A Waltz for Matilda (9 page)

She shut the drawers, staring around at the carefully smoothed walls, the wooden planks so carefully fitted together for the floor. It was like the story, but totally unlike it too. Here was the house he had been building, with a bedroom for her. Here was the farm. But there were no woolly sheep, and no cow or pink pig, like the farm book at Aunt Ann’s. Most importantly, no father.

She put her bundle down in the room she supposed had been meant for her, and opened its shutters too, fastening them against the wall with a leather thong to stop them banging in the wind.

The vegetables were still on the verandah. She carried them in, then looked on the work bench. Yes, a box of matches.

There was no newspaper to make a fire, but at one end of the verandah she found a box of dried leaves and kindling. She brought in an armful, then went outside again to fetch wood from the heap. The bird had stopped calling now. The valley breathed silence.

She reached for the top bit of wood, neatly sawn from a tree trunk. Something black slithered from under the heap into the rocks behind.

Snake! She felt her heart leap. If it had bitten her there was no one here to suck out the poison. She’d have to be careful where she trod and put her hands. At least that had looked like a red-belly, not as vicious, or as deadly, as the occasional brown that had hidden in the gardens at Aunt Ann’s.

It took two matches before the leaves caught, and then the twigs. For a moment she thought the fireplace wouldn’t draw, as
smoke puffed into the room. And then the fire flared properly and the air cleared.

She peered into the pot. It had been scoured clean and there was no dust in it either. Which meant that someone (she hoped her father) had been here lately. She carried the pot out to the stream — or pool rather, for the water ran no more than a few feet before it vanished into the stones. She bent and drank, scooping the water with her hands. It was surprisingly cold, with a tang like tin.

A shadow swung above her. She looked up. A cage hung from a branch wedged into the rocks. It looked like the fly-proof cool safe at Aunt Ann’s, but bigger, and made of canvas instead of tin. She opened the door.

Food — proper food. A hunk of cheese, a bit dry around the edges. A can of golden syrup, safe from the ants. She took a deep breath of relief. Someone had left these recently. Was there more food inside the house?

There was. The bench was a hollow chest. When she lifted the seat she found a sack of flour, a smaller bag of salt, a tin of tea and four cans filled with old dripping, a candle wick in each. There was a sealed tin of fresh dripping too. She sniffed it. It smelled fresh, rich and fatty, and just faintly of sheep.

She hesitated to use the stores — her father would expect them to be as he’d left them when he returned. But if he did come back, perhaps he’d like to find food waiting for him. She could show him she would be useful.

Her mind shut down on the question of why she needed to prove anything to the man who had brought her into the world.

In the end she decided to make soup, the vegetables that Mr Doo had given her browned in the dripping, with water added. If she cooked it long enough the potatoes would thicken it.

She made another trip down to the pool, washing the vegetables in the pot so she didn’t dirty the water, then washing the soil out of the pot again. For a moment she wished she had a geranium like the woman in the last hut, to pour the dirty water onto: just one bright flower, in this world of gum-tree green and rock.

There was a knife and a toasting fork by the hearth. It was strangely comforting, chopping, heating the dripping in the pot next to the fire, browning the potatoes, the carrots and the cabbage, just as she had under Aunt Ann’s eagle eye or back in Mrs Dawkins’s kitchen, holding the now hot handle with her skirt when she took the pot out for a fourth time, to cover the vegetables with water.

The fire needed more wood. She made several trips this time, choosing the thickest pieces — hard-knotted hunks of tree that should keep burning all night if she piled the ashes over them — so she wouldn’t have to waste another match.

She felt even hotter and dirtier by the time she’d finished. There was soap in her bundle. She should have washed before she put the vegetables in the pot, she realised. Then she could have washed inside.

She glanced at the tiny pool of water. It would be so good to be clean. Maybe if she wet herself and her hair, she could soap herself, then scoop out water to wash it off, without filling the waterhole with scum.

But to be naked, out in the open! She glanced up at the cliffs, tall and silent. There was no one to see her, except the eagle, hovering above. And she needn’t take all her clothes off at once.

In the end she washed her hair first, then under her skirt, undoing the buttons and pushing the top of the dress down to her waist just for a few minutes.

