Matilda's Last Waltz (42 page)

Jenny raced towards her friend and flung her arms around her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?'

‘That's a nice way to greet a mate who's come halfway across the country to see you,' Diane laughed and pulled away, her strong fingers gripped around Jenny's wrist. ‘Jeez, you look good, girl. This outdoor life must be agreeing with you.'

Jenny eyed the vermillion caftan that somehow didn't clash with the orange scarf Diane had tied in a piratical swathe around her head. Gold earrings swung from her ears and bracelets clashed and jangled around her wrists. The make-up around her eyes was heavy as usual, despite the heat, and her perfume was reminiscent of the arab bazaars in Morocco. ‘I see you decided to blend in with the locals,' she spluttered.

Diane looked around her, smiling at the audience that had gathered. ‘Thought I'd give these wool growers something to talk about,' she said airily.

Jenny glimpsed Charlie making his way towards them. ‘Let's get out of here so we can have a chance to talk,' she said quickly.

Diane followed her glance and stepped out of reach. ‘No chance. Not until I've met everyone you wrote to me about.' She eyed Charlie. ‘That's not Brett, is it? Nice-looking, but a bit old.'

‘Behave yourself,' Jenny whispered hastily. ‘That's Charlie Squires.'

The heavily kholed eyes widened. ‘Not Squires of the dastardly deeds?'

‘His son,' Jenny muttered as Charlie drew near.

Diane was like a bright parakeet amongst the sparrows as Charlie took possession of her and led her back to the picnic to introduce her to the others. Her bracelets clashed as she shook hands and accepted a glass of champagne. Her smile never faltered or dimmed as the other women looked on aghast.

Jenny watched her, knowing how much pleasure Diane was receiving from being the centre of attention. It had always been that way, and she supposed her friend's outrageous clothes and extrovert nature had a great deal to do with having been abandoned as a child. She was determined to be noticed, never to be ignored or sidelined again. It was her way of making a mark, a defence against the indifference and anonymity she'd suffered as an orphan.

Diane finally drifted away from the knot of admirers and, linking arms with Jenny, they strolled down to the river. The sun was lower in the sky, and a welcome breeze cooled the heat.

‘How the hell did you find me?' This was the first chance Jenny had had to speak to her alone.

‘I bought an old camper from an artist friend who's just come back from the west coast. The exhibition went real well and I was exhausted. Needed to get away and find some space.' Diane laughed. ‘And, boy, is there space out here! Miles and miles of it. I never thought I'd reach Wallaby Flats, let alone Churinga.'

Jenny eyed her. ‘You drove all this way? You? Who hires a cab to go to the shops?'

Diane shrugged. ‘We did it before, so why not now.'

‘We were eighteen, Diane. And without an ounce of sense between us. When I think of the risks we took driving all over Europe and Africa, it makes my blood run cold.'

Diane pursed her lips, her eyes lighting up with mischief. ‘But we had fun, though, didn't we?'

Jenny thought of the cold, damp room where they'd lived in Earl's Court, and the dark alleys they'd had to walk through when they'd finished working in the Soho bar. Thought of the dust and flies of Africa, and the dangerous, dark-eyed interest of the Arabs they'd met along the route to Marrakesh. She remembered the camaraderie of being poor and footloose amongst the other Australians who'd left home for adventure. Remembered how danger had only added spice to their travels. Sublimely ignorant and naive, they'd gone their merry way without a thought. But for all that, they'd made good friends during that year after art college, and the memories would always be with them.

‘I still can't believe you're here,' she said finally. ‘Jeez, it's good to see you again.'

Diane's gaze was direct. ‘I was worried about you, that's why I had to come. Your letters were too few and far between. They weren't telling me anything, but I got the feeling something wasn't right.'

Jenny gave her a hug. ‘Everything's fine. I just got caught up in the diaries and let my imagination get the better of me for a while. But I've had the time and space to come to terms with everything, and in a crazy way I reckon the diaries have helped me to see there is life after tragedy. Matilda's example has made me realise it's time I got on with my life and left the past behind.'

‘So you're planning to come back to Sydney, then?'

‘Not necessarily,' she replied carefully.

