Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Matilda must have had enough money hidden away to pay them. He wondered where her new hiding place could be, he’d thought he’d known them all, but after tonight it wouldn’t matter. It was time she learned her place and stopped meddling in things which didn’t damn well concern her. He would make her tell him. Make her finally accept that he was in charge – and then find a way to take Churinga away from her.

  He unsaddled the horse and led it into the home paddock. Hoisting the saddle-bags over his shoulder, he stomped up the steps to the verandah and crashed through the screen door. Rabbit stew simmered on the range, its pungent aroma filling the little house, making his belly grumble.

  The silence was oppressive. The shadows almost impenetrable where the light of the kerosene lamp couldn’t reach. ‘Where are you, girl? Get out here and help with these bags.’

  An almost imperceptible shifting of shadows caught his eye. There she was. Standing by the door to her room – staring at him. Her blue eyes glistened in the meagre light and the halo of hair was burnished in the dying rays of the afternoon sun that trickled through the shutters. It was as if she was made of stone – mute and all-seeing in her condemnation of him.

  A ripple of apprehension ran through him. For a moment there, he’d thought it was Mary come to haunt him. But as the girl came into the light, he realised it was only his imagination. ‘What you creeping about for?’ His voice was loud in the silence, harsher than he’d intended as he strove to recover from his fright.

  Matilda took the saddle-bags in silence and dragged them across the kitchen floor. She unpacked the calico sack of flour and the parcel of sugar and put them in the larder. The candles and matches were stacked above the range and the can of tea placed next to the smoke-stained billy.

  Mervyn slapped his slouch hat against his thigh before throwing it in the vague direction of the hooks by the door. He drew the chair from the table, deliberately scraping it across the floor because he could see she’d recently scrubbed it.

  There was no reaction, and as he watched her move around the little kitchen, he was once again reminded of her mother. Mary had been a good-looking woman before the illness took her. A bit skinny for his liking, but what she lacked in height and breadth, she made up for in spirit. If she hadn’t been so damned arrogant, she’d have made a good wife – and Matilda had all the makings of just such a woman. Perhaps not so forceful, but just as self-assured. Damned O’Connors, he thought. Arrogance was in their blood.

  ‘Stop messing with that,’ he rasped. ‘I want my dinner.’

  He felt a squirm of pleasure as she fumbled and almost dropped the precious bag of salt she’d been so carefully tucking into an old tea tin. He slammed a fist on the table for added effect, then laughed as she scurried to ladle the stew into a chipped bowl and spilled some of it on the floor.

  ‘Now you’ll have to clean it again, won’t you?’ he said nastily.

  Matilda brought the bowl of stew to the table and placed it in front of him. Her chin was high and there was colour in her cheeks, but he noticed her self-possession hadn’t given her strength enough to look him in the eye.

  Mervyn grasped her skinny wrist as he saw Bluey skulk across the kitchen floor and lap at the spilled dinner. ‘What’s that bloody animal doing in here? I told you not to let it into the house.’

  Matilda looked at him finally. She couldn’t quite hide the fear in her eyes. ‘He must have followed you in. He wasn’t here before.’ Her voice was calm, but there was an underlying tremor that betrayed that calm for the sham it really was.

  Mervyn kept hold of her as he kicked out, missing the dog by inches as it scurried away. ‘Good thing you ain’t a dog, Matilda. Or you’d have a boot up yer arse as well,’ he murmured, releasing her. He was tired of the game, and the smell of the stew was giving his hunger an edge.

  He dug a spoon into the mixture and ladled it into his mouth. Fresh damper bread mopped up the gravy. He’d been eating for a while when he noticed she had not joined him at the table.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said quietly. ‘I ate earlier.’

  Mervyn mopped up the last of the gravy, then leaned back in his chair and jingled the coins in his pocket as he studied his daughter. Her figure was slender but had lost the coltish awkwardness of childhood, and where once there had been a soft roundness to the chin and cheeks, there was now a firmness in the adult planes. The sun had darkened her skin, bringing out the freckles and the blue of her eyes, and her long, wild hair had been partially tamed and fastened on top of her head. He noticed how strands of it had escaped and were coiled around her face, caressing her neck.

