Lorraine perched on the arm of the chair and watched as she finished the drawing. ‘You got old Joe just right,’ she said in admiration. ‘Even down to the way his bottom lip sort of sticks out when he’s thinking.’
Jenny tore the drawing from the pad. ‘Then you have it, Lorraine. As a gift.’
Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘You sure? Gee, thanks.’ There was a hint of colour in her cheeks that had nothing to do with rouge. ‘I’m sorry about … you know. I don’t usually blast off like that, and out here there’s so few of us women it’d be a shame to fall out.’ She put out her hand. ‘Mates?’
Despite her misgivings, Jenny took the hand and nodded. ‘Mates.’
Lorraine seemed satisfied and returned to the drawing. ‘Do you mind if I show this to Joe? He’ll be tickled pink.’
‘Of course not,’ said Jenny with a smile.
‘I’ll shout you a beer for this. Brett shouldn’t be too long now.’ Lorraine hopped off the arm of the chair and trotted over to Joe to show him his picture.
The old man laughed and looked down the verandah. ‘Good on yer, missus. Better than any mirror.’ He lifted an empty glass in salute.
Jenny took the hint. ‘My shout, Lorraine. Joe deserves something for being such a good model.’
* * *
Brett left the gloom of the bar and stepped through the screen door and out on to the verandah. Mrs Sanders was sitting next to Joe, listening to his tall tales of opal mining, and hadn’t noticed him standing there, so he took those few moments to study her.
She was much younger than he’d expected, and quite a looker too with that shiny hair and those long brown legs. He regretted having been so short with her. But old Wainwright had just said she was widowed – hadn’t prepared him for such a surprise. Yet it was her eyes that had unsettled Brett most. From the moment she’d looked up, he’d been fascinated by the way they changed from deepest purple to palest amethyst. She would never have made a good poker player – not with those eyes.
Brett nudged his hat back from his forehead and wiped away the sweat. She looked too delicate for Churinga. Probably wouldn’t last more than a couple of weeks before scuttling back to Sydney. Lorraine was right. They were all the same, these townies. Big ideas about going bush, but when faced with the reality of no running water, fire, floods and drought, they soon left. Good riddance, he thought. I didn’t reckon on taking orders from some skinny woman who wouldn’t know a sheep’s arse from its elbow.
He watched the sun catch the amber lights in her hair, saw how her hands fluttered as she described something to Joe, and revised his opinion. There was no sign of the trauma of her recent loss. She must have buried it deep – that took strength and courage, and on top of all that she’d made the journey out here alone, and seemed none the worse for it. Her appearance was as exotic as some of the fantastic birds that inhabited the bush, and they flourished out here. Perhaps she was made of sterner stuff than he’d first thought.
She turned to look at him then, and he felt a jolt as her beautiful eyes met his. He jammed his hat further down and strode over. She’s my boss – and everything depends on her. If she hates Churinga, then she’ll probably sell up. But if she stays … Things could get complicated.
‘I won’t be a minute, Mr Wilson. Joe’s telling me a story.’
Brett noticed how her eyes darkened to violet in the shade of the verandah, and knew she was playing him at his own game – the irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d have liked to tell her he’d wait in the ute out back but Joe’s stories were legendary and he liked the way Mrs Sanders tilted her head to listen. So he leaned against the verandah railings with an air of studied boredom, and lit a cigarette.
As the story finally came to an end she stood up. He was aware of long, slender legs, but kept his gaze firmly in the middle distance. She was tall, perhaps almost five feet six, but somehow it suited her. Brett Wilson, he silently berated himself, pull yourself together and stop mooning about like a galah.
‘Bye, Joe. Catch yer later, mate.’ He picked up her backpack. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’s a long drive.’
He could hear the tramp of her feet on the floorboards as she followed him across the verandah and down the steps, but made no attempt to speak or look back. He wasn’t much for small talk, and he doubted she would have much to say that would interest him anyway.
