Matilda's Last Waltz Part 20

They were up before dawn, breakfast eaten as the light diffused a soft glow over the land. Matilda kissed the boys who rubbed their faces and raced off yelling, then turned to April. 'It's been good having another woman to talk to,' she said. 'Nothing like a gossip about the neighbours to get the day going.'

April wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and took Matilda into an embrace. 'It's been lovely,' she said wistfully. 'Please promise you'll come again.'

Matilda felt the unborn child squirm between them and pulled away. The pain was returning, making her weak, grinding her aspirations to dust. She forced a smile. 'I'll try and get over sometime, but you know how it is.'

They moved off the verandah and crossed the broad sweep of yard that until yesterday had been busy with men and horses and thousands of sheep. Blue heard her whistle and leaped out of the dog pens to follow closely to heel. Gabriel, who'd been sharing a gunyah with three other Aborigines, drifted towards the paddocks and collected the two horses. The sheep were released from the stock yards, the dogs began to work, and they all headed towards Churinga.

Matilda could follow the path of the wind through the gra.s.s, and saw changes on the horizon. Trees had been blown down, fence posts uprooted and left in a tangle of wire fencing. Familiar landmarks, like the old blasted tree, were gone forever. And yet the mountain never changed. It was as solid as ever, still covered in thick, green trees. Still the sentinel of Churinga station.

She was breathing a sigh of relief when they came to the home paddock for there seemed to be no real damage.

'Jeez. Will you look at that?' Tom's hoa.r.s.e whisper made her follow the direction in which he was pointing.

One of the cast iron water tanks had been blown on to the roof, smashing its way into the house. It lay drunkenly amongst the remains of the south wall, the corrugated roofing rising above the devastation like great rusty wings.

Matilda turned to Tom, relief and anguish mixed curiously within her. 'You saved my life,' she whispered. 'If I hadn't come to Wilga...' She licked her lips. 'That fell right on top of my bedroom.'

He took immediate charge. 'You and Gabe see to the sheep. We'll see to the repairs. Looks like you escaped the worst of the storm, there's not much more damage.' He eyed her closely. 'Thank G.o.d you were with us, Molly.' Then wheeled his horse towards the house, shouting orders to the drovers who'd come with them before Matilda could think of a reply.

She and Gabriel mustered the sheep into the stock pens. It wouldn't hurt to have them there a few days while the repairs were done. Gabriel returned to his newly erected gunyah and his new baby now he'd received his baccy and flour, he considered his work over.

Matilda couldn't get into the house, even though most of the damage was only on one side, so she dug a pit in the yard, circled it with stones and built a fire. With a billy and a rather battered old frying pan, she managed to cook for Tom and the two drovers over the next few days, and at night they slept wrapped in their horse blankets.

Tom and the others rigged up a pulley and sweated and strained to get the heavy tank back on its pilings before turning to the repairs of the fences then the house. The timber walls were splintered into a thousand pieces, the windows smashed, the verandah railings snapped like twigs, the roof just a jumble of corrugated iron. He took off his hat and scratched his head. 'Reckon we should start again, Moll. This old place is falling down round your ears.'

She looked at him in dismay. 'You haven't got time to do that, Tom. What about your sheep?'

'b.u.g.g.e.r the sheep,' he drawled. 'The men are looking after them, and I want to make sure you're warm and dry for the winter.' He stomped off before she could say anything more.

The men worked flat out for more than a week. One drover returned from Wallaby Flats with a wagon load of timber he swore was being given away by an old squatter who'd decided to pull down one of his sheds. Matilda looked at him in disbelief, but as he seemed set on sticking to his story, she realised there was nothing she could do but believe him.

Tom had a way with the Bitjarra too. He set Gabe and the boys to hold the cornerposts while he and the drovers hammered the new wood of the walls. Gave them hammer and nails to replace the roof, and taught all of them the intricacies of putting new gla.s.s into a window frame.

With a new front door, mended screens and shutters, and a fresh coat of paint, Churinga gleamed in the late-summer sun. The verandah now swept all the way around the house, shaded by the new sloping roof and rough pillars.

