Matilda's Last Waltz (16 page)

Yet, as the tears dried and the images lost their sharp edges, she came to understand that Matilda must have learned to fight back – to survive the horror of life with Mervyn – or there wouldn't have been any diaries. Her gaze fell on the remaining books. There was the proof, and in those silent pages lay the answers to all the questions her night's reading had brought.

‘Cooee! Breakfast.' Simone bustled into the room, her bright smile freezing as she looked at Jenny. ‘Whatever's the matter, luv? Bad night?'

Jenny shook her head, her emotions too jumbled to convey. She was still with Matilda, out on the plains, running for her life.

Simone dumped the heaped breakfast tray on the floor and stood, arms akimbo, surveying the scattered books on the bed. ‘I knew something like this would 'appen. You've been reading all night, haven't you? And now you've gone and got yourself all upset.'

Jenny was naked beneath the sheet, and felt strangely vulnerable beneath the older woman's concerned gaze. ‘I'm fine. Really,' she stammered.

Simone clucked like an agitated chook and scooped up the offending diaries, dumping them on the dressing table. ‘Never could make 'ead nor tail of all them words,' she said as she began to tidy up. ‘Brett'll have something to say if he finds out. Told me to make sure you got plenty of rest.'

Interesting, thought Jenny dryly. I didn't realise he was that sensitive to my needs. ‘Leave Mr Wilson to me, Simone,' she said firmly. ‘I'm a big girl now and can look after myself.'

She snorted, picked up the tray and planted it on the bed. ‘You'll feel better after a good breakfast.'

‘Thanks,' murmured Jenny, eyeing the fried eggs and thick, fatty bacon with a shudder. How could she eat when Matilda was being held prisoner? How could she concentrate on Simone's chatter when all she wanted to do was return to 1924?

Simone left the room, and minutes later Jenny thought she could hear the clatter of pots in the kitchen. Her eyelids fluttered as a distant orchestra played a waltz, and the smell of lavender drifted into the room. The mists of the past enfolded her, drawing her through tunnels of time and into deep, unforgiving sleep where her dreams were haunted by dark shadows and advancing hooves – and strong, violent hands.

Sweat sheened Jenny's skin as her eyes opened several hours later. She lay there, confused and disorientated, until she found the strength to snatch at reality and hold on firmly to it. Sunlight chased away the threads of the nightmares, the sounds of Churinga silencing the screams.

‘This is ridiculous,' she muttered, pulling the sheet around her as she swung out of bed. ‘I'm acting like a fool.'

Yet, as her gaze fell on the pile of books Simone had tidied away, she knew she would return to them. ‘But not yet,' she said firmly.

Wrapping the sheet more securely around her, she padded down the hall to the bathroom. The clatter of pots in the kitchen came to an abrupt halt and Simone appeared around the corner.

‘You didn't eat your breakfast,' she said sternly.

‘I wasn't hungry,' Jenny replied defensively. Why did Simone make her feel like a recalcitrant child?

The older woman gave her a thorough scrutiny, then sighed. ‘Thought you was crook so I made some nice soup.' She led Jenny firmly into the kitchen and pointed to the bowl of vegetables and meat and the hot damper bread she'd laid out on the table.

Jenny clutched the sheet, all too aware of her own nakedness. ‘I'm all right, Simone. Just tired after that long journey.' She forced a smile. ‘But the soup looks bonzer.'

Simone sat the other side of the table, thick white cup between her hands, tea the colour of mud steaming into her face. She watched closely as Jenny took three hearty spoonfuls of soup.

‘Delicious,' she murmured. And it was. Rich and filling, and just what she needed to chase away the remnants of the nightmares. The bowl was soon empty. ‘Now I must have a shower and get dressed.' She looked at her watch. ‘Is it really that late?'

‘If you're sure you're okay?' Simone didn't seem convinced, but she too glanced at her watch, and it was obvious she had other things to do. ‘I'll be in the yard feeding the chooks. If you need me, just holler.'

Jenny watched her clamber down the steps to the yard then disappear around the corner. Once she could no longer hear her footsteps, she headed for the shower.

