Matilda's Last Waltz (26 page)

Jenny's voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I envy you. Dajarra fed me and gave me an education but the Sisters of Mercy didn't have it in them to spare time for affection.' She sighed. ‘That sort of start makes you wary and perhaps too self-sufficient – so you trust no one. Reckon that's what makes me cautious about this place.' She looked up at him and smiled. ‘And you,' she added mischievously.

Brett's opinion of Jenny was changing fast. This was no spoilt Sydney brat but a scared little girl who hid her loneliness and pain behind a wall of false assurance. She reminded him of a colt he'd once had. It'd been beaten by its owner until it trusted no one. It had taken many months of patience and gentle handling before it was healed.

‘I didn't realise it was that bad,' he murmured. It was all he could think of to say.

Jenny swept aside his sympathy. ‘Tell me about when you were a kid, Brett.'

He stubbed out his cigarette and scooped up the puppy, which promptly fell asleep in his lap. Jenny grinned back at him. A grin that told him they were friends.

‘We lived in Mossman up in Queensland. My dad was a cane cutter so we never saw much of him. There was always one more season to see through until he had enough money to buy a place. It did for him in the end. The cane's a bastard. Full of vermin and biting insects which infect the cuts and sores you get from the fields.'

Jenny had his full attention, but he lit another cigarette and shifted the pup to a more comfortable spot on his lap. He didn't want to depress her with tales of the grinding poverty of his childhood, but neither did he want to sweep it aside as if it meant nothing. Mum had struggled too long and hard in that rented shack for him to do that. The cane had killed her eventually but in a different way from his father.

‘There were four of us kids. John the eldest stayed in the cane fields with my other brother, Davey. I reckon they couldn't get enough of the smell of molasses.' He grunted. ‘I hated that smell. It was sweet and overpowering. Always in the house, your clothes, your hair.'

‘What was it like? I lived in Dajarra until I was seven and although it was in the heart of cane country we were surrounded by grazing land and mountains. The sheep station in Queensland where I was fostered wasn't far enough north to grow cane.'

‘It's another world. Hot, humid, fly-infested and snake-bit. The heat saps your energy, the sweat's constant, the cane demanding.' He paused, remembering how it could be. ‘Beautiful, though. You should see a field of cane in the wind – like a great, green sea, shifting and floating. But there's few white Australians who'd work it. It takes a special breed of man to survive that life.'

He stroked the pup's ear and thought about how things were changing in the cane. Soon there would only be machines to do the work of hundreds, and men like his brothers would have to find something else to do for a living.

‘After the war the immigrants took over and it was difficult to find anyone who spoke the same language. The orientals, the Italians and the Greeks are the best cutters, but times are changing and once the machines take over there will only be the legends of the cane fields left.'

Jenny pushed another beer across the table. ‘Go on,' she said quietly.

He took a long drink before he spoke again. It was almost as if he needed to rid himself of the taste of molasses and the memory of the thick, choking smoke when they burned the fields prior to cutting.

‘We moved from one rented shack to another. Always a few miles away from the fields so Dad could visit. But we never saw much of him even then. He was always off with the other cutters. They had a strange kind of fellowship, those blokes. Women didn't figure much in their lives and I wonder now why. Dad ever got married. He must have seen us as a burden, and his promise of a proper home was something I think even he knew was a day-dream.'

‘So you had it tough, too?' she said with quiet understanding.

He stubbed out his cigarette and began to stroke the sleeping puppy. He must have said more tonight than he usually did in a whole month. But she was easy to talk to and he didn't regret it.

‘What you never had, you never miss,' he said lightly. ‘We were happy enough, and Mum did her best to make us feel special.'

Brett fell silent, thinking about the bad times. There had been days when Mum was too tired to take in the washing, and he and his brothers would sweat over the old copper so the money wouldn't stop coming in. To this day he didn't know how his frail, slender mother had managed to lift out those heavy, boiling hot blankets and sheets in that steam furnace of Queensland's cane country. But she did. Day after day after day.

Jenny remained silent, as if she understood his need to keep some of his thoughts private.