She’d have liked to wash her dress too, and her petticoats. They weren’t just dirty — they smelled of old cabbage leaves, and perspiration, and coal smuts from the train. I’ll wash them tomorrow, she thought. Tonight she’d put on Mum’s second dress — it was her good one, but she wouldn’t get it dirty.

The valley was in shadow now. Only a bright rim of gold and red showed at the far end of the gorge. Small scurryings in the shadows could be anything. Maybe snakes …

Why not ghosts too, while you’re at it? she told herself. Or bogeymen. It was too cold for snakes at night. The noises were probably just possums, like back at Aunt Ann’s. She’d seen their droppings on the verandah.

It was even darker inside. She hesitated, then lit one of the candles. She didn’t really need it, not yet, but its light and the red glow from the fire were comforting. She shut the door and the shutters. At least anything that lurked outside couldn’t come in now. She took off her still-damp shoes in the bedroom. There was no newspaper to stuff into them, to keep their shape, but they’d dry more slowly here away from the fire, so hopefully the leather wouldn’t crack.

She pulled out one of the sheepskins and stretched it over the narrow bed, covered it with a blanket, and arranged her spare clothes and shawl as a pillow, stirred the pot, then wondered what to do next. She had a feeling that once she stopped doing things the loneliness might be too hard to bear.

Nonsense, she thought. I’ve borne worse than this. I have a roof over my head — a good roof and waterproof, by the look of it. No mouse droppings, no cockroaches scuttling in the corners, no fug of coal smoke, no factory in the morning.

No Mum, no stories whispered as she fell asleep. No Tommy, comforting bearer of sandwiches and friendship. No Mr Ah Ching.

She ran her hands through her hair to get more knots out. It was almost dry now, and reached her waist. The ends looked red in the firelight. She stirred the soup. The potatoes weren’t quite dissolved, but she was almost too hungry to wait. Her eye caught the strange green fruit on the table. She cut a slice off the top. It was bright red inside, even in the dim light. She sniffed it. It smelled sweet and good.

It was. She cut another hunk, and another, nibbling the red right down to the peel. The juice left her skin sticky, but she wasn’t going out into the growing dark to wash it. She’d have to explore the shed tomorrow, in full daylight, keeping a wary eye out for snakes. There might be a bucket in there, so she could keep water in the house.

The fruit had revived her. Suddenly she thought of the tatty edges of the blankets. At least there were needles and thread in her bundle. She fetched them, then crouched by the light of the fire and lamp, and began to darn, turning the edges over neatly.

The familiar routine was soothing too. She began to hum, and then to sing a lullaby that Mum had sung:

‘Sleep then, my pretty one, sleep,

Fast flow the waters so deep …’

The door was flung open.

‘Who the flamin’ hell are you?’

She struggled to her feet, her sewing slipping to the floor, then ran behind the table, to keep a barrier behind her and the stranger. It wasn’t till he’d hung his hat on the peg inside the door that she realised who he was, who he had to be.

Her father.

He was … nothing special. No glow of gold. Not tall and handsome as her mother had described, but not ugly either. Just a work-worn man. You could pass him on the street and never look at him again.

Brown eyes like hers; black hair and beard, roughly trimmed; tanned skin, creased about the eyes; pants and shirt washed till they had lost all colour, like most of the clothes she’d seen yesterday; gaping boots tied together with twine; a bundle tied with more twine in his hand.

Strong, though. Had she remembered that?

‘Dad?’

‘What the —’ He stared at her. ‘You’re not Matilda?’

She nodded.

He let the bundle drop. ‘Well.’

Once again, it was nowhere near what she had hoped, but not what she had feared, either. At least he knew who she was. Despite her fantasies she had been half afraid that he might not even remember her, his mind rotted by spirituous liquor, or that he might not return to the house for weeks or even months, perhaps ever. She had even been afraid he might be one of those men who had two families or even more, leaving one and travelling to the north or west, starting afresh, leaving their wives and children never knowing where they had gone or even if they were alive.

But he was here, at least.

He moved his bundle near to the bench, still gazing at her, then shut the door behind him.

‘What are you doing here?’

He didn’t sound unfriendly or angry, just bewildered.

‘I wrote you a letter. Lots of letters.’

