Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

  Matilda shook her head vehemently. God knew her sins – no point in telling Father Ryan as well. ‘Haven’t got time, Father. Maybe on your next visit.’

  His smile was sad. ‘That’s what you always say.’ He eyed the heavy coat she was clutching to her. ‘Are you sure everything is well with you, Matilda?’

  ‘Bit tired, that’s all. Now, I gotta be getting back.’ She left the church and hurried to the store. The sooner she was out of here the better. There were too many prying eyes, too much well-meaning sympathy.

  Fred Partridge was loading the last of her supplies into the back of the wagon. His two little boys were peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts as she leaned in the doorway and watched Matilda’s approach.

  Matilda checked the list against the things in the wagon. Everything seemed to be there.

  ‘I’ve added a couple of things I thought you could probably do with,’ said Fred. ‘Nails, twine, and an extra bag of chicken feed. The wife thought you could find some use for the last of that bolt of cloth as well. Reckon Merv’s rifles are worth it.’ There was a flush of colour to those sallow cheeks, and his eyes were focused on a point over her shoulder.

  Matilda eyed the bright blue gingham and thought of the things she could make with it. ‘Thanks.’ She climbed into the wagon and took up the reins, then smiled down at him and his family. There was no point in alienating them by saying she didn’t want or need their charity. They were being kind, and she should be grateful. Yet she wondered how kindly they would be if there wasn’t enough money from the wool and her supplies ran short again. Now the rifles were gone and the pigs and the cows earmarked to pay the shearers, she had nothing else to barter with.

  She whistled and Bluey wriggled from beneath the store where he’d probably been chasing rats. She slapped the reins over Lady’s sway back and they pulled away, heading down the dirt road and out of town. She didn’t look behind her, but knew the men had come out of the pub to watch her pass, and curtains twitched at every window as she went down the street. She held her head high. They could make of her what they wanted. She would do things her way from now on – and no one would be owed a penny.

  * * *

  Jenny lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She tried to picture Matilda on that wagon behind the old horse, with Bluey loping alongside. Tried to imagine the back-breaking labour and sheer loneliness of those next few months as she repaired the roofs and walls, and virtually rebuilt the shearing shed. What had gone through her mind as she’d travelled over her land, and seen no other sign of life?

  Jenny felt her isolation as if it was an echo within herself. She knew what it was like to be alone. Could understand the longing for someone who cared to talk to. The years at the orphanage had taught her the power of resilient silence, the need to keep the deepest emotions hidden behind a facade of cool control. For once exposed, the soft, inner core of fear and bewilderment would make her weak – a weakness Sister Michael saw as an invitation to exploit and punish.

  Her thoughts turned to Dajarra and the orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy, the sound of children’s voices breaking the silence, the memory of the nuns making her cold. They had ruled with sharp tongues and quick hands, but it was the voice of Sister Michael that brought back the terror of those early years.

  ‘You’re the Devil’s child, Jennifer, and the Devil must be beaten out of you.’

  She winced as if that cruel little whip Sister always carried had once more touched her back. Even now, after all the years in between, she couldn’t enter a Catholic church without the dread returning, or hear the swish of a nun’s habit, or the click of rosary beads without a shiver. They were sounds which filled her with an urge to run and hide.

  Jenny swung off the bed and leaned out of the window. She needed air and light to chase away those dark memories. The cruelty of those years would remain with her forever, but her salvation had come with Diane.

  Left alone and sobbing, the four year old had been found on the orphanage steps one night after vespers. There was a scrawled note pinned to her thin dress.

  ‘Her name is Diane. I can’t cope no more.’

  Jenny sighed as she remembered Diane’s muffled sobs during the night, and how she’d crawled into bed with her and they’d clung together until morning. A strong bond had been forged – one that would never be broken – and it was at times like these, when she felt alone, that Jenny missed her the most.

  ‘At least I have Diane,’ she muttered. ‘Poor Matilda had no one.

  Her words drifted into the still of the late afternoon and she turned away from the window. Thoughts returned of a green dress and haunting music, of arms gently holding her as she danced. There had been someone for Matilda – someone who cared for her very much. Someone whose spirit still lingered at Churinga all the while her story needed to be told.