The battered utility smouldered in the sun at the back of the hotel. Brett slung Jenny’s pack behind the seat, then grabbed the box of groceries from Lorraine and put them in the flatbed under the tarp. He wanted to get away quickly before she said or did something stupid. She’d been far too demanding lately, and he’d been avoiding coming to town. That was the trouble with women, he thought darkly. Give them a smile and a bit of pleasant company and they think they own you. He clambered aboard and slammed the door.
Lorraine leaned in at the window, her perfume filling the cab. ‘Bye, Jen. I expect we’ll meet up again soon.’
Brett turned the ignition key, his foot hard down on the accelerator to drown out her voice. He started as Lorraine’s firm grip encircled his arm. The determination in her eyes made him go cold.
‘See you soon then, Brett. And don’t forget you promised to take me to the picnic races on ANZAC day.’
‘Righto. See you later,’ he said hurriedly. He pulled his arm free and slammed the ute into reverse. For a minute there he’d thought the blasted woman was going to kiss him right in front of Mrs Sanders. Lorraine was getting too damn possessive, and he didn’t like it one bit. He slammed the ute into first. The sooner he got back to Churinga the better. At least he knew how to deal with the problems there. Animals were so much easier to understand than women.
* * *
Jenny witnessed the scene as an amused outsider. Poor Lorraine would have to work awfully hard to snare this particular moody individual. Did all bushmen have the same attitude when it came to women? she wondered. Or was Brett merely embarrassed in front of her? Probably, she decided. Lorraine was coming on strong, and it must be daunting to have your boss lady sitting right beside you when that happened.
She looked out of the window as the scenery opened up before her, and soon forgot the pair of them in her wonderment. Rusty brown termite hills stood sentinel by the side of the desert track. River beds, dry and yawning, jolted the wheels and threatened at every turn to have them over. Ghost gums, all silver bark and drooping leaves, wilted seventy feet above the grassland of pale green and yellow. The earth was ochre, streaked with black, the sky wide and incredibly blue.
Some day, she promised herself, she would borrow the ute and come out into the wilderness to paint. But before that she must contact Diane and get her to send oils and canvas.
They drove in a silence broken only by the whine of the engine and the scratch of a match on the dashboard as Brett lit an occasional cigarette. Yet Jenny preferred it that way. It gave her time to absorb the essence of the outback. Mindless, polite chatter would have marred its perfection.
Flocks of exotic birds wheeled above the trees, their colours acid bright and startling against the sky. White sulphur crested cockatoos squabbled, kookaburras laughed, and the hum of the heat on the earth was mingled with the rasp of crickets as Brett swung the utility from one almost invisible road to another.
They had been travelling almost ten hours before she saw a line of tea trees out on the horizon, and a long, flat-topped dome of rock.
‘Tjuringa mountain. The Abos gave it its name because of the shape – like a churinga or a stone amulet. The mountain’s one of their dreaming places, and sacred.’
Jenny grasped the dash as the front wheels jarred in a particularly deep fissure. ‘When will I see the house?’
Brett gave a wry smile. ‘In about an hour and a half. We’ve got fifty miles to go once we pass those trees.’
She stared at him. ‘How big is Churinga station, then? Fifty miles from the trees to the house? It must be enormous.’
Jenny wished she’d listened more carefully to John Wainwright. He must have told her all this but it had still come as a shock, even though she was well aware of the vast tracts of land that made up the heart of Australia’s farming industry. ‘Mr Wainwright said he’d signed you up to manage Churinga two years ago. Where were you before that?’
‘Churinga. Me and the wife moved in ten years ago this Christmas. We took over from the old boy who was retiring. The bank employed me then.’
Jenny looked at him in amazement. There had been no mention of a wife and she’d assumed he was single. So what the hell was he doing messing about with Lorraine? No wonder he was embarrassed at her behaviour. She leaned back and stared thoughtfully out of the window. These particular still waters obviously ran deeper than she’d thought. It would be interesting to meet the woman behind the man.
‘Churinga homestead up ahead,’ Brett finally said quietly as the sun dipped behind the mountain.
