Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

  She came out of her daydream and looked around. It was time to explore Churinga.

  The kitchen was basic and utilitarian. A line of cupboards ran along one wall, filled with unmatched crockery and one good dinner service. A stained porcelain sink with wooden drainers was set beside rickety cupboards under the window and the centre of the room was dominated by a large, scrubbed wooden table. The two-way radio squatted in the corner, silent and brooding – the only life-line to the outside world.

  She stood by the table and looked around. The kitchen had been extended so there was an area of over-stuffed chairs which looked out through long windows to the back of the house. Book shelves and several quite good watercolours lined the walls.

  On closer inspection she could see that the paintings were all of the outback, but it was one particular painting of Churinga that caught her eye. It must have been done years ago, for the house was smaller and more dilapidated, the stand of trees less shady than now. There were only a few ramshackle sheds beyond the front yard, and the weeping willows by the creek were saplings, their fronds barely touching the water.

  Jenny eyed the painting critically. There was no signature, and it was obviously amateur, but there was a certain quaint charm about it. The artist, and she was convinced it had been a woman, clearly loved her subject. But who was she, this woman with such a delicate touch? A squatter’s wife, a Sundowner adding a few bob to her husband’s wages, or a wandering artist earning bed and keep?

  Jenny shrugged. It didn’t really matter because whoever painted it had left a potent history of the property that was unassailable.

  Returning to her exploration, she discovered a small bathroom complete with lavatory and shower. It was all a bit Heath Robinson, but no matter – a shower was a shower, and she couldn’t resist. Peeling off her sweat-stained clothes, she stood beneath the sluggish drip of murky water and scrubbed away the dust of her travels. Then, with a clean towel wrapped around her, she padded down the narrow corridor to find the bedroom.

  As she opened the first door, she realised she’d trespassed on Brett’s territory. There was a clutter of boots and discarded working clothes on the floor. The bed was unmade and there was a strong smell of lanolin, shaving cream and the stable-yard. She eyed the mess, and wondered if she really wanted this moody, unpredictable man in quite such close proximity.

  She closed the door and went on to the next room. It looked out over the paddocks at the back of the house, was freshly swept and polished, and someone had put a jam jar of wild flowers on the window sill. A thoughtful touch, but more likely to be Ma Baker’s than Brett’s she decided.

  The head and foot of the bed was ornate brass, the covers a patchwork quilt of soft colours. A rag rug covered the wooden floor, and there was a chair and a white-painted wardrobe and dressing table. She stood for a moment in the twilight, trying to imagine the people who’d once lived here, but all she could see was the empty bed. All she could hear was the life going on outside in the yard. Her own bereavement swept over her unexpectedly, and she sank on to the bed. ‘Oh, Pete,’ she sighed. ‘I wish you were here.’

  Tears pricked and she brushed them away as she unpacked her things and pulled on fresh shorts and shirt. ‘You’re tired, hungry and feel out of place,’ she muttered. ‘But there’s no point letting it get to you.’

  With rather more determination than she felt, she grabbed the rest of her things and set about making herself feel more at home. As she opened the wardrobe door, she was assailed by the heady scent of moth balls and lavender. There was no sign of any clothes and she assumed Ma Baker must have cleared them away. Shame, she thought. Might have been interesting.

  Restlessness filled her. Having seen everything in the house, she was drawn to the home paddock and the small cemetery she’d noticed earlier.

  The evening shadows had lengthened as she stepped down from the porch and picked her way through the long grass. The back of the house overlooked the pasture where the horses drowsed beneath the trees and a smaller, overgrown plot that had been fenced in by white pickets. Wooden crosses marked burial mounds that were smothered in kangaroo paw and wild lilies. It was a peaceful resting place for the family who’d once lived here. So much more personal then a public graveyard on a hill outside Sydney, she thought sadly.

  She opened the gate, noticing that the hinges had been oiled and the grass recently cut. ‘At least someone still cares,’ she muttered, picking her way through the tangle.