  * * *

  Matilda plunged the spade into the earth and pulled out the potatoes. She was in a hurry to be finished, for there was a lot to do before the shearers turned up tomorrow. Yet she was hampered by the deep pain that had been with her on and off all day. It was low in her back and she wondered if she’d pulled a muscle when she’d heaved the old generator into place behind the woodshed.

  She stood for a moment, her fingers kneading the pain as she caught her breath. It seemed to be moving, spreading like a steel girdle in the pit of her belly. The child had stopped kicking several days ago and lay heavy and low, and as she ran her hand over the taut mound beneath her loose shirt, she wondered if it was time.

  ‘Not yet,’ she breathed. ‘It can’t be. There isn’t time. The shearers will be here soon.’

  She bent to pick up the potatoes and was struck by a searing pain that felled her. She dropped to her knees, the potatoes forgotten, all her concentration on the grinding pain that assaulted her. Eyes tightly shut, she curled into the agony, the warm earth pressing on her cheek. A keening grew in her throat as she rocked, and escaped in a long, low moan as the contraction finally subsided.

  Staggering to her feet, she weaved a precarious path to the verandah. It was imperative she should get indoors before things went any further. But as she reached for the front screen, she felt the onslaught of another contraction. She sank into the rocking chair as it tore through her. ‘Gabriel,’ she screamed. ‘Gabe! Help me.’

  The gunyahs were deserted and nothing stirred but the sheep in their pens.

  Pain was laced with fear. She was no stranger to birthing, she’d helped the ewes at lambing time – but things could go wrong. Many a ewe had been lost through a breech birth, many a lamb stillborn.

  ‘Gabriel,’ she yelled. ‘Where the hell are you, you bludger?’

  Sweat beaded her skin and stung her eyes as she waited for the answering shout. None came. ‘Gabriel,’ she moaned. ‘Please come back. Don’t leave me now. I need you.’

  The contraction subsided, the yard remained empty, and Matilda knew she was alone. She pushed through the screen door and into the kitchen. Grasping an old blanket from a peg by the door, she laid it on the floor in front of the cooking range. The billy was boiling and the knife she used for gutting rabbits was on the table. She dropped it into the billy. She would need it later to cut the cord.

  Her head swam as she stripped off the overalls and boots. Her shirt was soaked, but she kept it on. There was something too vulnerable about being naked and in pain. With a clean sheet set aside to swaddle the baby, she knelt on the blanket and whimpered for Gabriel: Where had he and his family gone? Why had he chosen this particular day to leave the homestead and take his women with him? It was not a good omen for Gabriel had an intrinsic feel for trouble, and was never around when it happened.

  ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing bastard,’ she spat. ‘Trust him to shoot through when I really need him.’

  The pains grew more ferocious, coming in quick succession until she felt an urgent need to push the child out. The agony was everything. The urge to push too great. She felt herself descend i
nto a swirling vortex where nothing else existed but the need to give birth to the life inside her.

  Then, from somewhere far removed from the reality of what was happening to her, came the sound of a screen door slamming and feet treading on floorboards. Distant voices muffled by the roaring in her ears. Shadows flickered, moving around her like ghosts in the firelight.

  ‘Oh, my lord! Bert, she’s in labour. Quick – get my box from the wagon.’

  Matilda opened her eyes and saw the familiar, friendly face of Peg Riley.

  ‘It’s all right, luv. You just relax. Peg’ll see you right.’

  ‘My baby,’ she gasped, grabbing hold of Peg’s arm. ‘It’s coming.’

  ‘Too right it is, darlin’, and in a hurry too. Grab hold and push.’

  Strong arms held firm as Matilda gripped them. Teeth gritted and eyes tightly shut, she gave into the need to push – and with one final, mighty thrust, she felt the child slither out of her. Darkness came then. Welcoming and all-consuming. And she slipped into it with a grateful sigh.

