Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

  ‘I didn’t know you played the market. Since when?’

  Diane looked up, the cigarette burning away between her fingers. ‘Since I sold my first sculpture. My boyfriend at the time was working in the city. I thought you knew?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘Strange, isn’t it? You think you know everything about a person, then something happens and all sorts of things emerge.’

  ‘I don’t tell you the dirty details of my sex life either, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have one or that I’ve anything to hide.’ Diane was cross with herself, and with Jenny. There was absolutely no reason why she should feel guilty but she did – and it bothered her.

  Jenny reached over and took the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Di. Just stating a fact. I had no idea you and Pete played the markets. No idea we were worth so much. And that’s what worries me. How could he have been so secretive when I told him everything? Whey did we live on the breadline when there was money in the bank?’

  Diane had no answers. She’d liked Pete Saunders because he obviously adored Jenny and little Ben. He’d also been faithful, unlike that bastard David who’d had the morals of a rat. But there had always been a sense of detachment about Peter, she acknowledged silently. A barrier she couldn’t breach, and this had tempered her feelings toward him.

  She was about to speak, to offer some cliché, when Jenny handed over the last of the legal documents. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Pete’s surprise birthday present,’ she said quietly. ‘And I don’t know what to do about it.’

  Diane read the deeds, and when she’d finished the two women sat for a long moment in silence. It was all too fantastic and Diane could understand Jenny’s bewilderment. Finally she cleared her throat and lit another cigarette. ‘I don’t know why you’re panicking. You’ve got money in the back, a house without a mortgage, and a sheep station in the back of beyond. What’s the problem, Jen? I thought that was what you’d always wanted?’

  Jenny snatched back the documents and lunged out of the deep cushion. ‘I do wish you’d get proper chairs,’ she muttered, pulling her short dress back over her thighs. ‘It’s unladylike scrabbling about on the bloody floor.’

  Diane grinned. At least she was showing spirit, and it was good to see it again after so long. ‘You’re avoiding the issue, Jen. I want to know…’

  ‘I heard,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve just had a shock and still can’t take it all in. I’m rich. We were rich. So why do I drive a beaten up old Holden? Why did Pete work nights and weekends? Why did we never go on holiday or buy new furniture?’

  She turned on her heel, her face white with strain. ‘I was married to a stranger, Diane. He took out loans on our house, gambled on the markets, bought and sold properties I knew nothing about. What other secrets did he have?’

  Diane watched as Jenny scrabbled in her bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers and waved them under her nose. This was good. This meant Jenny was finally emerging from the dark, secret place she’d been hiding in for the past six months.

  ‘Look at this catalogue of past investments, Diane,’ she hissed. ‘A row of terraced houses in Surry Hills … a two-storey unit in Koogee, and another in Bondi … The list is endless. Bought, done up and sold on for vast profits which he used to buy shares.’ She was trembling with fury. ‘And while he was busy making a fortune, I was struggling to pay the sodding electricity bill!’

  Diane rescued the crumpled papers and smoothed them out. ‘So Pete was a closet capitalist. He only did what he thought best, even if it was behind your back – and the sheep station was something you both wanted.’

  Jenny’s anger seemed to ebb as swiftly as it had risen. She sank back into the floor cushions and chewed on a fingernail.

  ‘Have a cigarette,’ Diane said firmly, offering her the slim, flat box of Craven ‘A’. ‘You used to have lovely nails before you gave up.’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘If I start again, I’ll never stop. Anyway, nails are cheaper than ciggies.’ She gave a watery smile and sipped her wine. ‘I lost it there for a minute, didn’t I? But everything seems to have got out of control, and I sometimes wonder if I’m not going mad with it all.’

  Diane smiled. The silver bracelets jangled. ‘Artists are never sane, least of all you and me, girl. But I’ll tell you when you finally flip, and we’ll tumble into the depths of insanity together.’

  Jenny laughed then, and although it held a note of hysteria, it was good to hear. ‘So what are you going to do about his sheep station?’

