Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

  Today, she decided, she would learn more about Churinga, and take time to watch and listen to the men as they went about their work. It was Saturday, half day according to Ma, so there would be plenty of opportunities to talk to the shearers and drovers, perhaps even the Aborigines. She was determined to learn about the way of things out here, the problems and pitfalls of the everyday struggles Matilda must have come across.

  Having dressed and made a cup of tea, she decided that one of the first things she must do was get back on a horse. It had been years since she’d ridden, and she’d loved it, but a nasty fall as a fifteen year old at Waluna had shaken her confidence, and now she was wary of rolling eyes and prancing hooves. Yet the only way of understanding Matilda’s world was to get right into the heart of it – not hide in the house while everything went on around her.

  With her hair twisted up into a knot, Jenny pulled down an old felt hat from a hook in the kitchen. She eyed it for a moment, wondering if perhaps Matilda had left it behind, but decided it was probably just an old hat of Brett’s and rammed it low over her brow. He would have taken it with him if he’d needed it.

  It was pleasant outside, the sun not fully risen, the sky a cool blue. The yard was already busy, despite the early hour. Dogs barked and men and horses prepared for the day’s work. Like Waluna, the place was alive with excitement for a new day of shearing. A day that would bring them closer to the wool-cheque and pay day.

  She took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh air that was scented with wattle, and laughing at the galahs that were hanging upside down so the dew could wash their feathers. Daft beggars, she thought. But the impromptu shower was a good idea. With her shirt tucked firmly into her jeans, she rolled up the sleeves before crossing the yard to the cookhouse. Several men tipped their hats and hurried past, and Jenny acknowledged their greeting with what she hoped was a confident smile.

  As she neared the shearers’ quarters, she realised it was Brett who’d stripped to the waist by the water pump and was shaving. Her footsteps slowed. Perhaps it would be better to avoid him until they’d both had their breakfast. For although they’d come to a sort of stand-off, the episode in the yard yesterday was still fresh in her mind and she had no way of knowing if his mood was still conciliatory.

  She was about to take another route to the cookhouse when their eyes met in the mirror he’d balanced on the pump handle. Caught, Jenny had no alternative but to speak to him. But she was damned if he was going to upset her again. ‘G’day, Mr Wilson. Nice morning,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Morning,’ he said gruffly as he hurried into his shirt and fumbled with the buttons.

  ‘Don’t bother to dress on my account,’ she said pleasantly. She was rather pleased to have caught him at a disadvantage, and the view wasn’t bad either.

  His hands stilled. His eyes were steady on her face as he slowly stripped off his shirt again and resumed his shave. Each stroke of the cutthroat was sure and efficient as he looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  ‘I want to go riding,’ said Jenny, dragging her thoughts back to her intentions rather than the tanned perfection of his back. ‘Is there a horse I could borrow after breakfast?’

  Brett arced the blade carefully around the dip in his chin before replying. ‘They’re not hacks, Mrs Sanders. Some of them are barely broken.’ He fell silent again, his attention on his shaving.

  Jenny recognised that gleam in his eyes as he glanced at her through the mirror. Saw the uptilt at the corners of his mouth as he washed the blade in the water. He was making fun of her. She took a deep breath and remained calm. She would not rise to the bait.

  The blade was clean, gleaming in the sun as he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure we can find you something suitable. There’s a couple of steady mares around the place that would probably do. I’ll get one of the boys to escort you.’

  She smiled at him. ‘There’s no need, Mr Wilson. I’m sure I can find my way round.’

  He was mopping up the last of the shaving cream with a scrap of towel, eyes bright in the morning sun as he turned to face her. ‘You’re not to go on your own, Mrs Sanders. It can be dangerous out there.’

  She tilted her head and eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Then you’d better be the one to come with me, Mr Wilson,’ she said firmly. ‘No doubt I’ll benefit from your wisdom, and you look strong enough to protect me from any dangers I might come across.’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Mrs Sanders, we’re in the middle of shearing. I can’t be spared.’ His hands were on his hips. There was a dab of shaving cream still beneath one ear.

