Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

  ‘That colour would suit you,’ said Simone. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’

  Jenny was tempted, but something about the dress made her reluctant to share the moment and she put it aside. ‘Look!’ she cried. ‘It’s even got shoes to match. It must have been made for a very special occasion.’

  Simone seemed unimpressed, her tone suddenly brusque. ‘That’s about it, luv. Only a load of old books and things in the bottom.’

  Jenny stayed her hand as she began to pull the lid down. ‘Books? What kind of books?’

  ‘Look like diaries, but most of ’em are falling to bits.’

  Jenny looked hard at the other woman. ‘What is it about this place that makes everyone so secretive – and why the fuss over these clothes? Has all this got anything to do with that strange headstone in the cemetery?’

  Simone sighed. ‘I only know there was something bad happened here a long time ago, luv. Brett thought it best you shouldn’t be worried by it, seeing as how you’d just had a tragedy of your own.’ She paused. ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband and little boy.’

  Brett Wilson should mind his own bloody business! ‘Thanks, Simone. But I’m not as delicate as everyone thinks.’ Jenny dived back into the trunk and plucked out the books. How intriguing – they were diaries, but Simone was right, some of them were falling apart. The newer ones were covered in find, hand-tooled leather; the others and less recent were yellow and watermarked. There were twelve in all: some thick and heavy, spanning one or two years; others simply exercise books covering a few months.

  While Simone watched disapprovingly, she carefully placed each of them on the floor in chronological order. They spanned the years 1924 to 1948. She riffled the pages, noticing how the childish, ill-formed writing had become a firm flourish as the years passed.

  Yet the last diary was puzzling. The writing was jagged and almost illegible – as if it had been written by another hand.

  ‘That’s it then. Want me to help you put it all back?’

  Jenny held the last diary close. It was as if she could feel the presence of the woman who’d written this – and it was such a strong feeling, she wasn’t aware Simone had spoken.

  ‘Jenny? You all right, luv?’

  She drew away reluctantly from her thoughts. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Let’s pack the clothes up again and get the trunk over to the house. I’ll carry the books.’

  Minutes later the straps were tied and they were crossing the deserted yard. The murmur of voices was muted in the bunkhouse, and most of the lights had been dowsed. Once the trunk was deposited on the floor in the kitchen, Simone said goodnight.

  ‘Ready for me bed. We start early out here before it gets too hot.’

  Jenny looked at her watch. It was only ten o’clock, but she too was tired and ready for bed.

  ‘You look wore out, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Simone. ‘I put clean sheets on the bed. If you get cold in the night there are blankets on top of the cupboard. Keep the shutters closed or you’ll be eaten alive by mozzies.’

  ‘Thanks, Simone. I’ll square this with Brett in the morning. Don’t you want a hand with the washing up?’

  ‘Nah. She’ll be right. Besides, you’re the boss. You shouldn’t be helping me with my work.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘Good night then, and thanks.’

  ‘Night, luv. It’s been bonzer talking to another woman at last. Blokes are all right, but I get a bit tired of hearing about blasted sheep all the time.’

  Jenny followed her out on to the porch and watched her disappear into the gloom towards the cookhouse. The air was warm, caressing her face, bringing with it the scent of the night flowers. The reality of what she’d inherited suddenly hit her, and she sank into a chair and stared out over the yard. She could hear the quiet rumble of men’s voices over in the bunkhouse, and see the flicker of light from the jackaroos’ bungalow and in the windows of the cookhouse. All of this belonged to her. The land, the stock, the house – everything. She had inherited a town. A community which would look to her for its livelihood and well-being.

  The enormity of this realisation weighed heavy. She knew so little about this life – the few years as a child on Waluna had taught her only the bare essentials – and the responsibility was awesome.

  With a long, deep yawn, she accepted what fate had thrown at her, and decided nothing could be accomplished by worrying about it tonight. She left the verandah and turned back into the house.

  It was very quiet and she assumed Brett must already be asleep. Then she noticed the sheet of paper on the table. He’d moved out to the bunkhouse.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ she sighed. ‘One less thing to worry about.’