Dressed and out on the porch several minutes later, her hair still wet but deliciously cool against her neck in the ferocious noon heat, she breathed in the aroma of sun on baked earth and watched the bustle of men at work. The shearing season was in full swing, and she was eager to see how much had changed since her childhood at Waluna.

The shearing shed was the largest building on Churinga. It stood high on firm brick pilings, surrounded by ramps. The air around it was laden with dust and the sound of men and sheep. Behind it was a labyrinth of pens.

As the shearers finished one sheep, another was sent up the ramp to replace it. The jackaroos, mostly young and black, herded the animals, voices high with excitement as they shouted commands to the dogs that raced over the woolly backs, nipping and snarling their bleating mob into some kind of order.

Jenny watched for a moment, the scene reminiscent of those days long ago when she'd stood just like this, by the sheep pens of Waluna. Nothing much changed out here, she thought. The old ways are still the best. She wandered off to the other side of the shed where naked sheep trampled down the ramps to the dipping tanks. Strong, sure arms lifted them out, dye stamped them, drenched and injected them before setting them free to complain in nearby pens. The work was hard beneath the merciless sun, but the men seemed cheerful, despite the sweat and strain it took to control the stupid beasts, and one or two of them took the time to shout a ‘G'ay, missus', before returning to the struggle.

Jenny nodded and smiled. At least they aren't ignoring me, she thought, turning away finally. But they must be wondering what the hell I'm doing here. Pete would have handled this so differently. He would have known what to do and say. Sensed how they felt about things and been able to put them right. She sighed. Being a woman counted for very little out here. Sydney and her burgeoning career as an artist seemed light years away.

Her aimless footsteps led her to the front of the shearing shed. In her years at Waluna, she remembered, as a child and then a teenager she'd fetched and carried and helped load the bundles on to the trucks. Shearing brought great excitement to the place, with extra men drafted in, the sheep herded in great numbers in the home paddocks, and an air of expectancy lifting the spirits. The woolshed had always been a place of wonder to her then. A place where men sweated and swore but were always cheerful. Now, after a hesitant pause, she climbed the steps.

And caught her breath. The cathedral arch of the roof brought light and space into a shed twice the size of the one at Waluna. This shearing hall was long and wide and echoed with the hum of electric shears and cheerful oaths. The smell of lanolin and wool, sweat and tar, was intoxicating, taking her back to her childhood, reminding her of all the years she'd missed since leaving for Sydney. Digging her hands into her pockets, Jenny stood quietly in the doorway and watched the bustle.

There were twenty shearers, each stripped to the waist, back bent over the complaining sheep clasped between their knees. The tar boy was about ten and skinny, with big brown eyes, very white teeth and skin the colour of molten chocolate. The tar bucket seemed too heavy for such frail arms, but as he raced to cauterise a nasty gash on a ewe's side, Jenny realised this was not so. That whippet frame was made of sturdy stuff.

Three men collected the newly shorn fleeces, threw them on the long table at the far end of the shed, skirted, classed and pressed them into bales, then added them to those already stacked and waiting to be transferred by truck to the nearest railhead. Jenny knew this was the most important job in the shed. It took real expertise to judge the quality of the fleece, and she wasn't surprised to note that Brett was one of the sorters.

She leaned against the door jamb and watched him work. Like the others, he'd stripped off his shirt. His broad shoulders and muscled chest gleamed with sweat beneath the harsh lights. White moleskins hugged slim hips, and the ever present hat was for once discarded. Thick, unruly black hair curled over his forehead and down his nape, the light catching its blue depths as he moved.

He was definitely the tall, dark type beloved of romantic novelists, and very handsome, but frankly strong, silent men could be a pain in the neck. You never knew what they were thinking, and it was impossible to have a decent conversation with them.

Good thing Diane's not here, she thought. She'd love all this masculine flesh, and would have Brett posing on one of her Moroccan cushions in five minutes flat. The image this conjured up made her giggle, and she looked away.

It took a few seconds for her to realise that the mood in the shed had changed, but as the giggle subsided she became aware of silent shears and eyes turned towards her. She searched one hostile face after another, her confidence wavering. Why were they looking at her like that? What had she done?