  ‘How wonderful to be indispensable,’ she murmured, eyeing the sparkle in his eye and knowing it was reflected in her own. ‘However, as it’s Saturday and half day, I’m sure you’ll find a way of delegating responsibility for just a while.’

  Laughter tugged at his mouth and danced in his eyes. ‘Then it’ll be my pleasure, Mrs Sanders.’ He sketched a bow before returning to the water pump and dowsing his head.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, watching the water glisten down his back. Then she turned away, knowing he was watching her – knowing he understood the effect he’d had on her.

  Damn man, she thought crossly. He really was infuriating. Yet, as she approached the cookhouse, her sense of humour got the better of her and she grinned. It might be interesting to spend the day with him.

  * * *

  Brett stood in the morning sun, his hair dripping into his eyes, the nick on his chin stinging like the blazes. It had been years since he’d cut himself shaving, but it was almost impossible to keep a steady hand when you were trying not to laugh.

  Riding, he thought scornfully. What the hell does she think this is – a dude ranch? If madam wants to go riding then I’ll find her a horse, but I bet a dollar to a cent she won’t be prancing about giving orders tomorrow. Nothing like a long stint in the saddle to bring her down to earth.

  He watched her disappear into the cookhouse, admiring the neat curve of her bottom in those tight jeans. Then he snatched up the towel and roughly dried himself. That one was trouble, and the sooner he knew what she was up to the better.

  As he put on his shirt, he ran through the things he wanted to say to her. The questions he needed answering. But none of them sounded right. She didn’t appear to be the sort of woman who would understand a man’s love for the land. She was a spoilt city woman who thought of Churinga as an adventure, and would soon tire of the place once the excitement had worn off.

  He looked across at the cookhouse. Mrs Sanders held his future in her hot little hands. New owners probably wouldn’t want the expense of a manager, and even if she did decide to stay, there was no guarantee she would keep him on. The thought of leaving Churinga left a physical ache deep inside him, and he realised Ma was right. The only way to give himself half a chance was to be nice to her – which under different circumstances wouldn’t have been difficult – but she seemed intent on winding him up, and as he had little experience of city women, he didn’t quite know how to handle it. He jammed his hat on to his head.

  ‘Bugger it,’ he muttered, and went in to breakfast.

  Jenny was the first person he saw. Hard to miss her, with her hair up like that, showing off her slender neck and the shadows of her breasts where the shirt dipped low. He looked quickly away as her violet eyes sought him out, and found a space at the furthest end of the table. He poured a cup of tea from the enormous metal pot and stirred in four spoons of sugar. He would need all the energy he could get if he had to spend the day with her.

  ‘Morning, Brett.’ Ma placed a plate of steak, eggs and fried potato in front of him. ‘That should set you up for your ride with Mrs Sanders. And I’ve done you a packed lunch.’

  Conversation came to an abrupt halt as a dozen pair of interested eyes turned towards him.

  ‘Probably be back for lunch,’ he mumbled, attacking his steak.

  Ma chose to ignore his embarrassment as if intent on making thing
s worse. She winked at her audience, hands on hips. ‘If you say so. But it seems a shame to hurry back when there’s no need.’

  Cheerful ribbing buzzed around him, and Stan Baker nudged his elbow. ‘Looks like trouble, mate. Take it from me, son. When women start making plans without asking a bloke, it’s time to shoot through.’

  A rumble of agreement greeted this piece of wisdom.

  ‘Put a sock in it, Stan,’ mumbled Brett through the steak. ‘Let a bloke eat his tucker in peace.’

  ‘The trick is not to let ’em catch yer,’ Stan cackled as he lit his smelly old pipe and turned to the others to share his joke.

  Brett glanced down the table to Jenny. He could see no compassion in her eyes for the way his morning was turning out, and as she picked up her plate and left the room, she even had the audacity to wink at him.

  His appetite vanished and he pushed the half-eaten breakfast away and lit a smoke. She and Ma had made him look daft, and although he was used to being teased, having been brought up as the youngest of four brothers, he knew it could only get worse, no matter how well-meant. Ma had a lot to answer for, and when he had a moment, he would take her to one side and tell her to stop match-making. She did it every year. That was how he’d been cornered by Lorraine.