'April's put flowers all over our roof, and up the tank stands. Reckons in a couple of years you won't see the ugly old things. You should try it, Moll.'

She eyed her new house, speechless with pleasure, almost blinded by the tears of grat.i.tude. 'Reckon you could be right, Tom.' She turned to him. 'How can I ever thank you? You've given me so much.'

He put his arm around her and held her close. 'Let's just say this is to say sorry for all the times I pulled your hair and dunked you in the river. Sorry we haven't been as close since your mum died too. We're mates, Molly, and that's what mates are for.'

She watched the men ride away, then with Blue at her heels stepped into her new house and shut the door. There were no words to describe how she was feeling when she placed her mother's watercolour of Churinga on the wall, but she knew that at last she had found a man she could trust. An honourable man who could be called friend. Perhaps there were others. Good people in the community she'd shunned until now.

The courage to face them returned and she decided that after taking the sheep to winter pasture she might ride into town and buy a dress. And one day, she promised silently, she would find a way to return Tom's kindness.

Jenny marked the place in the diary. She could understand how Matilda must have felt. Such kindness after the brutality was bound to leave her speechless, perhaps confused and yet it had given her courage. A different kind of courage from that needed in the pastures and paddocks, one that allowed her to open up to meet people and learn to trust again.

She eyed the pup who was scratching enthusiastically at his fleas. 'Come on, Ripper. Time for bed. And in the morning, young man, you are going to have a bath,' she said sternly.

He looked up at her, his adoring eyes following her around the room before he scampered off. Jenny took a long, last look at the silent paddocks and the high black sky that was splashed with a million stars. It was beautiful and cruel but always rewarding. She was beginning to understand why Matilda and Brett loved it.

Chapter Twelve.

The silence had become a living thing that pressed in on Jenny and as the days pa.s.sed she became more aware of her isolation. And yet she found comfort in her own company, and in that of the men who still remained on Churinga, a kind of peace she had never before experienced.

During the long days she wandered the vast acres on horseback, her sketchpad in a saddle-bag, and in the frosty nights, when dew glittered on the pastures, she swept and dusted and kept house. She washed curtains and bedding, painted the cupboards in the kitchen and moved the trunk into the bedroom. The dresses belonged in the wardrobe, she decided. Not hidden away.

She took out the sea green dress and held it against her. The memory of lavender drifted into the room as the ghostly orchestra struck up the waltz. Matilda's spirit was with her as she danced but there was an echo of sadness in that music too. A tenuous thread of dreams unfulfilled running through the refrain that she couldn't capture or understand.

Jenny closed her eyes, willing the images she'd formed of the ghostly dancers to return. For it was they who were guiding her through the pages of Matilda's life. It was their story that demanded to be told.

'Jenny? You home?'

Her eyes flew open, the music fragmented and was gone, the images faded. It was as if she'd been s.n.a.t.c.hed from one dimension into another, but despite being disorientated her first thought was that Brett must not find her like this. 'Wait on. I'll be out in a minute,' she called.

The slam of the screen door was followed by the tread of his boots on the kitchen floor as she hung the dress in the wardrobe. His voice was a baritone against Ripper's sharp yaps of excitement as she left one reality for another and quickly changed into shirt and strides. She took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

'G'day, Jen.' Brett looked up from the pup who was chewing enthusiastically on his fingers.

She smiled, curiously pleased to see him. 'I wasn't expecting you back so soon. How did the wool transport go?'

'OK. We got a good price at auction, and I banked the cheque as usual.' He fished in his pocket. 'I had to take out the wages and expenses, but here's the receipts.'

Jenny glanced at the figures. This was more money than she could imagine. 'Is the wool cheque always this big?'

Brett shrugged. 'Depends on the market. But that's about average.'

He seemed so nonchalant. As if such a vast sum meant nothing, she thought in wonder. She folded the receipt and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. But of course it wasn't his money so why should he get excited over it?

'Got a beer, Jen? Been a long drive.'