Brett had slipped back into the past. He remembered the times when Dad had been too crook to cut cane. Jaundice attacks were frequent, each one making him weaker, until he no longer had the strength to return to the fields. The end was slow in coming, and Brett thought of his father, broken and yellow, waiting to die in that dingy shack. To this day he would never understand what drove a man to kill himself for the cane.

‘Dad was a big bloke,' he said finally. ‘He could pick us all up in those great arms of his, and carry us around the room at a run. But after the cane got to him, he died weighing not much more than six stone.'

‘I never realised cane could do that to a man,' Jenny said quietly. ‘We take sugar so lightly, without a thought for where it's come from or the price some man has paid to get it cut. I'm sorry your dad had to die like that.'

Brett shrugged. ‘He chose to live that way, Jenny. And someone's got to do it. I decided early on it wasn't for me, though. John and Davey stayed on after Mum died, but Gil and I moved south to jackaroo on the sheep and cattle stations. Gil stayed in Queensland and eventually bought a property, but I moved further south. I've worked with sheep since I was sixteen and never regretted it.'

He saw her stifle a yawn and picked up the pup. ‘Reckon this little bloke needs his kip. About time I was off as well. I expect you're sick of me running off at the mouth.'

‘No,' she said quickly, her expression serious. ‘Thanks for telling me about your life, Brett. I hope it didn't bring back too many bad memories. They can be painful – I know.'

He smiled and shook his head. ‘Why don't you come riding with me tomorrow morning, and I'll show you the rest of Churinga? Perhaps, if you see it the way I do, you'll understand why it's special.'

She cocked her head, eyes bright with mischief. ‘Are you sure you can be spared?'

He laughed. ‘I won't be missed. It's Sunday.'

‘In that case, Brett, I'd love to.' She took the puppy from him and nuzzled the sleepy head with her lips.

‘See you in the morning then? We'll leave early so it's still cool.'

She nodded, her smile lighting up her face.

Brett pushed through the screen door. He was very tired, but he doubted he'd sleep at all tonight.

*   *   *

Jenny stood in the doorway, the pup in her arms as she watched him cross the yard. He walked with a long, easy stride, his hands deep in his moleskins' pockets. She smiled and kissed the top of Ripper's head. Brett was good company once he'd lost that arrogant, bossy veneer, and his gift of the puppy had been just what she needed after those tears for Matilda.

The pup whimpered in its sleep, paws paddling as though he was running. He lay warm and heavy in her arms as she carried him back into the kitchen and made up a bed and dirt box for him. With a blanket stuffed into a vegetable crate, she settled him down for the night.

As she undressed for bed, she knew she couldn't just put the diaries to one side and forget about them. They were meant to be read – it was why Matilda had left them.

Yet Brett was right. She must look to the future and place less importance on the things which had happened here so long ago. It was up to her to find the same music he and Matilda had found here. Then perhaps she too could call it home.

Chapter Ten

It was Sunday, and Ma's clanging of the tucker bell was an hour later than usual. Jenny lay for a moment, luxuriating in the cool comfort of early morning. Then, as she remembered her plans for the day, she climbed out of bed. She soon discovered she ached all over from the previous day's ride, and her extra little toe was almost rubbed raw from the pressure of the new boots she'd worn.

Ripper's eyes peeked between the folds of the sheets, one ear flattened to his head, and Jenny laughed as she untangled him. ‘Bad dog,' she murmured. ‘I made you a bed in the kitchen.'

He was unrepentant and licked her face as she carried him out to the back porch, then scampered off into the grass and cocked his leg.

Jenny limped back into the kitchen to find some ointment and a plaster for her toe. She glanced at the clock and groaned. It was still only five-thirty. Would she ever get used to these early starts and siestas in the afternoon?

With her toe firmly bandaged, she set about making breakfast. With a cup of tea, boiled egg and toast in front of her, Jenny realised something was missing. The clatter and slap of a newspaper being thrown from a passing bike on to the verandah was a Sunday morning sound so familiar, she'd hardly noticed it in Sydney and yet, this morning its very absence was acute.