Jenny heard the affection in his voice as he tipped his head towards the low building set against a backdrop of tall eucalyptus trees. And as the full glory of the place unfolded, she understood.
The house was an old Queenslander. Built of white clapboard, roofed with corrugated iron and perched on brick pilings, it was sheltered on the southernmost side in the shadows of the vast pepper trees which drooped, exhausted by the day’s heat, pale green fronds humming with bees. A verandah ran the full width of the house, the railings covered in ivy and creeping bougainvillea. Screens were painted red, and the home paddock was acid green against the ochre of the clearing that made up the yard.
Brett pointed towards the paddock as he brought the ute to a halt. ‘That’s watered from the bore. We have to rely on underground springs to keep the stock alive, but we’re lucky at Churinga, there’s never really been a dangerous shortage because of the mountain streams. They say that during the war years, Churinga lasted out the ten-year drought.’
Jenny stepped down from the utility and stretched. They’d been travelling all day and she was stiff and aching. She looked at the horses in the paddock and envied them the shade of the trees. For despite the lowering of the sun, the heat was still intense.
‘What are those buildings over there?’ This was far bigger than Waluna – more like a small town than a single farm.
Brett pointed out each building in turn. ‘That’s for the stockmen, and that’s the cookhouse beside it. The large shack over there is for the shearers, the smaller one’s for the roustabouts and jackaroos. The slaughter yard and wood piles are in the yard behind them.’
He turned to point to the east of the house. ‘That’s the woolshed, sorting loft and dipping tanks. We can take up to twenty shearers at a time. The stock pens, dog kennels and runs are next door. Then there are the chicken runs, the piggery and dairy. Each main building has its own generator.’
‘I never realised how self-sufficient you must be,’ she murmured. ‘It’s just amazing.’
Brett scruffed his boot in the dirt and tilted back his hat. The pride in his eyes was unmistakable. ‘We can do most things for ourselves, but we still rely on the Royal Mail for our groceries, petrol and kerosene. We buy in hay if the drought gets too bad, and corn, sugar and flour. Farm machinery has to be ordered by catalogue, but luckily we’ve got a good mechanic and he keeps our machines going ’til they fall apart. That barn over there is the store house for machinery and feed, and the forge is to the side of it, the carpentry shop at the end.’
Jenny was still taking it all in when Brett’s tone became serious. ‘Those tanks behind the house are fresh water tanks, Mrs Sanders. They’re for drinking water only.’ He turned and pointed towards a narrow runnel of water which crept sluggishly under weeping willows at the far western edge of the home paddock. ‘Water for washing and household chores comes from that creek.’
Jenny decided it was time to enlighten him. ‘I have lived beyond the black stump before, Mr Wilson. I know how precious water is.’
He eyed her with fleeting interest before returning to his monologue. It seemed he’d rehearsed what he wanted to say and nothing would side-track him. ‘When the creeks run a banker, the yard’s several feet under water. That’s why all the buildings are on stilts. They’re brick because of termites.’
‘No wonder you love this place,’ Jenny breathed. ‘It’s stunning.’
‘It can also be cruel,’ he remarked sharply. ‘Don’t go getting any romantic notions about it.’
Jenny realised nothing she could do or say would shake his belief that she was a townie and therefore ignorant, so she watched him turn away to unload the utility and said nothing. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on that long lean body, and he was as finely muscled as a young colt. He would make a wonderful subject for Diane to sculpt, but she doubted he’d think much of the idea. She snapped her thoughts into order.
‘Is your wife in the house, Mr Wilson? I’m looking forward to meeting her.’
He stood beside her, his arms laden with groceries, his frown deep. ‘She’s in Perth,’ he growled.
Jenny shielded her eyes from the low sun as she looked up at him. She recognised hurt in his eyes and in the tightening of his mouth. All was not well – perhaps the absent wife had found out about Lorraine?