‘This hesitation wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Brett Wilson, would it?'

Jenny felt the blush creep up her neck. ‘Don't be daft. He's here with his girlfriend.'

Diane eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then let it pass without comment. ‘Looks like it's time for the next race,' she said as the crowds began to gather towards the marked out circuit. ‘Anyone interesting riding in it?'

Jenny shrugged. ‘I've got no idea,' she said truthfully. ‘It's the veterans' race before the final.'

They pushed their way through the crowd and were soon caught up in the excitement as they stood by the railings and watched the men and horses prepare. The stock ponies seemed to sense something was about to happen, and they stamped and snorted and kicked out at one another, teeth gnashing, lips curled.

As in all the races over the weekend, the riders were a fair representation of the men who worked and inhabited the outback. Squatters, drovers, shearers, and station managers. Each dressed in the bright colours of their sponsor, with a bed roll or Bluey over their back.

Silence fell on the crowd. Horses and riders tensed. The starter's flag fluttered in the breeze. Then they were off in an explosion of dust and a roar of encouragement.

The course ran along a narrow straight, then up a hill to wind through trees and around termite mounds. The crowd lost sight of the leaders but even after two days of racing that did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm as they watched the trail of dust hovering over the bush. Long minutes passed until the leader was spotted emerging from the trees to begin the steep descent back into the valley. With hooves slipping on shale, breath fiery in their lungs, the stock horses swung left and right through the stand of tea trees and raced over the uneven ground. The men on their backs gripped the reins, heels thumping as they leaned against sweat-frothed necks and shouted into pricked ears. The finishing line was up ahead, and there could only be one winner.

Jenny and Diane yelled and cheered as loudly as everyone else when the Kurrajong drover won. ‘Whew! This is more exciting than the Melbourne Cup,' said Diane. ‘How about putting a bet on the next race?'

‘What a splendid idea, ladies. Would you like me to place them for you?'

Charlie smiled down at them. ‘I suppose you'll want an each-way bet on your manager, Jenny? His odds are short but you could do worse.'

She studiously avoided Diane's sharp eyes as she gave him five dollars. ‘Why not? But let's make it to win, not each way. After all, he's wearing Churinga colours and I'm sure he knows what he's doing.'

‘Why are the odds so short?' Diane said, handing over her money.

Charlie laughed. ‘Because he's won for the last three years. But Kurrajong have a secret weapon this year and I reckon Brett's reign as King of the Hill is over.' His glance moved swiftly towards a skinny youth with a sly face who sat perched on a vicious little skewbald.

‘Dingo Fowley's already won in Queensland and Victoria this year, and he showed up well in the heats. Reckon he's the best rider I've seen in a long while.'

Jenny watched him saunter away and turned to find Diane staring at her. ‘So, which one is he then?' she said impatiently. ‘I want to see what I've bought for my five dollars.'

Jenny looked across to the starting line. Brett was astride a chestnut gelding, the Churinga emblazoned in Aboriginal artwork on his green and gold shirt. He looked handsome and darkly powerful in the saddle, his capable hands soothing the excited horse and keeping him steady. Their eyes met and held. His lazy wink suggested an intimate conspiracy that isolated them both from the crowd and drew them together.

Diane made a sensuous growling noise in her throat. ‘Now that's what I call a secret worth keeping. No wonder you didn't have the time to write.'

Jenny could feel the heat in her face as she looked away from Brett. ‘You've got a dirty mind, Diane,' she said firmly. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. This is the first time I've seen him all weekend.'

‘Really?' her friend murmured thoughtfully.

*   *   *

The starter's flag was up and Brett took a firmer grip on the reins. Stroller was twitching beneath him, dancing on his toes in nervous anticipation. Dingo Fowley's skewbald nudged and baulked beside him but Brett kept his concentration on the track. He'd heard about Dingo and the tricks he'd played in the heats, and was determined to beat him. He had a reputation to keep and a trophy to win – and with Jenny watching him carry her colours, it was more important than ever to remain King of the Hill.