  There was a frown and she bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. There’s a manager running the place at the moment, but John Wainwright suggests I sell it.’ She looked down at her fingers, her rich brown hair falling in a veil over her face so Diane couldn’t see her expression. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without Pete, and I know very little about sheep and even less about running a station.’

  Diane sat forward eagerly. Perhaps Churinga was just the thing to take Jenny out of her misery and give her something else to focus on. ‘But we were fostered out at Waluna, and you took to it like a dingo to a chook. You could keep the manager on and live like lady of the manor.’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Diane. I’m tempted to go and have a look at the place, but…’

  ‘But nothing.’ Diane’s patience snapped. She didn’t know this dour, helpless Jenny who dithered and prevaricated. ‘Aren’t you the least bit curious? Don’t you want to see the surprise Pete bought you?’

  She made an effort to remain calm. ‘I know it won’t be the same now he and Ben are gone, but this could be the chance to make the break for a while. To get away from the house at Palm Beach and all the memories there. Treat it as an adventure, a holiday with a difference.’

  ‘What about the exhibition, and the Parramatta commission I haven’t finished?’

  Diane drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘The exhibition will have to go ahead because of the work we’ve already put into it. Andy and I can cope. Your landscape’s almost finished.’ She eyed Jenny solemnly. ‘So, you see, there’s no excuse really. You have to go. Pete would have wanted it.’

  * * *

  Jenny let Diane persuade her to eat a late supper in Kings Cross. It was a short walk from the gallery, in the heart of the bohemian sector of Sydney, and a favourite place for both of them. The neon lights blinked and flashed, music poured out of the bars and strip clubs, and the pavement traffic was as bizarre and flamboyant as ever, but Jenny was just not in the mood to sit back and take it all in as she usually did. The lights were too bright, the music too jarring, the street walkers and strutting exhibitionists seemed tawdry. Deciding not to go back with Diane, she made the hour-long drive to her own house.

  It was a wonderful house, three storeys high, perched on the side of a hill overlooking the bay. They’d been lucky to find it so cheaply. In the first few years, before Ben came along, they’d sunk all their money into refurbishing. Now, with a new roof, air-conditioning, panoramic windows and fresh paint, it was worth much more than they’d spent. Palm Beach was suddenly fashionable, and although that meant an endless procession of weekend surfers and sun worshippers, neither of them had wanted to move. Ben had loved the beach, was just beginning to learn to swim and had thrown tantrums when it was time to wander back up the hill and home.

  ‘I’d give anything for him to throw a tantrum now,’ whispered Jenny as she put the key in the door to her attic studio. ‘I wish. I wish.’

  She unlocked the door and slammed it firmly behind her. All the wishing in the world wouldn’t bring them back, but being here in the house only made the memories sharper, more painful. Perhaps Diane was right about leaving for a while.

  The studio lights were necessarily harsh, for she often painted at night when the sun no longer shone through the cupola. Yet now she felt the need for softness and switched them off. After lighting candles and a stick of incense, she kicked off her shoes and wriggled her feet.
The extra stub that grew over her little toe was red and sore, but it was her own fault. She’d refused to let this sixth toe make any difference to her life, and as the doctors had refused to do anything about it, she’d decided to ignore it as much as possible. But now and again it was rubbed raw by the fashionable shoes she was determined to wear.

  She stripped to her underwear, took off all her jewellery but for the locket and curled up on the chaise-longue. It was very old, and the stuffing was peeking through the worn velvet, but it was comfortable, and she couldn’t yet face that big double bed downstairs. It would feel too empty.

  The sound of the sea came through the open windows, and the distant cry of a kookaburra defending his territory echoed in the stillness. As the candles flickered and the warm sensuous aroma of incense drifted above the familiar tang of paint and turps, Jenny finally began to relax.

  She let her mind meander over the four short years she’d spent with Peter, pausing here and there on postcard pictures of the happy times, the moments caught forever in her memory. Ben on the sand, giggling with delight as the sea crept over his toes. Peter up a ladder repairing the guttering after a storm, his tanned body so lithe and sexy in those tight shorts.