  He smoked his cigarette and poured another cup of tea. At least Lorraine was at a safe distance, and as long as he kept it that way, she couldn’t get her claws in. And he wouldn’t throw fuel on the fire of the other men’s amusement by hurrying after his lady boss, but would take his time and finish his tea first.

  Stan puffed away at his pipe, his scrawny chest still rumbling with the cough his laughter had brought on. Brett eyed him thoughtfully and wondered how many more seasons he had in him. He had to be at least sixty, yet he was still one of the fastest shearers in New South Wales. Strange how that skinny frame and hunched back never seemed to tire.

  ‘Time to go to work,’ said Stan, ramming his smouldering pipe into his jacket pocket as he stood up. ‘Ma chased me all over Queensland before she caught me, but it was only ’cos I let her.’ He smiled. ‘Just remember, son, never let a woman know you want to be caught – it gives ’em ideas.’

  Brett eyed the smoking pocket. ‘One of these days you’ll go up in flames with that bloody pipe.’

  The old shearer pulled out the offending object and tapped the dottle into a saucer. ‘No worries, mate. I intend to die in me bed with me missus next to me.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment, sucking at his gums. ‘About time you let one of the ladies catch yer, though. A man gets crook out here without a bit of female company.’

  ‘Don’t do me any favours, Stan. I like things the way they are,’ Brett retorted. He stood up, towering over Stan, and pulled on his hat. The conversation was taking him places he had no wish to visit.

  Stan laughed as they pushed through the screen door, then set about relighting his pipe. Once alight and pulling satisfactorily, he stamped out the match and headed for the shearing shed.

  Brett watched him go. No one stamped out a match or cigarette more thoroughly than a bushman. They had all witnessed the power of fire and the devastation it brought. He moved away from the cookhouse, his thoughts on what the old man had said – and although he was reluctant to admit it, Stan was right. He was lonely. The nights weren’t the same since Marlene had left, and the house felt too empty with no one to talk to about things unrelated to sheep. And since moving back into the bunkhouse, he missed the privacy of listening to music or reading in the silence of the long evenings. Men were great company, but now and again he yearned for the smell of perfume and the touches that only a woman could bring to a home.

  He glowered into the fast-rising sun. His thoughts were getting him nowhere fast, and impatient with himself and everything around him, he stomped off to saddle up the roan mare for Mrs Sanders.

  * * *

  Jenny sat on the five-bar gate and watched Brett catch and saddle the roan. Like the other men on Churinga, he was so much a part of this place, she couldn’t imagine him anywhere else. He was tough and brown like the earth, wiry like the grass, and as enigmatic as the existence of such exotic birds and delicate wild flowers in the harsh landscape.

  She’d regretted his embarrassment at breakfast, and would have put a stop to it if she’d thought it would have done any good. But she’d had no way of knowing Simone would blurt out their plans like that in front of the others and knew her interference would only have caused more comment. She had a sneaking suspicion Simone was trying her hand at match-making, and decided that, after the ride, she would have a quiet word. Brett was, after all, totally different from any man she’d met as an adult. Their life-styles collided at every turn, and they had nothing in common. Except for Churinga. And even that wasn’t enough on which to build more than friendship. It was too soon – much too soon.

  Jenny climbed down from the gate, picked up the saddle bag with the picnic and crossed the paddock. The man and the two horses were waiting for her, and although they made a pleasant picture against the backdrop of Tjuringa mountain and the tea trees, she wished it was Peter who stood there with the reins in his hands. For this was his dream – his plan for their future – and she wasn’t sure it was right to live it without him.

  The wistfulness must have shown on her face. Brett’s grin faltered as he looked down at her. ‘Not having second thoughts, Mrs Sanders? We could always postpone this.’

  Jenny put thoughts of Peter and Ben to one side and pulled on her riding gloves. ‘Not at all, Mr Wilson. If you could please give me a leg up?’

