A Waltz for Matilda (30 page)

The horse trod neatly along the Drinkwater road. Matilda gazed at the land on either side. Now, more than a year after the fire, the only signs of the hungry flames were the black scars on the tree trunks and the bushy tufts of new gum leaves.

Even the green grass that had appeared on the river flats after the flood had vanished now. The land had sunk back into the world of drought: white and grey and dusty.

Little else had changed on Drinkwater, apart from more post-and-wire fences. Matilda looked at them enviously. Fenced paddocks meant fewer shepherds — and would mean less work for her and Mr Sampson. Perhaps with the next wool cheque, she thought hopefully.

She had dressed carefully for this visit — had taken so long to do it that Auntie Love had laughed. Auntie Love kept close to the house these days, mostly dozing in her chair. The weakness in her left side hadn’t come back, but her breathing was shallower. Yet she smiled as she slept. She seemed happy, far more at peace than the woman huddled in pain and shock in the cave.

It was important to look like a young lady today, not the ‘grubby little bush girl’ James had called her. He had never seen her in a dress or even clean. It had been impossible to wear skirts in the days after the fire, as he and the other men had repaired her house, even planted the vegetable garden again for her, and another patch of corn in time for a crop before winter. Impossible even to wash herself properly with so many people about, peering down at any time through the roof.

James and Bertram had returned to school a week after the fire — she gathered it was James’s final year. Though she had called in to the Drinkwater homestead on business since then, they had never been home.

Somehow it seemed important to establish today that she wasn’t a cocky farmer like the Heenans had been, but … well, the sort of young lady Miss Thrush had tried to teach her to be.

She had carefully ironed Florence’s old dress, taken off the lace and re-sewed it in a different pattern, hoping that Florence wouldn’t recognise the dress as hers. She had washed her hair this morning, dried it in the sunlight, and brushed it a hundred times before she plaited it.

She wished she had lace gloves to hide her hands: callused, the nails short to keep out the dirt. Aunt Ann and Mum had never gone out without gloves. But it was silly to buy gloves instead of fencing wire.

If only her father could see Moura now, flourishing despite the fire. We’ll get those 2,000 sheep one day, Dad, she thought. Only another 1,600 to go.

She gazed around, remembering. There were the hills he had told her to look at, to forget the love of green. They were gold in this afternoon’s light too. She could just see the black stump in
the distance, the one that he had told her marked the boundary of Drinkwater.

The horse turned its head toward the drive down to the Drinkwater homestead. Without thinking, Matilda pulled on the reins. The horse looked back at her questioningly, then obediently began to pace past the homestead gate.

Matilda glanced at the almost shadowless trees. It must only be just after noon. She was early. It still surprised her how much land a horse could cover in so short a time. But she wondered if this had been at the back of her mind all along.

She hadn’t returned to the billabong since her father’s death. It was too far to walk there and back in a day, though Tommy would have taken her on his bicycle. But Timber could canter there and back in an hour …

Did she really want to see the place where her father had died? Today especially, when she would be dining with the man who’d killed him?

Yes, she thought, kneeing the horse gently so he broke into a trot. Today especially.

She heard her father’s voice again, as they passed the stump.
Free,
he’d said.
We’re free.

Here was the track down to the river. She nudged the horse to the right. What would her father have thought of her riding a Drinkwater horse? But he must have ridden them often, she realised. Or had he owned his own horse? Had he sold it when money ran low during the strike?

Someone must know, but it would hurt too much to ask.

The same track, worn by swaggies’ feet. The same white trunks, twisted branches dappled green and orange. The same —

She pulled on the reins, wondering if she had been mistaken. This couldn’t be the right place.

The billabong had vanished.

Instead a broad sweep of sand stretched almost half a mile, the river twisting through it like a long brown snake. Even the swaggies’ fireplace had gone, the stones swept downstream by the flood. There was nothing to show where ducks had once swum, where lilies had floated, where her father’s body had been pulled up from the depths.

How could something that had meant so much disappear so completely? Why had she even come here at all? Had she expected her father’s ghost to whisper to her in the place where he had died?

But it was still hard to leave. She stared for so long the horse became restive, pulling expectantly to one side, then taking a few paces and bending to tug at the tussocks. She waited till he had taken a few bites, then pressed her knees against his flanks. He broke into a canter, back up toward the road.

Matilda let Timber have his head. He knew where he was going now: back to the stable at Drinkwater. She felt — free, she realised. Her father was gone. Somehow it felt right that the place of his death should vanish too, leaving green grass in its place.

She was alive and happy. Her father’s land was flourishing, as much as any land could under the hard skies of drought.

Rest in peace, Dad, she thought. She didn’t look back.

The homestead looked as beautiful as it had the first time she saw it, its windows red from the setting sun, the oaks turning autumn red as well.

A stockman came to meet her as she cantered up the driveway, lifting his hat and calling her ‘miss’, then taking the reins and her
saddlebag. He didn’t offer his name in return, so she just said thank you. She lifted her skirts as she climbed the three front steps.

‘Hello, cocky!’ Even the cockatoo seemed genuinely welcoming this time.

No kitchen door for her now. She hoped she didn’t look dishevelled after the ride. She had dusted the saddle and wiped the reins to make sure her dress didn’t get marked, and cleaned her face and hands with a wet handkerchief too before she came in sight of the homestead. She ran her hand over her hair, checking her plaits hadn’t come loose. It was even blonder out here than in the city, as though the hair had caught the colour of the sun.

‘My dear, how good to see you.’ Mrs Ellsmore glided forward, her green silk dress sweeping across the verandah, then reached up and kissed Matilda’s cheek. I’ve grown tall, thought Matilda. The older woman had not been shorter than her when they had met before.

