Ma was also instrumental in his coming here. She’d told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him, and having regarded himself as an easygoing sort of bloke, he’d been shocked to realise just how rude he’d been. Jenny had obviously been afraid of that horse but she’d stuck to it, literally and metaphorically, until she’d gained her confidence. No mean feat after a bad fall in the past.
The black and white pup squirmed in his arms, paddling with his feet to get down, but Brett held on, unsure if coming here tonight had been such a good idea after all. He’d seen the lights from across the yard and assumed she was still awake, yet there appeared to be no one about and his knock remained unanswered.
He waited another moment, then pushed through the screen door. She must be here, he thought. Where else could she go? But the thought she might be asleep came as a relief. He could leave now, and apologise in the morning.
The silence in the house surrounded him, and he cleared his throat to announce his presence. He was reluctant to disturb her privacy, knowing how precious it was in a place like this but not wanting to startle her if she wasn’t asleep.
Then he heard the muffled sobs coming from the bedroom and panicked. Perhaps he should leave now, before it was too late and she caught him listening. Women were one thing but tears were way out of his league. He stood there for a moment, unsure of his next move, the wriggling pup in his arms. Perhaps his churlish behaviour was the reason for her tears. He hoped not but one never knew with women.
The pup made the decision for him. With a last, desperate wriggle, it landed with a thud on the floor and scampered towards the bedroom door. With his front paws scrabbling at the wood it began to whine.
The crying stopped abruptly. ‘Who’s there?’ Jenny’s voice was muffled but edged with alarm.
‘It’s me, Mrs Sanders. Nothing important. I’ll come back tomorrow,’ Brett said hastily.
‘No, don’t go. I’ll be out in a minute.’
He scooped up the pup, took off his hat and stood awkwardly some distance from the bedroom door. He could hear her moving about in there, the muffled sigh, the hasty snuffle of tears all telling him he was intruding. He wished he was back in the bunkhouse. Wished he’d never come.
The door opened to reveal her tear-streaked face. Brett took a step back. The sight of those wonderful eyes awash with tears was having a strange effect on him. ‘I brought you a peace offering,’ he stammered. ‘But I can see it’s the wrong time. I’ll come back tomorrow.’
He was gabbling, and probably not making sense, but she seemed not to notice. ‘For me? Oh, beauty,’ she gasped, her eyes wide with pleasure. ‘How kind. Thanks.’
He transferred the pup to her arms where the little animal set about licking away the remains of her tears. Brett looked into those violet eyes. He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe, and all the carefully rehearsed words he’d meant to say were wiped from memory. He wanted to reach out and touch her – to stroke the glossy hair from her damp cheek and kiss away the tears.
The realisation shocked him from his stupor and he backed away. What the hell was he thinking of? She was his boss. He must be going mad. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full six feet two inches.
‘Just to say sorry for this morning – and yesterday,’ he stammered. ‘Thought you could do with a bit of company. He’s a ripper little bloke, but he’s not house-trained.’
He could feel the colour rise in his face as she looked back at him and twisted his hat in his hands as he slowly backed towards the front door and the safety of the verandah.
Jenny giggled as the puppy squirmed and licked and whined. ‘He’s a bonzer boy, aren’t you?’ she crooned, ruffling his silky head. ‘Thanks, Brett. He’s the best present you could have given me.’
‘It’s late,’ he said gruffly. ‘See you in the morning.’ He reached behind him for the door handle, his eyes firmly fixed three feet beyond her shoulder.
‘Do you have to go? Please stay and have a beer. You can help me find a name for this little bloke.’
Brett heard the loneliness in her voice and recognised the plea for company in her eyes. ‘Well,’ he began. He was torn between wanting to stay, and knowing he should leave.
‘Please.’ Violet eyes looked back at him in appeal.
He was lost. He remembered Marlene’s loneliness, her accusation that he’d spent no time with her and didn’t listen when she wanted to talk. Guilt had a way of eating at you, and the thought of Jenny needing him made him leave the doorway and follow her across the kitchen. One beer wouldn’t hurt.
He stood awkwardly by the table, hat in hand as he watched her pour milk into a saucer. The pup promptly stood in it, then licked the milk from the floor and his paws, large brown eyes watching for their reaction.
Jenny laughed, stroked the pup’s head, then turned to fetch the beers from the gas fridge. She opened them, passed one to Brett and tipped the other to her lips and took a long drink.