  The trunk was a dark shadow in the gloom. It seemed to beckon her, to draw her towards the straps as if willing her to open them.

  Jenny knelt before it, fingers hovering over the buckles. Then, before she could change her mind, the straps were drawn, the lid tilted back. The green dress lay shimmering in the pale moonlight, tempting her to pick it up, try it on.

  The folds of chiffon and satin rustled as they slid over her nakedness. Cool and sensuous, the material caressed her, full skirt dancing against her legs as she moved. She closed her eyes, her fingers deep within the folds as a waltz from a distant life played in her mind. Then she was swaying to it. Moving around the room, her bare feet silent on the boards. It was as if the dress had transported her from this isolated farm to a place where someone special was waiting.

  She felt hands on her waist, breath on her cheek, and knew he’d come. But there was no light, no joyous welcome, for the waltz had grown sombre and a shiver tingled down her spine as his fleeting kiss frosted her cheek.

  Jenny’s eyes flew open. Her dancing feet stilled. Her pulse hammered. The music was gone, the house was empty – and yet she could have sworn she hadn’t been alone. With trembling fingers she undid the tiny buttons and the dress whispered to the floor. It lay in a pool of moonlight, skirts fanned across the boards as if caught in mid-swirl of the ghostly dance.

  ‘Pull yourself together, for heaven’s sake,’ she muttered crossly. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’

  Yet the sound of her own voice did nothing to dispel the feeling she wasn’t alone, and Jenny shivered as she gathered up the dress and returned it to the trunk. Slapping the buckles taut, she picked up her discarded clothes and the diaries, and went to her room. After a hasty wash, she climbed between the crisp cool sheets and tried to relax.

  Her back ached and her shoulders were stiff, but no matter how many times she plumped the pillows and turned from one side to the other, sleep refused to come. The memory of that music, of her ghostly partner in the dance would not be dismissed.

  Lying there in the half light, her eyes were drawn to the diaries she’d left on the chair. It was as if they too were calling her. Demanding to be read. She resisted, unwilling to be drawn. But the haunting melody drifted around her … the feel of his hands, his passionless kiss making her tremble. Not from fear but from something else she couldn’t explain … He was willing her to open those diaries, and before long she was unable to resist.

  The earliest book was tattered and bound by cardboard. The pages were brittle and well thumbed, the fly-leaf inscribed in a childish hand.

  This is the diary of Matilda Thomas. Age fourteen.

  The ghostly music stilled as Jenny began to read.

  Chapter Five

  Jenny slowly emerged from Matilda’s world, tears wet on her face, to find the other girl had taken her through the night, tarnishing the magic of Churinga, showing her how it had become a prison. It was as if Jenny could hear the steady, ever-advancing thud of the horses’ hooves as that bastard Mervyn caught her and brought her back. As if she could share the same fear the child must have experienced, knowing there was no one to hear her screams or offer help.

  ‘Too late,’ she whispered. ‘I’m too late to do anything about it.’

  Y
et, as the tears dried and the images lost their sharp edges, she came to understand that Matilda must have learned to fight back – to survive the horror of life with Mervyn – or there wouldn’t have been any diaries. Her gaze fell on the remaining books. There was the proof, and in those silent pages lay the answers to all the questions her night’s reading had brought.

  ‘Cooee! Breakfast.’ Simone bustled into the room, her bright smile freezing as she looked at Jenny. ‘Whatever’s the matter, luv? Bad night?’

  Jenny shook her head, her emotions too jumbled to convey. She was still with Matilda, out on the plains, running for her life.

  Simone dumped the heaped breakfast tray on the floor and stood, arms akimbo, surveying the scattered books on the bed. ‘I knew something like this would ’appen. You’ve been reading all night, haven’t you? And now you’ve gone and got yourself all upset.’

  Jenny was naked beneath the sheet, and felt strangely vulnerable beneath the older woman’s concerned gaze. ‘I’m fine. Really,’ she stammered.

