A Waltz for Matilda (5 page)

The old man looked down. ‘What you want, girly?’ His breath smelled like the garbage bins in Grinder’s Alley. She clenched her fists to give her courage.

‘I need to get to Moura.’

‘You mean Jim O’Halloran’s place?’

She looked up at him eagerly. ‘You know my dad?’

‘Your dad!’

Three of the men stared down at her. The fourth, the thin man from the train, was checking his notebook again.

‘I … I’ve come to stay with him.’

Grey-beard stared, open-mouthed, showing gaps in his long yellow teeth. ‘Jim O’Halloran’s got a daughter?’

‘Shh.’ Brown-beard nudged him in the ribs, not gently. ‘Bloke’s got a right to have a daughter, ain’t he?’ He took a swig from the jug and passed it on.

‘Then why ain’t we ever seen her? You mean Jim O’Halloran had a wife too?’

‘I had a wife once,’ said Brown-beard reminiscently. ‘Way back when I was working on the Murray. Dunno what happened to her, but.’

‘Mum and I have been living in the city. But she … she died.’

‘Ah, too bad,’ said White-beard. But there was no real sympathy in it. White-beard sounded as though he’d need worse than the death of one woman to show real sympathy.

‘Woman’s got a right to live in the city,’ said Brown-beard. ‘Got a right to live anywhere she chooses.’

‘Nah, she ain’t,’ said Grey-beard. ‘She oughtta be at home cookin’ her bloke’s tea. That right, Mr O’Reilly?’

The thin man looked up. ‘Our fight is for the rights of working men
and
working women.’

‘Women got a right to work, sure enough. But they should be doin’ it in the kitchen,’ Grey-beard concluded.

‘Or the bedroom.’ Brown-beard chuckled.

‘None o’ that,’ said White-beard. He grabbed back the stone jug. ‘Ladies present.’

‘A man’s got a right to say —’ began Brown-beard.

‘Please,’ said Matilda. Her head was swimming. ‘Can you take me to my father?’

‘No worries, girly. Your dad’s a union man, ain’t he? One o’ our own. You don’t leave one o’ your own in the dust.’

‘Got to stand together, arm to arm.’ Brown-beard bent down a leathery hand. One finger was missing. ‘Plenty o’ room in the wagon. I’m Bluey,’ he added. He gestured to the grey-bearded man. ‘This here’s Whitey Gotobed.’

‘An’ I’m Curry and Rice,’ said the other man, moving aside as Bluey swung Matilda up as though she was a chicken feather. Matilda shoved a blob of what she hoped was dirt away with her boot, then put her bundle down and sat on it. Could it be as easy as this? ‘You’ll really take me to Dad’s farm?’

‘Nah, no need,’ said Mr Gotobed. ‘Take you to tonight’s meeting. Your dad’ll be there, all right. He’s a union man.’

‘What’s a union?’

Mr O’Reilly looked up from his notebook again. His voice was dry as the dust but more precise. ‘A union is a brotherhood of men, joined together to fight the oppressor.’

‘The oppressor is them as owns the stations,’ put in Bluey. ‘A man has a right to sell his own labour, ain’t that right? An’ a right to … to …’

‘To withdraw it too. To strike,’ finished Mr O’Reilly. ‘A union is where any group of workers joins together to fight for better conditions, whether they be in a shearing shed or factory. The Shearers’ Union formed three years ago, when the men who owned the stations tried to lower the pay rates. Shearers across the country came out on strike.’ He could have been reading a railway timetable. ‘Our job is now not just to force employers to let their men join unions, but to make just laws for the
whole country.’ He took out his ink, dipped in his pen, and made another note.

‘Oh,’ said Matilda.

Mr Gotobed scratched his white beard. Matilda hoped he didn’t have fleas. Or worse. The men smelled like they’d never had a bath in their lives or washed their clothes. ‘We didn’t go on strike round here, ‘cause old Drinkwater didn’t cut our pay. But when your dad started a local branch of the union a year ago, the old bast—’

‘Biscuit,’ said Matilda firmly. Aunt Ann had warned her that men were inclined to swear if you didn’t watch them.

‘The old, er,
biscuit
said he’d sack any man what joined. He weren’t having no boss on his place but him. So we went on strike, the lot of us. Mr O’Reilly here has come to address us —’

‘That means to talk at us,’ put in Curry and Rice.

‘A man has a right to free speech.’ That was Bluey.

Matilda nodded, to seem polite. None of it made sense, except that she’d see her father soon. And maybe … ‘Will — will there be food at the meeting?’

