stan in the ribs. 'And that goes for you too, mate.'

Jenny poured sherry.

Simone eased her bulk into an overstuffed chair and sipped her Amontillado with relish. 'This is something I'll remember for a long time,' she said wistfully. 'Living on the road does have its drawbacks.'

Stan sat on the edge of the couch, his long arms dangling between his knees as he looked around. 'You made it nice, Mrs Sanders.'

'Thanks. Here, I know you'd prefer a beer. And, please, take off that tie and jacket. It's far too hot to be formal.'

'Oh, no you don't, Stan Baker,' roared Simone. 'Just for once in yer rotten life youse gonna do things proper. Keep that flamin' jacket and tie where they are.'

Jenny saw determination on Simone's face, resignation on Stan's. She topped up Simone's drink. Perhaps she'd relent once she'd eaten.

The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was a success, and Jenny served peach pavlova and thick cream for pudding. She'd made the meringue earlier that day, and had had to keep it in the gas fridge to stop it from wilting. It was devoured with relish, and followed by coffee and brandy.

Leaving the table, they returned to the softer chairs and looked out over the sleeping land. 'I'll miss you, Simone. You're the only woman I've talked to since Wallaby Flats,' Jenny told her wistfully.

'None of your city friends got in touch then?'

'Diane's written several times, but the phone line is so bad it's impossible to have a decent conversation.'

'Have you decided what you're going to do yet? You seem to be settled here, now you and Brett have got over squabbling.' Simone slipped off her shoes. Stan's jacket and tie had been surrept.i.tiously removed and slung over the back of a chair.

'I haven't made up my mind yet. This place has a strange hold over me, and yet there's so much I still haven't done in the outside world. I don't know if I'm just using Churinga as an excuse to run away from reality.'

'Humph,' grunted Simone comfortably. 'Nothing unreal about this place, luv. You see all of life out here.'

Jenny looked out over the moonlit pastures. 'The harsh side of life, maybe. But there's so much more of this country to explore. Such a big world to travel.' She thought of Diane's last letter. Of Rufus' offer to buy Jenny out of the gallery and rent her house if she wanted to stay at Churinga. But she couldn't let go that easily. The house, the gallery, her friends were all a part of her. And she wanted to paint. Needed to paint. Her sketchbook was full of drawings that cried out to be put on to canvas. Painting was an itch demanding to be scratched, and if she stayed away from it too long, she got edgy.

'It's lonely, I grant you. I been traipsing round New South Wales and Queensland all my adult life, and I seen a lot of changes. Women have to be tougher than the men, stronger-willed and immune to the b.l.o.o.d.y flies and the dust. We stay because of our men and our children. Because of the thing that's born in us the love of the land. I reckon you'd be happier in the city.'

Jenny eyed her as sadness welled. Simone was right. There was nothing to keep her here but lost dreams. She had no husband and no child to care for any more, no consuming pa.s.sion for the land to tie her to Churinga. Yet she didn't want the mood of the evening to spoil, so she changed the subject. 'Where you headed next, Simone?'

'Billa Billa. b.l.o.o.d.y good shed, and the cookhouse is fitted out real nice. Then we're off up to Newcastle to see our daughter and the grandkids. Ain't seen 'em for a while, have we, Stan?'

A man of few words, he merely shook his head.

'We got three kids. Two girls and a boy,' Simone said proudly. 'Nine grandchildren in all, but we don't get to see them much. They're spread all over the b.l.o.o.d.y country, and if the sheds we work are too far away, we don't see 'em from one season to the next.'

She stared out into the soft darkness. 'That's when we mooch around looking for casual work. The money soon runs out if there's no work between shearing seasons, and Stan's too old to go back to the cane.'

'What are your plans for when shearing gets too much, Stan?' Jenny couldn't imagine him in a unit by the sea.