  Simone clucked like an agitated chook and scooped up the offending diaries, dumping them on the dressing table. ‘Never could make ’ead nor tail of all them words,’ she said as she began to tidy up. ‘Brett’ll have something to say if he finds out. Told me to make sure you got plenty of rest.’

  Interesting, thought Jenny dryly. I didn’t realise he was that sensitive to my needs. ‘Leave Mr Wilson to me, Simone,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m a big girl now and can look after myself.’

  She snorted, picked up the tray and planted it on the bed. ‘You’ll feel better after a good breakfast.’

  ‘Thanks,’ murmured Jenny, eyeing the fried eggs and thick, fatty bacon with a shudder. How could she eat when Matilda was being held prisoner? How could she concentrate on Simone’s chatter when all she wanted to do was return to 1924?

  Simone left the room, and minutes later Jenny thought she could hear the clatter of pots in the kitchen. Her eyelids fluttered as a distant orchestra played a waltz, and the smell of lavender drifted into the room. The mists of the past enfolded her, drawing her through tunnels of time and into deep, unforgiving sleep where her dreams were haunted by dark shadows and advancing hooves – and strong, violent hands.

  Sweat sheened Jenny’s skin as her eyes opened several hours later. She lay there, confused and disorientated, until she found the strength to snatch at reality and hold on firmly to it. Sunlight chased away the threads of the nightmares, the sounds of Churinga silencing the screams.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered, pulling the sheet around her as she swung out of bed. ‘I’m acting like a fool.’

  Yet, as her gaze fell on the pile of books Simone had tidied away, she knew she would return to them. ‘But not yet,’ she said firmly.

  Wrapping the sheet more securely around her, she padded down the hall to the bathroom. The clatter of pots in the kitchen came to an abrupt halt and Simone appeared around the corner.

  ‘You didn’t eat your breakfast,’ she said sternly.

  ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ Jenny replied defensively. Why did Simone make her feel like a recalcitrant child?

  The older woman gave her a thorough scrutiny, then sighed. ‘Thought you was crook so I made some nice soup.’ She led Jenny firmly into the kitchen and pointed to the bowl of vegetables and meat and the hot damper bread she’d laid out on the table.

  Jenny clutched the sheet, all too aware of her own nakedness. ‘I’m all right, Simone. Just tired after that long journey.’ She forced a smile. ‘But the soup looks bonzer.’

  Simone sat the other side of the table, thick white cup between her hands, tea the colour of mud steaming into her face. She watched closely as Jenny took three hearty spoonfuls of soup.

  ‘Delicious,’ she murmured. And it was. Rich and filling, and just what she needed to chase away the remnants of the nightmares. The bowl was soon empty. ‘Now I must have a shower and get dressed.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Is it really that late?’

  ‘If you’re sure you’re okay?’ Simone didn’t seem convinced, but she too glanced at her watch, and it was obvious she had other things to do. ‘I’ll be in the yard feeding the chooks. If you need me, just holler.’

  Jenny watched her clamber down the steps to the yard then disappear around the corner. Once she could no longer hear her footsteps, she headed for the shower.

  Dressed and out on the porch several minutes later, her hair still wet but deliciously cool against her neck in the ferocious noon heat, she breathed in the aroma of sun on baked earth and watched the bustle of men at work. The shearing season was in full swing, and she was eager to see how much had changed since her childhood at Waluna.

  The shearing shed was the largest building on Churinga. It stood high on firm brick pilings, surrounded by ramps. The air around it was laden with dust and the sound of men and sheep. Behind it was a labyrinth of pens.

  As the shearers finished one sheep, another was sent up the ramp to replace it. The jackaroos, mostly young and black, herded the animals, voices high with excitement as they shouted commands to the dogs that raced over the woolly backs, nipping and snarling their bleating mob into some kind of order.