Brett's heavy tread shook the boards as he strode the length of the shed. His face was thunderous, hands clenched at his sides. The silence was deafening as dozens of eyes followed his progress.

She had not time to speak. No time to think. His hand was a vice around her arm as she was forced from the doorway and hustled down the steps to the yard.

Tearing away from him, Jenny rubbed the bruises he'd surely left on her arm. ‘How dare you?' she hissed. ‘What the hell do you think you're playing at?'

His grey eyes were as sharp as flints. ‘Women aren't allowed in the shed. It's bad luck.'

‘What!' She was so astounded words almost failed her.

‘You heard,' he said grimly. ‘Stay out of there.'

‘Of all the arrogant … How dare you talk to me like that?' Her fury was stoked by the knowledge that the men in the shed as well as the yard had stopped work and were taking a sharp interest.

‘I'm the manager and what I say goes around here, whether you're the boss or not. Shearing shed's no place for women. They cause accidents,' he said firmly.

She was about to give him a piece of her mind when he turned away and disappeared back into the shed. Aware of curious eyes and listening ears, she bit down on the angry retort and fumed silently. Bastard! Who the hell did he think he was?

She thought about going back into the shed and having it out with him then and there, but knew it would only cause her more humiliation. So she scuffed her boot heels in the dust, rammed her fists into her pockets and headed for the paddock. Of all the insufferable, pig-headed, rude men she'd ever had the misfortune to meet, that one took some beating. And, boy, did he know how to wind her up.

The stock horses looked at her with mild curiosity before returning to crop the grass. She leaned on the top bar of the fence and watched them, her temper cooling, the heat of her embarrassment waning as the minutes ticked by. What's the matter with me? she wondered. I'm usually so calm, so in charge of my emotions. Why did I let him get under my skin like that?

A warm breeze rippled through the grass as if invisible feet had danced through the paddock. She shivered. The magic of Churinga was touched by something dark and powerful. She could feel its presence, hear the music it brought with it.

Her thoughts turned to the diaries and the still silence of the cemetery. Like Matilda, she'd been enchanted. Now she was wary – perhaps afraid. Her reason for coming had been curiosity, a need to find the roots she'd left far behind in her search for fulfilment – yet she couldn't help feeling the agenda had been changed. She was really here because of Matilda. Here because a fourteen-year-old girl needed to tell her story to someone who would understand.

Jenny sighed. She should never have come. She had hoped for too much, had looked to Churinga to show her the way now Peter and Ben were gone – and Churinga had merely brought confusion.

She left the horses to their grazing and wandered listlessly around the other buildings. There were barns full of hay, sheds full of machinery and oil drums, men bent to their chores, sheep bleating and fussing in the pens. Her footsteps led her finally to the dog breeding kennels.

The puppies were enchanting: bright eyes, wobbly legs and fluffy wisps of tails. She scooped one up and nuzzled him. His tongue rasped her face and she laughed. There was nothing like a small animal to chase away the blues.

‘Put that bloody pup down!'

Jenny froze, the puppy squirming in her arms. She'd had enough of Brett Wilson for one day. ‘This isn't the wool shed, Mr Wilson. I'll put it down when I'm ready,' she retorted.

The silence stretched as grey eyes held violet.

‘Those dogs aren't pets. Everything around here has to earn its keep – and that includes the pups. If they don't make good sheep herders, they're put down.'

‘I bet they are,' she snapped. ‘Pity they don't do the same for rude managers.'

Gold flecks glinted in his eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Shooting the manager seems a bit drastic, Mrs Sanders.'

Jenny buried her face in the puppy's silky fur. The man was laughing at her, and she didn't want him to see the answering mirth in her own eyes.

He jammed his hands into his pockets. ‘Reckon we got off to a bad start, Mrs Sanders. How about calling a truce?'

‘It wasn't me who declared war,' she said firmly as she looked up at him.

‘Neither did I,' he said with a sigh. ‘But in a place like this there have to be rules. Accidents happen in a shearing shed when the men are distracted. And, believe me, you would distract them.'

His eyes settled on her for a long moment, the glint of humour still in evidence. ‘As for the pups…' He sighed. ‘It's more difficult to kill them once you've made a pet of them.'