She fetched two bottles and popped the tabs. 'Here's to the wool cheque.'

'Too right.' He took a long drink then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'By the way, picked up something for you at Broken Hill. It's been there waiting for Chalky White to bring it out with the Royal Mail.' His slow smile reached his grey eyes, bringing warmth and humour to the flecks of green and gold as he lugged the enormous parcel in from the verandah.

Jenny gasped. 'Diane's sent my stuff.' She tore back the paper and struggled with the string until she came to the battered wooden box of oil paints, the rolls of pre-prepared canvas and cl.u.s.ters of brushes. 'She's even thought to add my lightweight easel,' said Jenny in surprise and delight.

'Reckon you're set for the winter.'

Jenny nodded. She was too engrossed in her tubes of paint, the gleaming palette knives, the little bottles of white spirit and linseed oil, to speak. Now she could bring Churinga alive on canvas. Bring colour and light to the drawings she'd made over the past month, and perhaps even attempt to capture the images sparked by the diaries. The restless energy returned. She was impatient to make a start.

'That's if you decide to stay, of course. Nothing much goes on around here for the next couple of months, what with the drovers out in the winter pastures.'

She looked up at him, her hands still amongst the tubes of paint. 'Now I've got these, I won't mind the isolation. There's so many things I want to paint, so many of my sketches I need to get on to canvas. There's the house, the paddocks, the stretch of land leading to that wonderful waterfall and pool. The mountain, the oasis where we swam, the wilga trees, the shearing shed and stock yards.' She paused to catch her breath. 'And I'll have you and Ripper for company in the evenings.'

Brett shuffled from one foot to another, hands in his pockets, eyes firmly on his boots. 'Well...' he began.

Jenny sat back on her heels, her spirits plummeting. 'What's the matter, Brett?' she asked quietly. He looked uncomfortable. There was something bothering him but he was obviously finding it hard to put into words. 'Is it the thought of being stuck out here with me? Because if it is then you don't need to worry. As long as I know there's someone around, we don't even need to see one another,' she said firmly.

Brave words, she thought. Why don't you just admit you were looking forward to spending time with him? Time when Churinga's demands were not so urgent. Time to get to know one another.

His eyes were the colour of woodsmoke as they rested on her face. 'That's unfair, Jen. I don't like the thought of leaving you here alone wouldn't do it if it wasn't totally necessary,' he said softly.

'So what's made it necessary?' she asked a little too sharply as she thought of Lorraine.

'There was a letter waiting for me at Broken Hill. From Davey, my brother up in Queensland. John's real crook this time, Jen. And this is the only chance I've got of seeing him this year.'

Jenny could see the agony of indecision in his face. 'How long will you be gone?' Her voice was calm, despite the bitter disappointment.

'A month. But I'll cancel my flight if you don't want to be left that long. You must have felt pretty isolated these last couple of weeks.'

Jenny was furious at the surge of jealousy she'd experienced, furious with the relief of knowing he wasn't planning to spend his leave seeing Lorraine, and ashamed she'd jumped the gun and come to the wrong conclusion. And yet why should that affect her? It was none of her business. Brett was merely a friend and friends should trust one another, not be suspicious of the other's motives.

'Of course you must go,' she said firmly. 'I'll be fine. I've got all this to keep me occupied, and there's always the two-way radio to keep me up with the gossip and if I should need help.'

'I don't like the thought of you out here alone. This isn't like the cities, Jen.'

'Too right it isn't,' she said lightly as she brushed dust from her jeans and stood up. 'But I'll be okay. Go and see your brother, Brett. I'll be fine.'

He didn't seem convinced, and hovered uneasily in the doorway.

Jenny put her hands on her hips and looked him in the eye. 'I'm a big girl now, Brett, I can fend for myself and if things get too much, I can always go back to Sydney. Now go and leave me to paint.'

He looked down at her for a long moment, his expression thoughtful, eyes sweeping across her face as if searching for something. Then he was gone. Through the screen door with a clatter and over the porch, his boots ringing a tattoo on the wooden boards.