The flag dropped and Stroller burst from the line with the skewbald neck and neck. The narrow run was rutted and steep. Dingo's boot jarred against Brett's stirrup, kicking his boot loose, upsetting his balance. Stroller lengthened his stride and pulled away as they made the first turn at the top of the hill and began the tortuous run through the bush.

Adrenalin was pumping as trees lashed them to either side and hooves thudded against dry earth and scrub. Termite hills loomed as high as a man – solid barricades that had to be swung around with the sure-footed swiftness that came only from years of experience with rounding up sheep.

Man and horse were lathered in sweat and dust as they approached the tunnel of light at the end of the bush. Dingo was still with him lying almost flat to the skewbald's neck, his hands and legs pumping encouragement to go that bit faster as he kicked out again to dislodge Brett's foot from the stirrup.

Sunlight blinded them after the green shade as they thrust their way out of the bush and pounded along the ridge. The world was a kaleidoscope of heat and dust, of drumming hooves and the smell of sweat. As Brett turned Stroller's head to begin the steep descent, he knew Dingo was still with him.

Hooves slid on shale, muscles bunched and mighty lungs heaved as slender legs fought to keep their balance. Hands gripped reins, knees gripped horse flesh. Sweat and grime clung as closely as rider to mount as they reached the final plateau. The finishing line was up ahead, but the sound of the crowd was lost in the drum of hooves. Dingo was beside him still, the skewbald's neck stretching nose to nose with Stroller's.

The colour and roar of the crowd enveloped them as the flag went down and the horses plummeted to a slithering, skidding halt. Stroller's nose had just edged in front.

‘Nice goin', mate,' Dingo shouted. ‘But it won't be that easy next year.'

Brett brought Stroller round to face him. His temper was barely in check as he grabbed the skinny little man's shirt collar. ‘Try that again and your teeth'll be so far down your throat, you'll be eating dirt with yer arse,' he growled.

Dingo's eyes widened in mock innocence. ‘Try what?'

Brett resisted the urge to pull him off his horse and smash his face in. He could see the Squires party approaching with the trophy and didn't want to cause a scene. ‘The old boot in the stirrup routine, Dingo,' he hissed into his face. ‘At least try and be original.'

The little man's laughter was cynical as Brett released him. ‘See you next year. That's if you've got the balls.' He swung away and was lost in a circle of admirers.

Brett slid from Stroller's back and as he gathered up the reins was almost knocked off his feet. He reached out to steady himself and found he was trapped between Stroller and Lorraine. Her arms were around him, her mouth as persistent as blow flies as she smothered him in kisses. ‘Great,' she breathed. ‘You were great. I just knew you'd win.'

He tried to pull away, but without being heavy-handed about it found it impossible to break her grip. ‘Lorraine,' he said roughly. ‘Leave off. You're making an exhibition of yourself.'

She glanced over his shoulder and Brett caught the sly glint in her eye before she laughed up into his face and planted a kiss on his mouth. ‘My hero.' Her tone was sarcastic but tinged with something akin to triumph and when she finally pulled away he understood why.

Jenny was standing a few feet away. By the look on her face as she turned back into the crowd, she'd obviously witnessed the whole charade.

He held Lorraine at arm's length. ‘Why are you doing this? It's over between us, why make trouble?'

‘Not until I say so,' she retorted. ‘You don't get rid of me that easy, Brett Wilson.'

*   *   *

‘Who's the tart?' Diane came straight to the point as usual.

‘Lorraine,' Jenny replied flatly. ‘She's Brett's girlfriend.'

Diane grunted. ‘Don't think much of his taste.' She put a cool hand on Jenny's arm. ‘I shouldn't worry too much, Jen. It won't last.'

‘Who's worried?' she retorted carelessly, but her tone belied the rush of despondency that took the brightness out of the day. She wished she was back at Churinga.

‘Jenny, Dad wants you to present the trophy.'

She looked at Charlie in horror. ‘Why me?'

He smiled down at her. ‘Because you're the owner of the winning station. Come on.'

With a helpless look back at Diane, Jenny walked reluctantly towards the crowd that surrounded Brett. She heard the murmurs as she passed, and was aware of their eyes following her, but all she could see was Lorraine's smug face as she stood beside Brett.