  Jenny watched for a moment, the scene reminiscent of those days long ago when she’d stood just like this, by the sheep pens of Waluna. Nothing much changed out here, she thought. The old ways are still the best. She wandered off to the other side of the shed where naked sheep trampled down the ramps to the dipping tanks. Strong, sure arms lifted them out, dye stamped them, drenched and injected them before setting them free to complain in nearby pens. The work was hard beneath the merciless sun, but the men seemed cheerful, despite the sweat and strain it took to control the stupid beasts, and one or two of them took the time to shout a ‘G’ay, missus’, before returning to the struggle.

  Jenny nodded and smiled. At least they aren’t ignoring me, she thought, turning away finally. But they must be wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Pete would have handled this so differently. He would have known what to do and say. Sensed how they felt about things and been able to put them right. She sighed. Being a woman counted for very little out here. Sydney and her burgeoning career as an artist seemed light years away.

  Her aimless footsteps led her to the front of the shearing shed. In her years at Waluna, she remembered, as a child and then a teenager she’d fetched and carried and helped load the bundles on to the trucks. Shearing brought great excitement to the place, with extra men drafted in, the sheep herded in great numbers in the home paddocks, and an air of expectancy lifting the spirits. The woolshed had always been a place of wonder to her then. A place where men sweated and swore but were always cheerful. Now, after a hesitant pause, she climbed the steps.

  And caught her breath. The cathedral arch of the roof brought light and space into a shed twice the size of the one at Waluna. This shearing hall was long and wide and echoed with the hum of electric shears and cheerful oaths. The smell of lanolin and wool, sweat and tar, was intoxicating, taking her back to her childhood, reminding her of all the years she’d missed since leaving for Sydney. Digging her hands into her pockets, Jenny stood quietly in the doorway and watched the bustle.

  There were twenty shearers, each stripped to the waist, back bent over the complaining sheep clasped between their knees. The tar boy was about ten and skinny, with big brown eyes, very white teeth and skin the colour of molten chocolate. The tar bucket seemed too heavy for such frail arms, but as he raced to cauterise a nasty gash on a ewe’s side, Jenny realised this was not so. That whippet frame was made of sturdy stuff.

  Three men collected the newly shorn fleeces, threw them on the long table at the far end of the shed, skirted, classed and pressed them into bales, then added them to those already stacked and waiting to be transferred by truck to the nearest railhead. Jenny knew this was the most important job in the shed. It took real expertise to judge the quality of the fleece, and she wasn’t surprised to note that Brett was one of the so
rters.

  She leaned against the door jamb and watched him work. Like the others, he’d stripped off his shirt. His broad shoulders and muscled chest gleamed with sweat beneath the harsh lights. White moleskins hugged slim hips, and the ever present hat was for once discarded. Thick, unruly black hair curled over his forehead and down his nape, the light catching its blue depths as he moved.

  He was definitely the tall, dark type beloved of romantic novelists, and very handsome, but frankly strong, silent men could be a pain in the neck. You never knew what they were thinking, and it was impossible to have a decent conversation with them.

  Good thing Diane’s not here, she thought. She’d love all this masculine flesh, and would have Brett posing on one of her Moroccan cushions in five minutes flat. The image this conjured up made her giggle, and she looked away.

  It took a few seconds for her to realise that the mood in the shed had changed, but as the giggle subsided she became aware of silent shears and eyes turned towards her. She searched one hostile face after another, her confidence wavering. Why were they looking at her like that? What had she done?

  Brett’s heavy tread shook the boards as he strode the length of the shed. His face was thunderous, hands clenched at his sides. The silence was deafening as dozens of eyes followed his progress.

  She had not time to speak. No time to think. His hand was a vice around her arm as she was forced from the doorway and hustled down the steps to the yard.

  Tearing away from him, Jenny rubbed the bruises he’d surely left on her arm. ‘How dare you?’ she hissed. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  His grey eyes were as sharp as flints. ‘Women aren’t allowed in the shed. It’s bad luck.’

  ‘What!’ She was so astounded words almost failed her.

  ‘You heard,’ he said grimly. ‘Stay out of there.’

  ‘Of all the arrogant … How dare you talk to me like that?’ Her fury was stoked by the knowledge that the men in the shed as well as the yard had stopped work and were taking a sharp interest.