  * * *

  Matilda opened her eyes, disorientated by the soft darkness and the sliver of moon touching the corner of her bedroom window. Something was different, something wrong. She struggled to escape the clutches of oblivion and remembered. How long had she been out, and where was her baby?

  A dark shadow moved in the dim corner, and she yelped in fear. It was Mervyn. He’d come back from the grave to punish her and steal her baby.

  ‘Shhh. It’s all right, luv. Only me, Peg Riley.’ A warm hand stroked back the hair from her forehead, and a cup of something that smelled strange but tasted very sweet was pushed against her lips.

  Matilda looked into the familiar face of the Sundowner’s wife as she drank from the cup and relaxed. She’d always like Peg Riley, and felt safe knowing she was here.

  The cup empty it was taken away then the sheet was tucked neatly beneath her chin. ‘There you go, darlin’. It’s all over. You can go back to sleep now. Peg’s here to look after you.’

  ‘Where’s my baby?’ she murmured. Her eyelids were heavy and sleep seemed impossible to resist.

  ‘Don’t you worry about anything, luv. What you need is a good night’s sleep. Everything’ll feel much better in the morning.’

  ‘My baby,’ she whispered. ‘Is my baby all right?’ The sound of her voice echoed in the room and in her head as sleep finally claimed her. Yet her dreams were uneasy, almost haunted, filled with the sound of disembodied voices and the tread of feet in a distant room.

  She finally opened her eyes and found it was dawn. The cool, clear light was drifting between the new gingham curtains and settling on Peg who was sitting beside the bed with her knitting. Matilda smiled into the kindly eyes and took her reddened hands. ‘Thanks, Peg. I was so scared. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘No worries, luv. We decided to come straight here instead of going into Wallaby Flats first. I like to get meself prepared before the shearers turn up.’ She drew back her hands and gathered up her knitting. ‘Can’t say I was sorry to hear about yer dad, but I reckon you done all right for yourself. Mob looks healthy enough.’

  Matilda lay back into the pillows. She felt exhausted despite the long sleep, and it was too much of an effort to talk. She watched Peggy move around the room, content to hear the swish of skirts again and the light footsteps of another woman.

  ‘Drink this, darlin’. It’ll help get your strength back.’ She watched as Matilda screwed up her nose against the strange smell. ‘I put a little something in it to help you sleep, luv. Won’t do no harm.’

  Peg waited until Matilda had drained the warm milk. Her expression was thoughtful as she took back the cup. ‘Where’s your man?’ she asked finally.

  Matilda could feel the heat of shame in her face. ‘There isn’t one,’ she whispered.

  Peg seemed unmoved by her reply. She merely nodded and tucked the sheets more firmly beneath the mattress before turning to leave the room.

  ‘Where’s my baby, Peg?’

  The Sundowner’s wife stopped in the doorway, her back straight, her hand resting lightly on the latch. The seconds ticked away and Matilda was speared with dread as the woman finally turned to face her. Peg’s expression was solemn, her eyes downcast.

  Matilda tried to raise herself on her elbow, but was too weak. ‘What’s wrong, Peg?’ she muttered.

  Peg’s weight tilted the bed as she sat down. Her arms reached for Matilda, enfolding her in a warm, smothering embrace. ‘Poor little thing was dead, darlin’,’ she crooned. ‘There was nothing we could do.’

  Matilda let herself be rocked in that soft embrace, moulded to Peg’s generous chest, the words going round and round in her head and not making sense.

  ‘My Bert’s making a fine box. We’ll see the poor little mite has a decent burial.’

  The effects of the drink Peg had given her made it difficult to think and Matilda fought the black waves of sleep that threatened to drown her. ‘Dead?’ she whispered. ‘My baby’s dead?’ Truth dawned through the encroaching darkness and bitter tears ran unheeded down her face. She’d known there was something wrong. The child had been too still inside her. She should have gone into Wallaby Flats to Doc Peterson and got help. It was her fault the baby was dead.

  Peg held her until the darkness claimed her.