'Reckon I got a few seasons in me yet,' he mumbled around his cigarette. 'I always promised Ma we'd have our own place when the time comes. Not too fancy, mind. Just a small place, with about a thousand acres so I can keep me hand in.'

Simone snorted. 'Promises, promises! There's always one more shed, one more season. Reckon they'll carry you out of a b.l.o.o.d.y shed in yer box.'

Jenny heard the disappointment behind those sharp words and wondered if the idea she'd been harbouring was so silly after all. 'If I decide to stay,' she began, 'and I'm not promising I will, would you and Stan consider living here?'

Simone glanced quickly across at her husband, a flicker of hope instantly quashed as she looked back at Jenny. 'I dunno, luv. We been moving around for so long, won't seem right being in the same place all the time.'

'You could live in the bungalow by the creek, help me keep house and organise the food for the shearers. Stan could help in the yards and oversee the woolshed.'

His expression was as dour as always, the lack of response more telling than words.

Simone looked at him and sighed. 'Sounds like heaven to me, luv. But Stan ain't one for settlin' down. Got itchy feet.' She shrugged, her smile forced.

'No worries, Simone,' Jenny said hurriedly. 'I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet, but if I do stay then I'll write. Perhaps by then we can twist Stan's arm a bit.'

Simone bit her lip as she looked from Jenny to Stan, who was peering into the depths of his beer as if the answers were to be found at the bottom of the gla.s.s. 'Me and Stan are right with the way things are for now, Jen. But I'll give you the address in Newcastle anyways. Our daughter will see we get your letters.'

Stan drained his beer and stood up. 'Thanks for the tucker, Mrs Sanders. Ma and me really appreciate all you done, but we got an early start tomorrow.'

Jenny shook his hand. It was soft from years of handling wool, the lanolin a natural protection from calluses. Simone's embrace was warm and comforting, and Jenny realised she would miss her dreadfully. This cheerful, stoic woman was the nearest she'd come to a mother since Ellen Carey, and the thought they may never see one another again was hard to accept.

She went with them out on to the front verandah, and watched them cross the yard to the cookhouse. With a final wave, she turned back into the house. It already felt deserted, the sight of the dishes in the sink and the empty chairs merely highlighting that sense of emptiness. The dust had returned, silently and almost secretly as it always did. The polished tables were dulled by it, the bright flowers wilting beneath its gossamer weight.

Ripper was released from the bedroom to be fed the sc.r.a.ps, then turfed out for his nightly run while Jenny saw to the dishes. Then, with a final cup of coffee, she plumped down into an easy chair and breathed in the scent of the night.

The warmth caressed her. The rustle of leaves and dry gra.s.s lulled her. The music was playing again. Drawing her back back to a gentle embrace and the whisper of satin. The time had come to open the diaries again.

Dry winter was followed by rainless summer. There was no time to mourn her baby, for the knee-high, tawny gra.s.s was crisp beneath a merciless sun, the trees stark, their leaves shrivelled and wilting. Rabbits in their thousands and vast mobs of 'roos came ever southward to the gra.s.sy plains as the great outback dried up and sweltered.

Matilda looked out over the pastures, her hat low on her brow, shielding her eyes from the glare. Thanks to Tom Finlay, and his help with overseeing the shearing shed last year, the wool cheque had covered the final payment on the bank loan. This left her with just enough to see her through another summer. She was under-stocked for a station as large as Churinga, and if it wasn't for the rabbits and 'roos, the gra.s.s just might last out. There were a thousand head of Merinos left of the once great mob, yet their depleted numbers would make them easier to keep an eye on. If the rains didn't come, then she would have to scrub cut and hand-feed them.

With their meagre supplies in saddle-bags, Matilda and Gabriel patrolled the pastures. She learned to sleep on hard-packed earth, boots on, rifle c.o.c.ked, alert for the rustle of a wild pig or the stealthy creep of dingo or snake. Searing days followed freezing nights. With Bluey trotting at her side, she rode amongst the widespread mob. Each dead sheep made her want to cry, but she buried it in grim silence, knowing there was nothing she could do about it.