  They had met at a dance, shortly after she and Diane had come to Sydney. He was already working for the bank but his roots were firmly implanted in a cattle station in the Northern Territory which his two older brothers had inherited. He was bright and funny and she’d fallen in love with him almost instantly. They’d shared the same humour and the same interests, and when he’d talked about the land and his burning desire one day to have his own place, she’d recognised the same need within herself. Those years at Waluna had left an indelible impression, and Peter’s enthusiasm had sparked her own.

  Jenny curled further into the depths of the old day bed. God, I miss him, she thought. I miss his smell, his warmth, his smile, and the way he could make me laugh. I miss the way he used to kiss my neck when I was cooking, and the wonderful feel of him in the bed next to me. But most of all I miss not being able to talk to him. To discuss the day, no matter how trivial it had been, to marvel at how quickly Ben was growing and to share our pride in our marvellous little boy.

  The tears finally came and ran slowly down her face as her resistance crumbled. Deep, choking sobs broke the dam and she gave into it for the first time since that awful day. Diane was right, she acknowledged. Fate was cruel, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. The dream of having a family of her own was shattered, just like the other dreams she and Diane had shared all those years ago in Dajarra. But beneath that tide of grief came the knowledge that Peter had given her one dream she could fulfil. He wouldn’t be there to share it but perhaps his gift was a way of making a new life for herself.

  The sun had already risen when Jenny opened her eyes again. Now it streamed into the studio, dust motes dancing on the rays, reflecting prisms of light from the crystals she’d hung from the ceiling. Her head hurt and her eyelids were swollen, but she felt a deep sense of calm and purpose. It was as if the tears of the previous night had washed away the false barriers she’d erected in the mistaken belief they would protect her, and brought her to a deeper understanding of what she must do next.

  She lay there, savouring the moment. Then her gaze drifted to the easel by the window and the landscape she’d almost finished. The man from Paramatta had given her a photograph of a cattle station homestead. His wife had once lived there, and the painting was to be a gift for her on her birthday.

  Jenny eyed the painting critically, looking for flaws, seeing a hint of carelessness in a brush stroke that would have to be remedied. She hadn’t worked on it for some time, but now, in the light of a new morning, she felt the old, familiar surge of enthusiasm return. Climbing off the bed, she padded across the floor and picked up the palette. She would finish the painting then make plans.

  As she mixed the paint, she felt a tremor of anticipation. Churinga. It seemed to be calling her. Enticing her from the cool blue of the Pacific towards the hot red earth of the centre.

  * * *

  Three weeks later Diane leaned back on the old chaise-longue. The many rings on her fingers sparkled in the sunlight that streamed through the cupola and windows. The tiny bells on her earrings tinkled as she adjusted the cushions and watched Jenny work.

  The painting was almost finished. She wished she could have had it for the exhibition. Nothing the Australian public liked more than the glimpse of their own inheritance, a reminder of the true heart of their vast and wonderful country. Most of them had never been further than the Blue Mountains, and here, emerging from beneath Jenny’s brush, was the real Australia.

  Diane cocked her head and studied the painting more closely. There was a passion for her subject in Jenny’s work, a feel for the great sweep of land and the isolation of the homestead that she’d never noticed before. ‘I think that’s the best thing you’ve done in a long while,’ she murmured. ‘It really speaks to you.’

  Jenny stepped back from the easel, head tilted as she eyed her work. She was dressed in tattered shorts and a bikini top, her long hair twisted into a rough knot on the top of her head, anchored by a paint brush. She was barefoot – something she only did when she was alone or with Diane – and the only jewellery she wore was the antique locket Pete had given her for Christmas.

  ‘I agree,’ she muttered. ‘Although I don’t usually like working from photos.’

  Diane watched Jenny’s careful attention to the final details. She knew from experience these could either make or destroy all the hard work that had gone before. There came a time when enough was enough – and instinct was the only guideline.