Mr Gotobed looked at her, as though she’d said something that actually sank in. ‘You hungry, girly?’

She nodded. There’d been a dining car, but she had only one and sixpence left, and that was for emergencies. The other second-class passengers had brought food with them. The fat woman had given her a couple of the children’s rusks, but apart from the guard’s biscuits that had been her only food all day.

Mr Gotobed scratched his hair. ‘Give you a drop o’ grog if you want.’ He offered her the stone jug.

‘No, thank you,’ said Matilda politely. Aunt Ann said that the devil was in spirituous liquors, and anyone who drank them.
These men didn’t seem to have the devil in them, but she still didn’t want to risk it.

‘Girl’s got a right to eat,’ said Bluey. He cupped his hands over his mouth. ‘Hey, ma!’ he yelled to the elegant woman waiting on the other side of the tracks. ‘You got anythin’ to eat? This girl’s half starved.’

For a moment Matilda thought the woman wasn’t going to answer. Then to her surprise she nodded. ‘There are the remains of our luncheon in the basket. You are welcome to them if you want.’

‘Good on yer, lady.’ Bluey swung himself down from the wagon and stepped across the rails. He opened the wicker basket at the woman’s feet, then piled the contents into his shirt. ‘You don’t want a lift too, do yous?’

‘No, thank you, my good man. My half-brother, Mr Drinkwater, should be here any moment.’

Bluey’s face flushed with anger as well as drink. ‘You related to that old bast—’ he glanced over at Matilda,
‘biscuit?
I should throw this stuff down in the dust and trample on it.’

‘And then the child will stay hungry.’ The woman’s voice was calm. ‘If you men wish to dream up new laws for the country, I suggest you learn to think before you act.’

‘A man has a right to —’

‘Did I say you hadn’t? Now good day to you.’

She turned away.

Good for her, thought Matilda. She was stuck up, and hadn’t even smiled at her. But in a way she reminded her of Aunt Ann and Mrs Dawkins: women who met the world face on.

Bluey brought the food over the train line, muttering under his breath. He passed the bundle up before he levered himself into the cart.

Matilda took it eagerly. A whole chicken, wrapped in greaseproof paper, with only a few slices and two wings gone. She hadn’t eaten chicken since the Christmas before last! Thin-sliced bread and butter, still soft and fresh, what must be most of a tin of digestive biscuits, three hunks of dark moist fruitcake, an apple, an orange … how much had someone packed for one woman and a girl to eat?

She spread out her shawl to hold it all, with the cake and the chicken on the paper so as not to get fat stains on the cloth.

‘Would any of you like some too?’

Curry and Rice waved the jug. ‘We’re right, girly. You tuck in. Let’s get the horses movin’,’ he added. ‘We’ll never get Mr O’Reilly to the meetin’ if we stand here all day. We got a new nation to make, remember!’

‘I’m a goin’.’ Mr Gotobed clicked the reins.

Hoofbeats sounded behind them. Matilda turned in time to see a carriage emerge from the trees, shiny blue with yellow scrollwork. Even the big wheels looked clean.

Three horsemen rode behind. It was hard to make them out at first, for the sun was behind them, throwing their faces into shadow and making a golden halo about them all: a man in a white shirt, black necktie and straw hat, and two boys, dressed much like the man, one a couple of years older than her, the other sixteen, perhaps, controlling his big horse so easily that he didn’t even have to tug the reins to make it stop.

Matilda caught her breath; Mum’s voice was whispering to her again …
a golden man.

They all looked golden, the boys even more than the man: skins browned by the sun, not by dirt or grease. But it was the shine of their horses’ coats too, the clean, ironed shirts, the pale
trousers even out here in the dust, the fresh-looking hats without even sweat stains at the band or rim.

They glowed, as though each had his own special sun.

It was her father. It had to be. A golden man, just like Mum had said. But then she looked at the boys again, so obviously the man’s sons. She was her mother’s only child, she was sure of that. Had her father been married before he met Mum?

She stood up, wishing she had a dress all white lace with ruffles, like the other girl. If only her hair wasn’t limp with dust and travel. Maybe her face was smutty too.

The man lifted his hat. His hair was grey and tightly clipped, and his moustache was white. He turned slightly, so his face was no longer in shadow. He was old, she realised. His upright seat on the horse, a trick of the shadow, had made him seem young.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you, my dear.’