Lambing time came, bringing a race against the natural predators. Matilda checked the pens she and Gabriel had put up on the far western corner. With a depleted mob, it would be easier to have the ewes all in one place before they dropped their lambs.

Each lamb had to be caught and graded, its tail ringed and ear tagged. Castration was a b.l.o.o.d.y, filthy job, the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es popped between the fingers, chewed off and spat out. It repelled her, but after her initial hesitancy she learned to do it swiftly. For if she was to maintain a superior quality wool, it was a necessary evil.

So was crutching an arduous, repulsive task that had to be carried out in the fields. No self-respecting shearer would touch a dirty fleece unless he was paid double rate and she couldn't afford to run a learning shed like Kurrajong, where the young shearers learned their trade on wets, cobblers, dags and fly-blowns.

The rear end of a sheep is the dirtiest thing this side of the black stump. Covered in excrement and buzzing with egg-laying flies, the wool gathers in black lumps or dags. Matilda and Gabriel wrestled with the squirming, brainless beasts and cut the wool close to the papery skin. Gabe seemed unaffected by the flies, but Matilda had to st.i.tch bobbing corks to the brim of her hat it was her only protection from the black swarms that never seemed to leave them.

As the shearing season loomed closer, she and Gabriel began the muster. The mob was graded in each pasture, some penned, others brought down to the paddocks near the homestead. Matilda followed them over the dry, dusty land and began to fret. Her mob had increased, and although it was nowhere near the numbers it had once been, she couldn't afford to pay a quid a hundred to have them shorn.

She stood in the silent shearing shed and looked up at the cathedral roof where dust motes danced in beams of light. The smell of sweat and lanolin, of wool and tar, hung in the air. She breathed it in with deep pleasure. This was what it meant to be a squatter, a keeper of sheep, a provider of the best wool in the world. Her glance fell to the floor and the bleached circles on the wood where generations of shearers had dropped their sweat. Then she eyed the tar buckets in the corner and the generator. It had been fixed by a pa.s.sing swaggie in return for a couple of meals and a bed for the night. The ramps and sorting tables were st.u.r.dy with new wood, but what use were they when she had no shearers, no tar boys, no shed hands or sorters?

The sigh came from deep within her. Shearers wouldn't wait to be paid. But no men meant no wool. And without the wool cheque, she couldn't survive.

'G'day, Matilda. See you got the muster under way.'

She turned and smiled at Tom Finlay whose Irish ancestry was evident in his dark hair and green eyes. She shook his hand. 'Yeah. Almost done. How're things on Wilga?'

'Mob's almost in. Bonzer lot of lambs this year despite the lack of rain. Been a fair cow trying to hand-feed the b.u.g.g.e.rs, though.'

Matilda nodded her understanding. 'Come into the house for a cuppa. I might even have a bottle of something stronger somewhere.'

'Tea'll be right.' He walked with her across the acre of cleared, flattened earth. 'Good to see you looking well, Molly.' His endearment made her smile. He'd always called her Molly, and she'd always liked it. 'Had me and April worried when you took crook last year. She wanted to come over and visit after I finished managing your shed, but you know how things are.'

She pushed through the screen door and headed for the range. 'Probably wouldn't have found me,' she said as she cut hunks of cold mutton and stuffed them between slices of bread. 'Spent most of the year patrolling the pastures. With only me and Gabe to keep an eye on the mob, there didn't seem much point in coming back here much.'

'What about the young Bitjarras? Surely you and Gabe could have used them?'

She brought the rough meal to the table and shook her head. 'Worse than useless. Most of them are too young, the others only get in the b.l.o.o.d.y way. Besides, I haven't enough horses for all of us, so I left the boys here to sort out the barns and sheds and to tidy up after winter.'