  He was jolted by what he saw. This was no weak, malleable child he could, bully into submission but a woman. A woman with the same implacable presence as her mother. He would have to change tactics and fast. If she found herself a husband then Churinga would be lost to him forever.

  ‘Exactly how old are you?’ he asked finally.

  Matilda’s gaze was direct and challenging. ‘I’m fourteen today.’

  Mervyn let his gaze drift over her. ‘Almost a woman,’ he murmured appreciatively.

  ‘I grew up a long time ago,’ she said acidly as she approached the table. ‘The chooks need feeding and I haven’t seen to the dogs yet. If you’re finished, I’ll clear away.’

  He caught her hand as she reached for his bowl. ‘Why don’t you and me have a drink to celebrate your birthday? It’s about time we got to know each other better. ‘Specially now yer ma ain’t here.’

  Matilda pulled away and hurried to the door. ‘I’ve work to do.’

  The screen door slammed behind her and he listened to her light tread across the verandah and down the steps. Deep in thought as he reached for the whisky bottle.

  * * *

  Matilda’s pulse raced as she crossed the yard with the swill bucket. There was a change in Dad that scared her far more than his temper, and yet she couldn’t put that change into words. It was something in his eyes and in his manner. Nothing tangible but there all the same, and she had the feeling this new threat was far more dangerous than anything he could do with his fists.

  She reached the dog pens and fumbled with the catch on the gate, but for once she didn’t stop to pet the puppies before feeding them. The bark and bustle of the pens filled the void of silence that surrounded Churinga, but it couldn’t penetrate the deep unease that consumed her.

  She moved automatically as she emptied the bucket into the low troughs, then raked out the dog run. The sun had set behind Tjuringa mountain, now there was only an orange glow in the sky. Night came swiftly out here and she usually welcomed it for the stillness it brought. Yet tonight she dreaded it. For she couldn’t shake off the feeling that things had changed. And not for the better.

  The chickens squabbled as she scattered their feed, and checked the wire netting for breaks. Nothing a dingo loved more than a nice fat chook. They’d been losing quite a few lately. Snakes were another problem, but there wasn’t much she could do about them.

  Turning reluctantly towards the house, she gripped the bucket and tried to control the shiver of apprehension that made her heart thud. Dad was watching her from the verandah. She could see the glow of his cigarette.

  ‘What you doin’ out there? Time you was indoors.’

  Matilda heard the slurring of his words and knew he’d been drinking. ‘I hope you’ve had enough to make you pass out soon,’ she muttered with feeling. Her footsteps faltered as her words struck a chill in her. They were an echo of her mother’s.

  Mervyn was sprawled in the rocking chair, legs stretched along the verandah, whisky bottle cradled to his chest. It was almost empty. As Matilda approached the front door, he slammed his booted foot against the frame, barring her way. ‘Have a drink with me.’

  Her pulse raced and her throat closed. ‘No thanks, Dad,’ she managed at last.

  ‘It wasn’t an invitation,’ he growled. ‘You’ll bloody do as I say for once.’
The boot thudded on the floor and his arm encircled her waist.

  Matilda lost her balance and fell into his lap. She squirmed and wriggled, kicking her heels against the great trunks of his legs in an effort to escape. But his grip never lessened.

  ‘Sit still,’ he yelled. ‘You’ll spill the bloody grog.’

  Matilda stopped fighting and went slack. She would wait for the right moment, then hopefully dodge the fist that would surely follow when she did get free.

  ‘That’s more like it. Now, have a drink.’

  Matilda gagged on the stream of reeking, bitter alcohol he forced between her lips. She couldn’t breathe, didn’t dare spit it out. Finally she managed to push the bottle away. ‘Please, Dad don’t make me. I don’t like it.’

  His eyes were wide in mock surprise. ‘But it’s yer birthday, Matilda. You gotta have a present on yer birthday.’ He sniggered, and his bristles rubbed her cheek as he nuzzled her ear.