Jenny gave a long, deep sigh as the silence closed in. She'd been looking forward to his return much more than she cared to admit and the realisation came as a shock. The house seemed emptier with him gone, the silence deeper, the isolation of Churinga more profound. The long weeks stretched endlessly before her and she thought she heard soft laughter and the rustle of silk.

With a snort of impatience, she reached for the box of oils. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Churinga and the people who had once lived here were having a strange effect on her and the sooner she got on with her painting the better.

It hadn't taken long to throw a few things into a holdall. Now he was back on the verandah, looking through the screen door.

Jenny had been busy in the few minutes he'd been away, Brett realised. The furniture had been moved from the windows at the back of the house, the floor and table covered in sheets. Her easel had been set up on the table, the brushes stuffed into jars at her side, the oils laid out in regimental lines. She'd chosen her spot well. Light streamed in from the paddocks, the warm breeze ruffling the curtains.

He watched as she stretched canvas on to the frames Woody had made in the carpentry shed and felt the weight of his disappointment. She didn't need him. Probably wouldn't even notice he was gone. She had all she wanted.

With a sigh, he turned away and crossed the yard to the utility. The ten-gallon water and petrol cans were in the back, the spare wheels and tools firmly lashed to the flat bed. He threw his bag on the pa.s.senger seat and climbed in. There was a long journey ahead of him, but he couldn't help feeling he might have been easier about going if he could have had one last glimpse of those beautiful eyes.

He cursed softly as he turned the key in the ignition. He was being a fool and it was time he put some miles between himself and Churinga.

As the utility rattled over the stony ground, he forced himself to concentrate. One false move and he would be overturned. The lonely road to Bourke was no place to break down. From Bourke he would travel north to Charleville in the heart of the dry Mulga country, catch a plane to Maryborough and fly north to Cairns where he'd arranged a lift on a Cessna out to the cane fields where Davey would meet him.

He hated flying, especially in little planes, and would have preferred to drive all the way, but with over one and a half thousand miles to travel, he needed to save time. It was unusual for Davey to write at all, and his letter about John was a shocking first. He had been ill before and it had gone unmentioned during their brief and infrequent phone calls. Brett had only found out on his occasional visits up north. But this time it sounded serious and the thought of being too late to do anything was urging him to take risks he would never have contemplated in normal circ.u.mstances. Yet he forced himself to calm down and take things easy. He'd be no good to either of his brothers if he ended up in a wreck.

Mile followed jolting mile. Day turned to night and he slept fitfully, anxious to resume his journey at first light. Churinga seemed a world away, but the lonely hours spent behind the wheel meant that although his brother John was always on his mind, he couldn't quite rid himself of thoughts of Jenny. Of how the light caught the copper in her hair. Of how she moved. Of the long limbs and slender body that had baked in the sun that day they'd gone swimming. He berated himself for the fool she was making of him. Tried to put her out of his mind and concentrate on the reason for his journey. But as the miles between them grew, she remained firmly in his head and he wondered how she was doing on her own and if she was thinking of him.

He finally stepped off the light aircraft that had brought him to this backwater in the cane fields. His senses were immediately a.s.saulted by the all-too-familiar stink of mola.s.ses, taking him swiftly back to his childhood and provoking memories he'd thought long dead. It was cloying and all-pervasive, lingering on the humidity in a smothering blanket. Within seconds of stepping off the plane he was drenched, his shirt clinging to his back.

'How's it goin', mate? Good to see you.' John was wearing the cane country uniform of khaki shorts, boots and a singlet. His skin was the colour of old parchment, his wasted arms and legs covered in scars.

Brett stared at the man before him. They hadn't seen one another for three years and as they shook hands he tried to disguise his shock and a.s.similate this grey-haired, stooped old man with the muscular giant he remembered. Davey was right to be worried. The cane was killing his older brother just as it had killed their father.

'What the h.e.l.l are you doing here, John? I thought Davey was going to meet me?'

'He's tying up a deal for next season,' John replied. 'And I've had enough of lying about like a bludger all b.l.o.o.d.y day. Fresh air'll do me good.'