  He cupped his hands beneath her boot and hoisted her into the saddle. His grin was firmly re-established as he swung up from the stirrup and settled into his own. ‘We’ll head south to begin with. Then we can rest up for tucker in the shade of the mountain.’ He eyed her quizzically. ‘That sound all right to you?’

  Jenny nodded as she took hold of the reins. The mare was quietly tearing the grass and chewing contentedly. She was old and gentle, and Jenny was relieved and not a little ashamed of her uncharitable thoughts towards Brett. She’d had a nasty suspicion he might have given her a half-broken brumby to ride, just to teach her a lesson, but he’d proved less spiteful then she’d thought. Yet even this old mare was a challenge after so long, and it would take all her concentration not to make a fool of herself by falling off.

  They moved away from the homestead, the long grass swishing around the horses’ legs. As they left the paddock and headed out across the grazing pastures, the horses broke into a canter.

  ‘You seem at home in the saddle, Mrs Sanders,’ shouted Brett. ‘A little tense, but that’s to be expected on a strange horse.’

  Jenny gritted her teeth and attempted a confident smile. His surprise at her capabilities was nothing compared to the struggle she was having to stay on board. The effort of hanging on with knees and hands was making her tremble. She was out of condition and out of practice, and wished she could have had time on her own before coming out with him.

  And yet, as she looked out over the silver grass to the distant Tjuringa mountain, she realised how vast and empty the land was, and was relieved he’d come with her. To ride out here alone would be foolish, for if she fell or hurt herself, it could take hours for anyone to find her.

  She thought of Matilda and her desperate run for freedom. Thought she could hear the pounding of her boots on the solid, dry earth, and the echoes of her cries for help. The child must have come this way all those years ago.

  ‘We’ll head towards the mountain,’ Brett called over his shoulder. ‘You wanted to see more of Churinga, now’s your chance.’ He spurred his horse and set off at a gallop.

  Jenny’s thoughts snapped back to the present, and she tentatively urged the mare on. Sweat was running down her ribs as her hands gripped the reins and the mare set off after the gelding. Jenny rose in the saddle and leaned close to her neck, knees glued to her sides. This was going to be a real test of nerves, and she almost wished sh
e hadn’t suggested it. But there was no way she’d let Brett know how scared she was.

  Then, as if by magic, she lost her fear and the tension left her. Her grip on the reins relaxed, and she gave the mare her head. The old felt hat flew off and bounced against her back, restrained only by its thin leather strap. Her hair streamed and the sheer joy of freedom surged through her. It was exhilarating to feel the warm wind on her face, and the steady sure-footedness of the animal beneath her.

  Brett was some distance ahead, his torso barely moving as his horse stretched its legs and flew over the ground, man and beast in perfect harmony against the rugged backdrop of Tjuringa mountain. How wonderful, she thought. I could go on like this forever.

  As the mountain came more clearly into view, Jenny realised it was partially covered in thick bush. Ancient trees formed a cool oasis at its base, and as they drew nearer, there was the distinct sound of falling water and bird-song. Perhaps this was where Matilda had come – but Jenny wouldn’t let gloomy thoughts spoil this wonderful day.

  She followed Brett through the tangle and into the coolness of the green canopy until they reached the rock pool and splash of the falls. She reined in and grinned across at him. She was out of breath, and knew she’d be stiff tomorrow, but for the moment there was only the joy of the ride.

  ‘That was bonzer,’ she gasped. ‘Thanks for coming with me.’

  ‘No worries,’ he muttered, swinging out of the saddle and coming to stand beside her.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever ride again after the accident. But I did it. I really did.’ She leaned over the roan’s neck and gave her a pat. ‘Good girl,’ she murmured.

  Brett’s expression was inscrutable. ‘You should have said. I’d have given you more time to get used to old Mabel here. I didn’t realise.’

  She shrugged. ‘Why should you? I was fifteen and the horse wasn’t properly broken. It took fright, I fell off and didn’t get out of its way in time.’ She spoke the words lightly but still remembered the pain as the heavy hoof caught her shoulder and ribs. The broken bones had taken months to heal.