  His breath was rancid, and the stench of his dirty clothes made her heave. The air caught in her lungs and his arm was a vice around her waist as her stomach rebelled. She swallowed, then again. But her head was filling with thunderclouds and her stomach churned. She clawed his arm, desperate to be free. ‘Let me go. I’m gonna…’

  With one heave the regurgitated whisky splattered over them both. Mervyn gave a yelp of disgust and threw her from his knee, the bottle shattering on the wooden floor. Matilda fell hard on the broken glass but barely noticed the pain. The world was spinning out of control, and there seemed no end to the hot, gushing flow from her mouth.

  ‘Now look what you done! Stupid bitch. You’re all the bloody same.’

  His boot connected with her hip and she crawled away, blindly searching for the door and the sanctuary of the house.

  ‘Yer just like yer ma,’ he yelled as he swayed over her. ‘But then you bloody O’Connors always thought you were too good for the likes of me.’ He kicked out again, sending her crashing into the wall. ‘Time you learned some respect.’

  Matilda scrabbled for the door, her eyes never leaving him as he returned to his chair, a fresh bottle in his hand.

  ‘Bugger off,’ he growled. ‘You ain’t no use to me. Just as yer ma wasn’t.’

  She didn’t need telling twice. Stumbling to her feet, she edged towards the door.

  Mervyn took a long pull from the bottle. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and eyed her belligerently. Then he sniggered. ‘Not so lah-de-dah now, are ya?’

  Matilda slipped into the house. With the door closed behind her, she leaned against it for a moment and took deep, shuddering breaths. The pain in her hip was nothing compared to the pain in her leg, and on closer inspection she understood why. A jagged piece of glass was deeply embedded in her thigh.

  Hobbling to the pantry, she pulled down the medicine box and swiftly dealt with the wound. The sting of antiseptic made her bite her lip, but once the glass was out and a clean bandage drew the lips of the ragged cut together, it didn’t seem so bad.

  Alert for the sound of Mervyn leaving his chair, she hastily stripped off the filthy dress and left it to soak in a bucket while she washed. There was nothing but the creak of the rockers on the bare boards and his unintelligible ramblings.

  Matilda limped across the kitchen to the tiny room where she slept. With the door firmly jammed by a chair, she fell exhausted on to the bed where she lay wide-eyed and vigilant. Night sounds came to her through the shuttered window, and the outback smell of eucalyptus and wattle, dry grass and cooling earth, drifted between the gaps of the clapboard walls.

  She fought to stay awake, but it had been a long, traumatic day and her eyelids drooped. Her last thought before sleep was of her mother.

  * * *

  The sound was alien and woke her instantly.

  The door handle was turning. Rattling against the wood. Matilda edged up the bed, the thin sheet drawn to her chin as she watched the chair being rocked.

  She cried out as a great weight was thrown against the door, splintering the panels, rasping the chair across the floor. The screech of rusty hinges was loud as the broken door slammed back against the wall.

  Mervyn’s towering bulk filled the frame, the light of a candle casting deep shadows around his staring eyes.

  Matilda shuffled to the furthest corner of the bed. Her back was pressed to the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Perhaps if she was small enough, she could become invisible.

  Mervyn stepped into the room, the candle held high as he looked down at her.

  ‘Don’t.’ She put out a hand as if to ward him off. ‘Please, Dad. Don’t hit me.’

  ‘But I’ve come to give you your present, Matilda.’ He walked unsteadily towards her, fumbling with his belt.

  She thought of the last time he’d beaten her, and how the buckle had bit so deep she’d been in agony for days. ‘I don’t want it,’ she sobbed. ‘Not the belt. Please, not the belt.’

  The candle was carefully placed on the beside table. Mervyn belched as he pulled the belt free. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘It ain’t the belt you’ll be getting,’ he hiccuped. ‘Not this time.’

  Matilda’s sobs came to an abrupt halt and her eyes widened in horror as he fumbled to undo the trouser buttons. ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘Not that.’