  There were eight grave markers still standing. The others were almost engulfed by the encroaching wilderness. Jenny read each of the epitaphs on the weathered crosses. The O’Connors had died in the late eighteen hundreds, and must have been pioneers from the old country. Mary and Mervyn Thomas had died within a few years of each other shortly after the Great War.

  The smaller memorials were more difficult to decipher. The lettering was worn, the wood paper thin. The tiny crosses stood close to one another as if embracing, and Jenny had to clear away the creepers before she could read them. Each bore the same sad legend: ‘Boy child. Taken at birth.’

  She swallowed. Brett was right – Churinga country could be cruel.

  She moved on to the two most recent headstones. Roughly hewn in the same dark rock, the lettering still glimmered white within the lichen – but the epitaph on the woman’s gravestone made no sense at all, and she sat back on her heels and pondered why such a thing should have been put there.

  ‘Tucker’s ready.’

  Jenny looked up, startled from her thoughts. ‘Does that mean what I think it does?’ she asked, pointing to the stone.

  Brett tipped back his hat before jamming his hands into his pockets. ‘I don’t know. Mrs Sanders. Before my time. Rumour has it there was a tragedy here years ago. But it’s only gossip, so I shouldn’t let it worry you.’

  ‘Rumours? What rumours?’ Jenny stood up and brushed the dirt from her hands. She loved a good mystery.

  ‘Nothing to get steamed up about,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Come on. Tucker’ll all be gone.’

  Jenny stared at him but his gaze slid away. He knew something and had obviously decided to keep it to himself. She followed him out of the cemetery and across the yard, her appetite sharpened by the thought there might be a mystery attached to the history of Churinga.

  Chapter Four

  Brett hadn’t been surprised to find her in the cemetery; it was, after all, an intrinsic part of Churinga, and after being widowed so recently herself, it was logical she should go there. Yet he regretted having mentioned the rumours. Mrs Sanders was obviously inquisitive and resourceful, and like most women he’d come into contact with, would probably go on endlessly until he told her what he knew.

  His thoughts were troubled as they crossed the yard to the cookhouse. He’d learned enough to know Churinga’s past was better left buried.

  He tugged his hat over his brow as she walked beside him. He was more accustomed to the smell of the wool shed than exotic perfume from Sydney. Mrs Sanders disturbed him. The sooner he was back in the bunkhouse the better. Should have moved his things from the house last night, and would have done too if his mare hadn’t thrown a shoe and made him walk the five miles back.

  Brett opened the screen door to let her pass, then slung his hat on to the peg beside the door. Ma had a strict rule about hats indoors. The noise in the cookhouse was loud and cheerful, but at the sight of Mrs Sanders it fell like a stone.

  ‘This is your new boss, mates, Mrs Sanders.’ Brett grinned as their astonished eyes took in her long legs and shiny hair. That fair shook ’em up and no mistake, he thought. ‘Move up, Stan mate. And let me sit down.’

  Ma came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Brett liked Ma. She was easy to talk to, and her cooking stuck to your ribs. He winced as she cuffed him none too gently around the ear. ‘What you do that for, Ma?’

  ‘You’ve got no manners, Brett Wilson,’ she retorted as laughter rang round the table. She turned to
Jenny, a broad smile on her perspiring face. ‘No one’s got any manners around here, luv. Mrs Baker’s the name, pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  Brett surreptitiously watched Jenny’s face as she greeted Ma and took her place at the table. Those eyes were fairly dancing, and he knew why – she was laughing at him. Bloody women. Always ganged up on a bloke just when he wasn’t expecting it.

  Ma had her fists on her broad hips as she surveyed the gaping mouths and curious eyes. ‘What’s the matter with yous lot? Never seen a lady before?’

  Like the other men, Brett ducked his head and began to attack the heaped plate in front of him. It didn’t do to cross Ma. The long drive had put an edge to his appetite and eating gave him the excuse to avoid the knowing looks and sly nudges from the others. They could think what they liked. She was just the new boss. Nothing special.

  Jenny recognised friendship in Ma’s broad smile. She was reminded of Ma Kettle from the old movies on a Saturday morning. A woman of indeterminate age, broad of beam and generous of spirit, who nonetheless stood no nonsense from the men for whom she cooked and washed.