Brett glowered. 'Nothing fresh about this, mate. Just liquid sugar.'

John grinned, the sharp contours of his skull clearly visible through the papery skin. 'Looks like New South Wales agrees with you. You got it soft down there, you bludger. Looking after a bunch of woollies ain't what I'd call man's work. You ain't even got grey hair,' he added ruefully as he slicked back the thin remains of his own.

Brett tried to make light of it, but inside he was aching for his brother. 'Fair go, John. You're an old bloke now over forty.' He slapped his brother's back to take the sting out of his words and felt him wince before he pulled away.

Brett eyed him closely. 'Just how crook are you, John? Give it to me straight.'

'I'll be right,' he mumbled as he led the way to the truck. 'Just a touch of Weils. Once you got it, you always got it. You know that.'

Brett climbed into the truck and watched his brother turn the ignition and head through the cane fields. Weils disease explained the yellow of John's skin and the stewed fruit complexion. It also explained the wasted arms and legs, the premature aging and painful joints. 'Davey said you went down with this last attack a month ago. And by the looks of it you should be in bed.'

John lit a cigarette, and after a hacking coughing fit, left it to dangle from his bottom lip. 'Nah. She'll be right. Just need a couple of weeks off the cane.' He kept his eyes on the winding dirt track that led right into the heart of the cane. 'Was real crook when Davey wrote. But like I told him, I always get better.'

Brett felt impatience rise. Hadn't John learned anything from Dad?

His brother seemed unaware of his concern and swung the utility with cavalier recklessness around the potholes. 'Picked a good time to visit, Brett. Season's over and Davey reckons we can get work in the refinery to see us through. But that won't be for a coupl'a weeks.'

'I heard things are changing up here. What you going to do next season if the farmers are bringing in the machines?'

'Ah, she'll be right. Machines cost money and Davey's cutting a bonzer quota, almost as much as me when I were his age. He's up there with the Greek at the top of the cutter's league so I reckon we'll be working for a few more years yet. Soon have our own place. Seen a bonzer property out near Mossman. Owner's retiring, and he's willing to take a cut in the price.'

Brett eyed his brother and saw the false optimism shine in those fevered eyes. He was forty-five and looked sixty. Why did he and Davey live like this when life could be so much healthier for them in the dry heat of New South Wales? What was the attraction of rat-infested cane, the day to day slog in this draining humidity, and the dubious honour of being the fastest cutter in the league? And as for the idea of having their own place it was just a pipe dream. They'd been talking about it for years and could probably afford the place at Mossman three times over by now. But they would never settle down. Cane and the cutter's way of life had got into their blood.

Brett sighed. He would have to try and persuade John to come back with him. There were plenty of jobs he could do around Churinga. Jobs that would give his body a chance to recover. For if John stayed here, there wouldn't be many more seasons left to him.

Brett turned and looked out at the cane fields of burnt stubble which spread as far as the eye could see to either side of the ribbon of road. He wished he hadn't come. John didn't need him, wouldn't listen to any of his advice. He no longer belonged here, hadn't in a long while. Brett stripped off his shirt and wiped away the sweat. The humidity was sapping his strength at every pa.s.sing mile, and he thought longingly of Churinga's green pastures and shady wilga trees. And of Jenny.

He stared out at the burnt fields but didn't see them in the blinding flash of realisation. He loved Jenny. Missed her, needed to be with her. What the h.e.l.l was he doing here when she was alone at Churinga and probably making up her mind to return to Sydney? The look on her face when he'd told her he was leaving for a month had been enough to make him realise she could never settle beyond the black stump. It was too lonely, too isolated for such an intelligent, attractive woman. She would sell up, move on, and he'd be left with nothing. No home, no work, no woman.

He almost turned to John and demanded they go back to the airfield but reason took over, keeping him silent. Regardless of his fears over Jenny, John had to be his first priority. There had to be some way of persuading him to leave the cane, if only for a break. He would achieve nothing by returning home so soon.