  Jenny moved away from the painting, stood looking at it for a long while, then began to clean up. The brushes were soaked in turps, the palette and knife scraped and stacked on the table next to the easel. She released her hair and shook it out, easing the stiffness in her neck and shoulders by stretching her arms to the ceiling. ‘Finished,’ she sighed. ‘Now I can start planning.’

  It’s good to see her animated again, thought Diane. Great to have her back from the terrible anguish that almost destroyed her. She climbed off the couch, her gold sandals slapping against the wooden floor as she crossed the room.

  Jenny turned and smiled. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind looking after the house while I go bush?’

  Diane shook her head, earrings tinkling. ‘Of course not. It’ll be a bolt hole where no one can reach me, and I can get a bit of peace. What with the exhibition coming up, and Rufus plighting his troth all over the place, it’s just what I need.’

  Jenny grinned. ‘He’s not still after you, is he? I thought he went home to England.’

  Diane thought of the robust, middle-aged art critic who wore loud shirts and even louder ties to compete with his voice and ebullient manner. ‘I wish he would,’ she said dryly. ‘He’s wearing me out with his pontificating about the rawness of Aussie art compared to the refinement of the English school.’

  ‘He’s only trying to impress you with his vast knowledge. He can’t help being a pom.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I do wish he wouldn’t ram England down my throat all the time.’ She stared out of the window. The beach was already crowded, and the latest Beatles song drifted up from a distant transistor. ‘Having said that, I like him mostly. He makes me laugh and I think that’s important, don’t you?’

  Jenny looked wistful as she came to join her at the window. ‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. Then she turned her startling eyes to Diane. ‘But promise me you won’t go off and marry him while I’m gone? I know Rufus well enough to realise he can be very persuasive, and he’s obviously besotted with you.’

  Diane felt a surge of pleasure that surprised her. ‘Do you really think so?’

  Jenny nodded before turning away. ‘Enough of him. Come downstairs and I’ll make brunch, then you can help me sort out a plan and travel route to Churinga before I go and see John Wainwright.’<
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  Diane looked into those lively violet eyes and knew for certain her friend was beginning to heal. Perhaps this new adventure would be the start of a new life – and even if it wasn’t, she was grateful to Peter for having had the foresight to know Jenny needed to go back where she felt she belonged.

  * * *

  John Wainwright still wore his three-piece suit, the windows remained closed, and the only concession to the heat was a fan on the desk which did nothing more than stir the turgid air around the room.

  Jenny watched as he neatly stacked the papers on his desk. He looked comfortable, at one with the panelled walls and leather-bound books. It was as if he’d been caught in a time warp, a small piece of England, transported like a convict, out of place and incongruous. She smiled at him and received a warm response. He seemed friendlier today, his eyes not quite so cold.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do with your inheritance?’

  She nodded. Yet the finality of accepting Peter’s gift, and acknowledging that from now on she was on her own, was daunting. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly before she could change her mind. ‘I’ve decided to keep Churinga. In fact, I’m planning to visit there for a while.’

  Wainwright’s fingers steepled beneath his double chin, his expression troubled. ‘Have you really thought this through, Jennifer? It’s a long journey for a young woman, and there are some rough types out on those lonely roads.’

  This was exactly the reaction she’d expected, but as she was about to defend her decision, he thumbed through his diary and forestalled her.

  ‘I could rearrange my schedule and come with you? But it couldn’t be for another week or so.’ He looked at her over his spectacles. ‘I don’t think it wise for you to be alone in such an out of the way place.’

  Jenny’s spirits tumbled. The last things she needed was this precise little man with his neat suit and his immaculate nails as a travelling companion. She had a mental image of him with his black umbrella, bowler and briefcase, walking down the dirt road of a distant outback town, and bit her lip against the smile it conjured up. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. After all, he was only being kind. Yet he would be of no use to her – one hint of trouble and he’d wilt.