  Ma placed a heaped plate in front of her. ‘There you go, luv. Nice bit of roast mutton. You look as if you could do with some feeding up. Too thin by half,’ she said with dismay.

  Jenny blushed, all too aware that despite their apparent interest in their food, the men were listening. It had been a mistake to come over and eat with them. She’d have been better off back at the house. Brett had brought enough groceries for a month.

  As she tried to make a respectable dent in the food on her plate the men seemed to lose interest and, after a false start or two, returned to their own conversation. Sheep seemed to be the main topic, but as the nearest she’d come to one in the past ten years was in a butcher’s shop, Jenny stayed silent and took in her surroundings instead.

  The cookhouse seemed to be made up of a kitchen and this vast room. The scrubbed table ran the full length of it, benches to either side. The vaulted ceiling was corrugated iron, slung over heavy wooden beams. The aromas of cooking, lanolin, horses and stables, and the honest sweat of a day’s work, mingled headily.

  As the meal progressed Jenny found it awkward to be surrounded by thirty or more men who, under the watchful eye of Mrs Baker, were obviously toning down their language and trying to display some sort of decorum. The tension in the room was almost tangible. She was ill at ease, and suspected they felt the same.

  After what seemed an eternity each man left the table, the relief of escape clear in their rush for the door. She guessed they usually sat for hours over a beer and a cigarette, discussing the day’s work, and felt more of an intruder than ever.

  As the last man left the table, plate in hand for the kitchen, Ma came back with two cups of tea and a tobacco tin. ‘You don’t want to mind them too much,’ she said, nodding her head in the direction of the noise and scuffling coming from the front porch. ‘They’re good blokes, but they only know how to talk to a barmaid. Not an ounce of heducation between ’em.’

  Jenny bit back a grin and declined the offer of a roll-up, although she was tempted. It had been a fraught day. ‘I spoiled their tucker, though. Perhaps I’ll eat in the house from now on.’

  Ma looked across the broad expanse of oilcloth, her expression thoughtful. ‘It might be best, Mrs Sanders. After all, you are the owner now.’

  ‘Call me Jenny. I’m not used to all this formality. Is it usual out here?’

  Ma laughed and shut the tobacco tin with a snap. ‘Lord, no, luv. Just our way of showing respect. You can call me Simone. I get pretty fed up with Ma all the time, makes me feel about a hundred.’

  Jenny looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Ridiculous name, isn’t it? But my old mum read a book once, and the heroine’s name was Simone – so I got lumbered. Well, I mean, look at me.’ She laughed and the whole of her large body joined in.

  Jenny grinned, enjoying the knowledge that here in this man’s world there was at least one person she could talk to. ‘Have you always followed the shearers, Simone?’

  She nodded. ‘Stan and me got together more years ago than I care to remember. I was looking after a squatter’s kids out in Queensland then, and he’d come with the others to shear the mob.’ She drank her tea, eyes misty with memory. ‘He was a good-looking bloke in them days. Tall and straight, with arms like rope – all muscle.’ She shivered at the recollection. ‘Wouldn’t think so now, would you? Shearing bends a man’s back and makes him old. But my Stan can still get through more sheep in a day than most of those buckaroos.’

  Simone snorted, her elbows on the table. ‘Took me a while to catch the old bugger, though. Slippery as a dipped sheep. But I’m glad I did. We bought a horse and wagon, and from that day to this we’ve been on the road. Bit grim at times, but I wouldn’t swop with the squatters and their fancy houses. Reckon I’ve seen more of Australia than anyone.’

  Jenny felt a tingle of anticipation. Perhaps she knew about the previous occupants, and could explain that mysterious epitaph? ‘You must have seen a great deal of change over the years, Simone. Did you come this way in the early days?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mostly Queensland. We only come this way about five years ago.’

  It was strange how disappointed Jenny felt, but there was no point in dwelling on it, she decided. ‘I didn’t thank you for the flowers or for cleaning my room so nicely. It was lovely to be welcomed like that after such a long journey.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, luv. Glad to do it.’ Ma smoked her cigarette in silence.