‘Mrs Murphy will show you to your room so you can wash and change.’

Matilda bit her lip. It hadn’t occurred to her to wear something other than her best dress.

Mrs Ellsmore saw her expression. She laughed. ‘I’ve brought you a little something from town. Quite a few somethings. I had my dressmaker run you up a couple of dresses and some riding clothes.’

It was as though a good fairy had waved a wand. Hay and corrugated iron were wonderful gifts when you needed them, but a present she
didn’t
need was almost magic. She would look exactly like a girl from the Drinkwaters’ world now, the young lady Mum and Aunt Ann had hoped she’d become at Miss Thrush’s school.

‘Thank you!’

‘The skirts may be a little long — just tuck some material under your sash until you can take them up. Better too long than too short … Florence has been turning out her wardrobe too. She’s in Europe, you know. I expect she’s exhausting every dressmaker in London.’

‘No. I didn’t know.’ Matilda felt guilty relief. She’d have liked to talk to a girl her age, but she was also very aware that their worlds were different. Florence wouldn’t admire her sheep management, might even have condescended to her — or worse, mentioned in James’s and Bertram’s hearing that Matilda had arrived wearing her old clothes. ‘You didn’t want to go to Europe too?’

‘My sister-in-law is with them. I’ve lost my taste for travel these days.’ She laughed. ‘I’d never have got Florence to come back here with me again. She hates the flies and the heat. She is to come back home in December, but the boys will stay longer.’

‘The boys are in Europe too?’ So James wasn’t going to see her. Matilda was surprised at the pang of disappointment.

‘James is studying farm management over there, with some cousins of my late husband.’ She smiled, genuine happiness in her face. ‘And I probably shouldn’t mention it, as nothing has been announced yet, but, well, Florence and Bertram have an understanding. I know they are young, but it really has turned out so perfectly. Bertram is going to work at the London office of my late husband’s bank for a year, then take over the Australian branch when he returns.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Matilda politely.

So James was away, for another year at least, she supposed, or even more. Europe was so far away. He might get married there. Bring home an English girl with white skin and one of those clear
English voices. An English girl would hate it here at Drinkwater, even more than Florence.

‘Thank you, my dear. Oh, one last thing.’ Mrs Ellsmore lowered her voice. ‘I’ve brought you two pairs of stays. At your age — how old are you now, my dear?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Quite old enough for stays. Ring the bell for Mrs Murphy if you have trouble with them.’

Matilda nodded her thanks, then followed Mrs Murphy, who had been hovering just out of earshot, down the corridor then up the stairs to her room.

It was hotter up here, but the windows were open. Glass windows! There was cool water in the basin, and a tray with a glass and a jug of lemonade under a beaded doily as well. And on the bed …

Dress after dress was laid out on the brocade coverlet: two muslin day dresses, with frills and tucks; a plain dark blue serge skirt and two white blouses; a silk evening dress of embossed blue, so beautiful she had to stroke it; a funny baggy skirt that split into two, almost like trousers, that wouldn’t look rude even if she rode in them to town; stockings; four pairs of white cotton pantaloons with lace at the ankle; two pairs of lace gloves and one pair of leather; a straw hat, like a man’s boater; and three pairs of shoes — too small, she thought, but she could wet them, then stretch them. And the stays.

She took off her dress, used the cloth and basin to wash herself, slipped on a pair of pantaloons and then the stays. They were made of what felt like steel or whalebone, covered in silk, with cups for her breasts. They tied behind — awkward to reach but not impossible. A memory flooded back: lacing Mum’s stays for her, before she grew too ill to wear them.

Now the stockings, with garters to hold them up, and the evening dress, with a lower neck than she was used to, and shorter sleeves. Hard to reach the hooks and eyes, but she managed that too. She loved the feel of silk swirling about her, the whisper of the fabric. Lace gloves to hide her calluses. New shoes — never mind pinched feet for now.

She turned and stared at herself in the mirror.

She hadn’t looked in a mirror for … was it three years now? Not since Aunt Ann’s. She had — changed.

It wasn’t just that she was taller. A young woman looked back at her from the glass. It was a shock to see her father’s eyes in her half-familiar face. Her hair almost glowed even more brightly than Mum’s or Aunt Ann’s, or maybe it just looked more golden against her tanned skin — impossible to keep her skin a ladylike white out here.

She looked — good, she decided. Very good. She wished that James was here to see her like this, instead of stained and bedraggled. Or Tommy. But Tommy would just make some remark about skinny arms. She looked at her silk sleeves admiringly again.

Mr Drinkwater stood up when she entered the drawing room. He had changed for dinner too, a white shirt and short straggle of a tie, which she supposed was fashionable. ‘Good evening, Miss O’Halloran. You look lovely.’

‘Thank you,’ she said uncomfortably.

‘My sister isn’t down yet. Can I get you a sherry?’

‘A sherry?’ She looked at the straw-coloured liquid in the decanter. ‘That’s spirituous liquor, isn’t it?’

His lips twitched. ‘I believe it is. Lemonade? Fruit punch?’

‘Fruit punch, please. Mr Drinkwater …’ She had realised on the way back from the river that there was something she still owed to her father.

He turned, the jug in his hand. ‘Yes?’

‘My father … he didn’t burn your shearing shed down.’

He looked at her sharply. At least, she thought, he is taking me seriously. ‘How do you know?’

‘He told me so.’

‘You believed him? After all,’ he added gently, ‘you hadn’t known him long.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve thought about that. But he … he told me other things. Things he didn’t have to tell me. I don’t think he’d have lied. I … I think he was glad the shed had burned down,’ she added honestly. ‘He didn’t hide that. But I don’t think he’d have lied about it to me.’