  The moleskins dropped to the floor and he kicked them aside. His breath was ragged, eyes bright with more than whisky. ‘You always were an ungrateful bitch,’ he grunted. ‘Well, I’m gonna teach you a lesson in manners, and when I’m through you’ll think twice about giving me lip.’

  Matilda dived off the bed as he climbed towards her. But he was between her and the door, and the window was tightly fastened against the mosquitoes. There was nowhere to go, and no one to turn to – and as he grabbed her she began to scream.

  But the screams bounced off the corrugated iron roof and were lost in the great silence of the Never Never.

  * * *

  Dark clouds swirled in her head. Matilda thought she was floating in a cocoon. There was no pain, no terror, just endless darkness which welcomed her, drawing her into its depths, offering peace.

  Yet somewhere in that darkness was the sound of another world. Of cocks crowing and early-morning birdsong. The darkness faded to grey, the first rays of light banishing it to the furthest reaches of her mind. Matilda willed the clouds to return. She didn’t want to be torn from this protective womb and thrust into cold reality.

  The sunlight broke through the cloud, warming her face, forcing her to return to awareness. She lay for a moment, her eyes closed, wondering why there was so much pain. Then memory hit and her eyes snapped open.

  He was gone – but there on the mattress was the evidence of what he’d done. Like a demonic rose, blood blossomed across the kapok, its petals scattered on the sheet and the remains of her petticoat.

  Matilda remained huddled on the floor. She had no memory of how she’d got there, but guessed she must have crawled into the corner some time after he’d gone. Pushing away the images of that awful night, she gingerly dragged herself up the wall.

  Her legs trembled and every part of her ached. There was blood on her too. Dried and dark, its coppery smell was laced with something else, and as Matilda looked down at her nakedness, she realised what it was. It was the smell of him – of his unwashed body and rough, demanding hands. Of his whisky breath and great forceful weight.

  The sharp cry of a cockatoo made her flinch, but it also sharpened her resolve. He would never do this again.

  With the trembling under control, Matilda pulled on a clean petticoat and moved painfully round the bed to gather her meagre possessions. The locket was drawn from the hiding place under the floorboards, her mother’s shawl taken from the bed post. She added her two dresses, one skirt and blouse, and her much-darned underwear. Last of all, she picked up the prayer book her grandparents had brought with them all the way from Ireland. She wrapped everything in the shawl, leaving only her moleskins, boots and shirt to change into once s
he’d washed.

  Creeping past the discarded, broken chair, she hesitated just long enough to satisfy herself Mervyn was still asleep then began the endless journey across the kitchen floor.

  Every creak and groan of the house seemed magnified. Surely the noise would bring an end to the snoring from the other room?

  She paused again, blood singing in her ears, the pulse of it drumming in her head. The snoring was rhythmic and uninterrupted as she reached the door. She held her breath. Her hands were wet with perspiration as she took the water bag down from its hook. It was heavy, and thankfully full. Now for the front door.

  The hinges shrieked – the snores stopped – bed springs groaned – Mervyn muttered.

  Matilda froze. Seconds stretched into infinity.

  With a grunt, the snoring began again and Matilda breathed once more. Slipping around the door, she eased past the screen and ran down the steps. One glance told her Gabriel and his tribe had not returned, neither had the drovers. She was on her own, and she had no idea how long it would be before Mervyn awoke.

  Her bare feet stirred the dust of the yard as she hurried down to the creek. The banks were steeply cut and sheltered by willows, and as she slithered and slid towards the shallow, listless water, she knew she couldn’t be seen from the house.

  The water was icy, the sun not yet high enough to warm it, but it washed away the evidence of his filth, made her skin clean despite the lingering stink of him which she knew would always be with her. She shivered as she scrubbed. She might appear clean on the outside, but no amount of water could wash away the stains on her soul.

  After drying herself roughly on her shirt, she dressed quickly. She dared not cross the yard to the tack room, the dogs would kick up a fuss and alert Mervyn. There was nothing for it, she would have to ignore the pain and ride bare-back. The decision made, she snatched up the shawl and, holding her boots, paddled along the creek bed until she reached the home paddock at the back of the house.