  * * *

  Sounds drifted in, at first distant, then more sharply focused. The complaint of sheep, the hum of a generator, the excited chatter of men, all came together to rouse her from the lethargy of sleep. Matilda listened to the familiar sounds, knowing the men had arrived for the shearing and feeling content that Peg and Albert would see to them.

  Truth hit with searing ferocity. Her baby was dead. Peg and Albert were planning a funeral. She couldn’t lie here and do nothing. ‘Peg? Where are you?’ She swung her legs out of bed, the sheets entangled in her nightshirt.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Must be over at the cookhouse,’ she muttered. Her head felt as if it had been stuffed with wool, and her legs trembled when she tried to stand. Leaning heavily on the bedside table, she waited for the swirling vertigo to dissipate. There was an emptiness inside her she’d never experienced before, and an aching reminder of her baby’s entrance into the world. She took a series of deep, tremulous breaths, fortifying herself for the walk into the kitchen.

  As her head cleared and she was able to focus on the bedside table, she realised something was missing. It was important, but as lucid thought had escaped her, she couldn’t figure out what it was. ‘I’ll remember soon enough,’ she muttered.

  Pulling on a loose shirt to cover her nightclothes, she shuffled into the kitchen. It was deserted, but she wasn’t really surprised. With the shearers arriving, Peg would have a lot to do in the cookhouse. But it looked as if she’d left a note.

  With slow, unsteady steps, Matilda shuffled to the table, picked up the scrap of paper, and slumped into a chair to read it. The writing was almost illegible.

  Bert took ill. Had to leave. We done our best for the baby.

  Peg Riley

  Tears blurred Matilda’s vision as she screwed up the note and looked around the deserted kitchen. She was sorry to hear Albert was ill, but how on earth would she manage now? She’d been depending on Peg to help through the season.

  Yet as she realised they’d taken flour and sugar from her precious store, and the side of mutton from the meatsafe, the tears dried. A cold anger at her own weakness blew through her. That was the last time she would trust anyone, she vowed. She had come this far on her own – she would find the strength from somewhere to carry on.

  She got up and went out on to the verandah. The clatter and bustle of Churinga drifted around her as she leaned on the railings and watched Gabriel taking charge of the jackaroos. At least he’s come back, she thought. But I wonder who’s in charge of the woolshed?

  She pushed thoughts of the shearing to one side. She had to se
e where they’d buried her child. Had to say goodbye. Her legs were still unsteady, her head light, as she stumbled around the house to the family cemetery. But she refused to give into what she saw as a weakness. There wasn’t time for self-pity.

  The newly dug earth was covered in stones to protect it from dingos, and marked with a crude wooden cross. Matilda knelt on the hard-baked earth amongst the wild flowers. She reached out and touched the pathetically small mound, the tears coursing down her face as she thought of the tiny child beneath the earth. Her child. The child she’d never seen or held.

  She tried to pray, but couldn’t find the words. Tried to transmit her feelings through her touch on the roughly hewn cross – but knew it was too late. She was being punished for her wickedness and that of her father. The child, innocent of all sin, had been taken to heaven. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought after the tears had dried. For what kind of life could I have given it? Gossip would have spread, poisoning our lives, and my knowledge would destroy us both in the end.

  She picked some wild flowers and placed them against the cross. Stumbling to her feet, she stood for an endless moment looking at the brutal reminder of the past.

  ‘I’ll survive this, as I’ve survived everything else,’ she whispered. ‘But one day, I promise, you’ll have a proper headstone.’

  * * *

  Jenny closed the book, tears running unheeded down her face. She understood the pain of losing a child. Knew how deeply Matilda must have mourned, remembering her own sweet Ben. His sunshine smile and bright yellow hair. Chubby legs and clutching fingers that had been a delight.

  But at least she’d been allowed to get to know him. To love him before he was snatched away. Matilda had no photographs, no memories to cherish – merely a rough cross over a mound of earth.

  Jenny covered her face in her hands and wept for them both.

  Chapter Nine

  Brett hesitated before knocking. He’d acted on the spur of the moment, which for him was unusual, but after the ride this morning, he felt a certain respect for the surprising Mrs Sanders and wanted to apologise.