He spoke to the girl in white. Matilda put up her hand to attract his attention. He thinks she’s me, she thought. That’s what he’d like his daughter to be. All neat and white, not in a droopy black dress with a bundle. Then she realised the man was speaking to the woman, not the girl.

The woman smiled up at him. ‘You are always late, Cecil.’

Matilda sat down. This must be Mr Drinkwater, the woman’s half-brother, the man who had employed the men she was with. He must be the boys’ grandfather, she thought. He’s too old to be their father.

Mr Drinkwater smiled, showing white teeth. Matilda had never seen an old man with white teeth like that.

‘I prostrate myself with apology. Will that do?’

‘No excuse, then?’

He laughed. ‘No good one. The boys and I were out hunting.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Successful?’

‘Just one buck this morning.’ That was the older boy. He grinned, showing perfect teeth too, then lifted his hat to the girl. ‘I’ll teach you to shoot, if you like, Cousin Florence.’

The girl shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘Don’t be horrid, Cousin James.’

‘Ha.’ The older woman waved away the flies that were trying to get through her veil. ‘Shame on you, James. And Bertram too. You and your father would rather shoot roos than meet your cousin’s train.’

‘Not roos.’ There was laughter in the older boy’s voice. ‘Natives. They’ve been spearing the sheep again. But they won’t dare try anything for a while after this.’ He was showing off to his city cousin, but his words still rang true.

Matilda stared. People? They had been shooting people. And none of these people seemed to find it strange.

Maybe … maybe the boy had been joking. She looked at him again. He and his brother had slid off their horses now, and were helping the carriage driver put the luggage in the back.

‘Hey, Drinkwater!’ Bluey raised the jug at him. ‘You been ter any good fires lately?’

Fires? thought Matilda. What about shooting people?

Mr Drinkwater swung round and gazed at the men in the cart. ‘Was that your work?’ His voice was quiet, but it burned through the air like boiling water.

Bluey laughed. ‘Us? We knows nothin’ about no fires, does we, lads?’

Mr Drinkwater looked at them, slowly, one by one. ‘Whoever burned my shearing shed will go to gaol. Three troopers arrived on last week’s train. Didn’t you hear?’

‘We heard,’ said Mr Gotobed. ‘Maybe them troopers o’
yours’ll go to the meetin’ tonight. Maybe they’ll decide not to work fer the boss, but cast themselves in with their brothers.’

‘If you have a brother, Gotobed, he is living under a rock. You watch yourself. The troopers will do their duty.’

‘I’m shiverin’ in me boots,’ said Mr Gotobed.

The older Drinkwater boy — James — glared at the men in the cart. ‘You remember who you’re talking to. You’re on Drinkwater land here.’

‘This is a public road,’ said Bluey. ‘Man’s got a right to ride on a public road.’

‘You put one foot off it and my father will have you arrested.’

‘James, Bertram, come on. There is no point arguing with riffraff.’ Mr Drinkwater swung himself down from his horse, and held his hand out to the woman and then the girl to help them into the carriage. The boys mounted their horses again.

Such wonderful big horses, thought Matilda. She had always wanted to try riding a horse. The boys sat comfortably, as though the giant animals were armchairs.

My dad has a farm too, she thought. Maybe next time she met the boys she would be wearing a new dress, with her face washed and her hair long and shiny. The boys would look at her like they looked at their Cousin Florence now.

But these boys hunted people … or did they?

‘Come on,’ said Bluey. ‘Let’s get goin’. I don’t like the smell around here.’

Mr O’Reilly looked up from his notebook. ‘I would not want to be late for the meeting,’ he said, in his small, passionless voice.

Mr Gotobed clicked the reins again.

The carriage with its two big horses passed them before they had gone half a mile, the riders cantering past without even looking down.

‘Why was Mr Drinkwater so angry?’ asked Matilda.

Mr Gotobed grinned. ‘When we went out on strike, Drinkwater brought in scabs to shear his sheep.’

‘Scabs are men who take the jobs of men who are striking,’ put in Mr O’Reilly precisely.

‘So somehow old Drinkwater’s shearin’ shed burned down. Can’t shear sheep with no shed,’ said Mr Gotobed with satisfaction. ‘The old, er, biscuit is goin’ to have 20,000 wool-blind sheep knocking about his property if he don’t allow the union on his place.’

‘What’s wool-blind?’

‘Wool grows over their eyes so’s they can’t see. Wool gets all daggy too, burrs and whatnot. He’ll get half price a bale if he’s lucky.’

‘But that’s cruel — to the sheep I mean.’