  ‘What happened to the clothes in the wardrobe? I assume there must have been some because of the mothballs.’

  Simone looked away and became engrossed in the pattern on the cigarette tin. ‘I didn’t think you’d want those old things cluttering up the place. So I cleared ’em out.’

  Jenny’s curiosity was piqued. There it was again. The sideways glance, the studied air of ignorance. ‘I’d love to see them. I’m an artist, you see, and one of the things I liked best at college was history of dress. If they belonged to the people who once lived here then…’

  ‘You don’t want to be messing about with the past, Jenny. It won’t do you no good, never does. Besides, they was mostly old rags.’ Simone’s expression had grown wary, and she couldn’t quite meet Jenny’s eye.

  Jenny kept her voice low and coaxing. ‘Then there’s no harm in letting me see them, is there? Go on, Simone. The more you try to hide them, the more I’m going to want to see them. Let’s get this over with here and now, eh?’

  Simone sighed. ‘Brett won’t like it, Jenny. He told me to burn the lot.’

  ‘Why ever would he want you to do that?’ she asked in horror. ‘Besides,’ she added roundly, ‘they aren’t his to burn.’ She took a deep breath. ‘For goodness’ sake, Simone. If it’s only a collection of old clothes, why the mystery?’

  Simone eyed her for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘Beats me, luv. I just do as I’m told. Come on, they’re out the back.’

  Jenny followed her into the kitchen where a mound of washing up was stacked by the sink. It was bright in here with checkered curtains and a scrubbed pine table. Stacks of fresh vegetables were piled in sacks on the floor, and pots and pans hung on hooks from the ceiling.

  ‘I put everything in this old trunk. Seemed a shame just to burn it all.’ Simone’s expression was mulish, but there was a hint of colour in her face that had nothing to do with the heat in the kitchen.

  Jenny knelt before the battered trunk and unfastened the leather straps. Her pulse was racing though she couldn’t understand why. After all, she told herself silently, it was only a bunch of old clothes.

  The lid slammed back against the wall and Jenny gasped. These were no old rags but a collection of shoes and dresses that dated way back into the last century.

  Simone knelt beside her, her confidence suddenly deserting here. ‘Course, if I’d ’a known you’d be interested, I’d �
�a never…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Simone,’ Jenny said softly, as she looked at the treasure trove. ‘But I’m glad you didn’t burn them.’ One by one she lifted out the neatly folded clothes and inspected them. Finest lawn nightdresses that were handstitched and still perfect nestled in tissue paper. Victorian lace on the collars and cuffs of a nineteenth-century day dress was still as white as the day it had been made. She unwrapped the beautiful watered silk of a wedding gown that must have come all the way from Ireland and pressed its creamy softness to her face. She could still smell the lavender. There were cotton dresses a child might have worn in the first half of this century, and tiny, intricately stitched baby clothes that didn’t look as if they’d ever been worn. There were dropped-waisted dresses of the early nineteen twenties, and post-war dresses of inferior cotton that still had matching belts and interchangeable collars.

  ‘Simone,’ she gasped, ‘these aren’t rags. They’re probably collectors’ items.’

  Her round face reddened. ‘If I’d known you’d want them, I’d have never taken them out of the house. But Brett said you wouldn’t want them cluttering up the place.’ She fell silent.

  Jenny eyed her, her understanding of what Simone had really planned for these lovely things remaining tacit. She patted the workworn hand. ‘They’re still here. That’s all that matters.’

  She pulled out riding breeches and boots, scuffed and worn with work, and a beautiful silk shawl that had a tear in the fringing. Holding it to her face, she breathed in the scent of lavender. Had these things been worn by the woman whose picture was still in her locket! Then her eye caught a glimpse of a sea green peeking from beween the folds of a white linen sheet. It was a ball-gown, incongruous amongst the plainer working clothes. Soft, dainty and shimmering, its full skirt rustled with chiffon over satin, roses of the same material clinging to the tiny waistband and ruched shoulders.