Brett shifted from one foot to the other. ‘She’s not on holiday, if that’s what you were wondering,’ he said defensively. ‘She’s there permanently.’ He strode up to the porch, hooked a toe under the screen door and slammed into the house.
Jenny hurried after him and finally caught up with him in the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
Brett kept his attention on the groceries he was unpacking. ‘No worries. You’re a stranger here, so why should you know about me and Marlene?’ He turned suddenly, his face grim. ‘She didn’t like it here. Said she felt lost in all this space. Went back to Perth and the bar I found her in.’
There was a long silence. A moment when Jenny would have reached out to comfort him if only she’d known how.
‘I didn’t mean to snap,’ he said by way of apology. ‘But I hate gossip, and thought it best to tell you before someone else does. Now, is there anything else before I go? The men should be back soon, and I have work to do before it gets too dark.’
She accepted his apology with a smile. ‘Who does the cooking around here for all the men? Have you got a housekeeper?’
The tension broke and Brett jammed his hands into the back of his belt, his face suddenly lit by a broad smile which deepened the creases around his eyes and made him even more handsome. ‘Strewth! You townies have funny ideas. We mostly fend for ourselves, but in the shearing season – like now – we have one of the Sundowners’ wives to see to the tucker.’
He tipped his hat and walked to the door. ‘I’ll tell you more about the place later. Tucker’s in half an hour, and as it’s your first night it’d probably be best to eat in the cookhouse. Ma Baker’s in charge. She and her old man come every year, and she probably knows as much about this place as I do.’
Jenny didn’t have time to thank him. He was gone.
Standing in the deepening shadows of the kitchen, she listened to the sounds of Churinga. The deep, ringing tone of hammer on anvil, the bleating of sheep and the shout of men were mixed with the chatter of galahs and the barking of dogs. She had expected silence but as she stood there she remembered how it had been as a child. As the memories returned she began to relax. She had come home to the land after too many years away – but the echo of it was hauntingly familiar.
Waluna sheep station was nestled in the heart of Queensland’s Mulga country. The house was smaller than Churinga’s but built on the same lines with a tin roof and shadowed verandah. The pastures stretched for miles around the homestead, and she could still remember the smell of the sun
on the grass and the soft rustle of the breeze in the tea trees.
John and Ellen Carey had come to the orphanage at Dajarra a few months after Jenny had turned seven. She remembered that morning as if it was yesterday. The nuns chivvied her and the other children from their daily chores to line up in the drawing room under the austere gaze of the Reverend Mother. There was excitement in the air for the arrival of people at Dajarra meant one of them would be fostered, or even adopted if they were very lucky, and would be free of Sister Michael forever.
Jenny had held tightly to Diane’s hand. They had made a pact not to be separated – and despite their longing to escape the nun’s clutches, they knew that if they were to leave Dajarra, their real parents wouldn’t be able to find them.
Jenny smiled as she remembered Ellen and John walking down the long line of children. Ellen had stopped in front of her for a moment, but Reverend Mother had shaken her head and pressed her forward. Jenny hadn’t caught the muttered comment as they proceeded down the line, but knew that once again she and Diane were not to be picked.
The children were finally told to leave the room and scampered back to the library to finish the dusting. Jenny remembered feeling disappointed and glad all at the same time, but as this was nothing new she dealt with it as she had done before, and simply tucked it away out of sight.
The surprise had come when Sister Michael fetched them both and told them they would be going with the Careys. She’d looked up into that cold, emotionless face and wondered if this was just another way of punishing her. Yet within days she and Diane were on their way to a new life, a new home, with a promise from Reverend Mother that they would return immediately if their real parents turned up.
Jenny stared into the distance as the old doubts closed in. Other children from Dajarra were adopted, but for her and Diane it had been different. And she’d always wondered why. She sighed. Ellen and John had been old enough to be their grandparents, but they had given them a good life and it was because of them she and Diane were able to face the world with a sense of worth. The years on Waluna had seen them flourish, and although those two wonderful foster parents were gone now, she still remembered the place and its people with deep affection.
Matilda's Last Waltz Page 10