She thought of lazy days on the balcony, overlooking the sea, of the arts and review pages, the supplements with their gossip and glossy pictures, the financial and sports sections Peter always grabbed first when he was at home. Ben's favourite had been the cartoons. He would sit on her lap while she read them to him.

She sliced the top off the egg with one decisive swipe of the knife. ‘I'm just going to have to get used to being alone again,' she muttered. ‘No point in whingeing.'

Ripper's stubbly tail brushed the floor, his head cocked as if he understood.

They sat in the sun-drenched kitchen, the puppy taking small pieces of toast from her fingers with all the delicacy of a prissy spinster. Then, with breakfast over, she showered and dressed. Loose cotton strides, cotton shirt, old boots and the battered hat would keep her comfortable. She was putting away her jewellery and hunting for her riding gloves when a knock rattled the screen door.

‘Wait on, Brett. Just coming,' she called. The gloves had somehow fallen beneath the bed and she was on her hands and knees trying to reach them. Ripper wasn't helping. He thought it was a game.

‘Andrew Squires, Mrs Sanders. I hope it's not too early to call?'

Jenny froze. ‘Andrew Squires? This should be interesting.

She finally managed to get the gloves away from Ripper, and despite her curiosity to meet the man who'd courted Matilda, took time to calm herself. Squires could wait. What ungodly hour was this to come visiting anyway? she thought acidly.

She checked her appearance in the mirror. The sun had tanned her skin and brought colour to her face, and as she scooped up her hair and twisted it into a knot, she decided to add a touch of lipstick to her mouth, and a dab of perfume to her neck. Knowing she looked good gave her confidence.

His back was to her as he leaned on the verandah railings and watched the early-morning bustle in the yard. A brand new Holden was parked by the hitching post, covered in a veil of red dust that somehow couldn't dim the sparkle of chrome bumpers.

Ripper growled deep in his throat, stubby legs planted stiffly on the verandah floor.

‘Mr Squires?'

He turned to face her, and she was startled by his incongruous appearance. He was tall, square-built and still handsome although he had to be at least sixty-five, but despite having arrived by car, he was dressed in jodhpurs, tweed jacket and gleaming English riding boots, his crisp white shirt open at the neck to display a fancy cravat. His moustache and hair were still fiery red, and his eyes very blue as they returned her frank stare.

‘Good day, Mrs Sanders.' His accent was more English than Australian. He reminded her of John Wainwright. ‘I do hope this isn't inconvenient but I wanted to catch you before the day got too hot.' He sketched a bow. ‘Welcome to Churinga. Andrew Squires, at your service.'

Jenny shook hands, noting the petulant twist to his lips and how the sun glinted on his copper hair. His handshake was limp and rather unpleasant. ‘G'day,' she replied, quickly retrieving her hand. ‘Won't you come in and have a drink?'

‘After you, dear lady.' He opened the screen door and followed her inside.

Jenny quickly shut the snarling Ripper in the bedroom before making tea and finding a decent pair of cups and saucers. With a few biscuits to accompany the tea, she sat down at the kitchen table. At this hour of the day he wasn't going to be offered anything stronger, and she certainly wasn't going to cook him breakfast. Besides, she thought as she caught him arrogantly surveying the room, I never did trust red-headed men.

He took a cup of tea, eyed her with open curiosity and crossed one elegantly clad leg over the other. It was a strangely feminine gesture – one that did nothing to change her opinion of him.

‘I understand you live at Kurrajong,' she said to fill in the silence. ‘I suppose that's Aboriginal, like Churinga?' He was making her feel uncomfortable. There was calculation in his eyes, and an air of weakness about the mouth and chin she recognised as greed.

‘Of course,' he replied. ‘Kurrajong means evergreen, Mrs Sanders. And has been Churinga's neighbour for almost a century.' His smile was condescending.

Jenny sipped her tea, wishing Brett would hurry up. This man wasn't here for small talk – he was after something. ‘I know something of Churinga's history, Mr Squires. But most of it seems to be conjecture. Do you remember Matilda Thomas at all?' Her expression was deliberately artless.