He shook his head. ‘Haven’t had a letter for a year. More ’n that, I reckon. Drinkwater’s men pick up the mail bags for round here from the train. Reckon the old bast— I reckon Drinkwater only passes the mail on to those he likes.’

‘He doesn’t like you?’

It was as though he hadn’t heard the question. A smile twisted his face. It looked almost familiar, and then she realised; she had seen that twist of the lips when she’d looked in the mirror back at Aunt Ann’s. ‘My Matilda,’ he said softly. ‘I never thought …’

Tears prickled. It sounded like … like he really was glad to see her. More than that …

‘You’re really here. My daughter. In my house.’ He took a step toward her, uncertain. She walked to him in a daze, felt his arms
around her, her face pressed into his shirt. It smelled of sheep and sweat.

She had never been hugged by a man before.

He grabbed her shoulders and held her back, staring into her face. ‘You’ve your mother’s hair,’ he said slowly. ‘Your great-gran’s eyes. The shape of her face too.’

‘You mean your grandmother?’

He nodded. ‘Aye.’

Excitement lit a flame inside her. ‘You mean I have more relatives? I can meet them?’

The happiness on his face vanished, as though someone had blown out the lamp. ‘No. Not any more.’ He stepped back. ‘Matilda …’ He said that name as though he loved the sound. ‘What are you doing here? Your ma —’ he added sharply, looking toward the other rooms. ‘Is she here too? Why aren’t you at Ann’s?’

‘It’s just me.’ She didn’t know how not to make it hurt. ‘Aunt Ann died a year ago.’

He sat on the bench, gesturing to her to take the horsehair sofa. ‘I’m sorry. I liked your Auntie Ann.’ The smile twisted his lips again. ‘I think she liked me too, in a way, though she told your ma not to marry me. But what about your ma? What does she think about you being here?’

‘Dad.’ Somehow the word and the man didn’t quite fit together yet. ‘I’m sorry; Mum’s dead.’

She expected him to cry, as she had done. Instead he just said, ‘I’m sorry, girl. Must have been hard for you. I wish I’d known.’

‘You … you’re not sorry for
you
though. Are you?’ she said slowly.

He met her eyes — his brown eyes, so like hers. ‘No, Matilda. With your ma gone, I’m free.’

She shivered at the matter-of-factness in his voice; there was almost even a touch of joy. He’s just happy to see me, she told herself, not happy that Mum is dead.

But it hurt, nonetheless, that the only person who would cry for Mum’s death was her.

Suddenly the word ‘free’ struck her. Free for what? She stared at him, this dark man so different from her imaginings, this father who she knew not at all.

The pot on the hearth gave a glop.

He glanced over at it, then gave her a tentative smile. ‘Smells good.’

‘A man named Mr Doo gave me the vegetables. He brought me here.’

‘The Chinaman? He didn’t hurt you?’

‘No,’ she said gently. ‘He was kind.’

‘Yes, well.’ He nodded at the pot. ‘Let’s be tasting it.’

‘Are there bowls?’

‘False bottom in the chest in the bedroom. I’ll get ‘em.’ He saw her look. ‘I’m away a lot. There’s bast—
blokes
out there who’d steal the salt from a man’s body given half a chance, my oath they would. No need to make it easy for ‘em.’

She pulled the pot away from the heat, and stirred it again. The vegetables had caught on the bottom. She hoped her father didn’t notice. He handed her the bowls — deep tin plates really — and a couple of spoons. They’d been good once. Now the silver was worn so thin the edges were almost sharp.

‘I’m sorry, there was no meat.’

‘No matter.’ He spooned a bit up. ‘It’s good.’

She tasted it. ‘No, it isn’t. It needs salt.’ And it had a burned taste to it too.

He laughed. ‘It tastes good to a hungry man. It’s better than most things I’ve eaten. Maybe you’ve got your aunt’s touch with cookin’, girl.’

‘Not my mother’s?’

He kept his eyes on his soup. ‘Not unless she changed in the past few years.’

‘Dad … Why did you stop sending money? Why didn’t you tell us the house was built? We could have come out here.’ And Mum might still be alive, she thought, if she’d had this fresh, dry air to breathe.

‘You and your ma did come here,’ he said shortly. ‘Any more o’ that soup?’

She filled his bowl automatically. ‘No, we didn’t.’