He watched the way her neck arched and her throat moved and looked quickly away, wondering what game she was playing. She had to realise what effect she was having on him. He’d finish this beer and go.
Jenny sat across the table from him and watched the pup chew a pair of her shoes. ‘Thanks again. That was real nice of you, Brett.’
‘No worries,’ he mumbled. He saw fresh tears in her eyes and looked firmly at his beer. He would have liked to ask what was troubling her, but he didn’t know how. He just hoped she didn’t start crying again. Dammit, he thought. Wish Ma was here. She’d know what to do.
‘I mean it, Brett. It was thoughtful and kind, and although I probably don’t deserve it after being such a bitch this morning, I need a friend just now.’
Brett looked across the table as she flicked her hair over her shoulders and gave a tight, false laugh. This woman was hurting, but it wasn’t his place to pry into the reason why. It had to have something to do with her bereavement, and no doubt the diaries weren’t helping.
She must have sensed his awkwardness. She turned away and watched the pup for a moment before speaking again. He’d discovered a pair of socks and was happily snuffling and chewing his way through them.
‘Reckon his name should be Ripper,’ she said finally. ‘What do you think?’
‘Too right,’ he said quickly, relieved the tense moment was over. ‘Bit of a larrikin, that one. Runt of the litter, but full of energy.’
The silence grew and Brett took a swig of beer. He didn’t know what else to say and as the moments passed began to feel more uncomfortable. He was on the point of getting up from the table when her hand crept across and rested on his fingers.
It was as if he’d been jolted by a cattle prod. He was transfixed, staring into violet eyes that now seemed too close to his.
‘Talk to me about Matilda Thomas, Brett.’
Her eyes weren’t just violet, he realised. Now he was closer, he could see gold and flecks of blue, surrounded by the deepest black. He reluctantly pulled away from her and clasped the neck of the beer bottle to steady himself. He should have known this would come. But did it have to be tonight when she was already upset and he was tongue-tied?
‘What do you mean, Mrs Sanders?’ It was the best he could do. He needed time to get his brain in gear.
‘You know very well what I mean, Brett Wilson,’ she said in exasperation, her eyes dark and angry. She pushed away from the table, her chair scraping on the floor. ‘And if you don’t stop calling me Mrs Sanders, I swear I’ll smash this bloody bottle over your bloody head.’
They stared at one another, shocked at her words, then broke into simultaneous laughter.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Jenny giggled. ‘We’re both adults, for goodness’ sake, how the hell did we get to be so scratchy with each other?’
Brett shook his head, the grin still firmly set on his face. ‘Beats me. My fault probably. But fair go, Mrs – I mean, Jenny – you were a bit of a shock. I expected someone older. Less…�
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‘Bossy?’ she finished for him.
That wasn’t what he was thinking at all, but he let it go. He noticed how the laughter shone in her eyes as she tilted her head and looked at him. ‘How was I supposed to know you’d be so young … and everything.’ He tailed off. He’d said too much.
She grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Brett. Have another beer.’ She passed the bottle and raised her own in a toast. ‘Here’s to a better understanding of each other.’
‘Yeah, why not?’ The beer was cold, just the way he liked it, and yet he couldn’t remember her leaving the table to fetch it. He was aware only of her face and eyes. He would have to watch it, or he’d find himself in too deep with the lovely Jenny Sanders.
‘Tell me about the history of this place, Brett,’ she said, her expression serious. She held up her hand to silence his objection. ‘You and Ma mentioned rumours. Come on, I need to know.’
His thoughts were jumbled. Since reading the diaries, he’d come to realise the rumours were nothing compared to the truth, and yet he had no idea how much she’d already learned. He decided to tell her the positive things he knew about Churinga’s history. But where to begin? He took a sip of beer to prolong the moment and collect his thoughts.
‘The O’Connors came here as pioneer squatters back in the early eighteen hundreds. They were poor Irish, like most of the settlers back then. Sick of British rule and desperate to own the land they worked. Churinga homestead started out as a shack in the middle of the bush. There was water and grass and protection from flooding on the higher land near the mountain. But the bush had to be cleared before they could increase the stock they’d brought with them.’ He stared thoughtfully into the distance, imagining the years of backbreaking work this must have entailed.
‘They didn’t have tractors and sophisticated machinery, of course. Most of the work must have been done by axe and hoe. But as the land cleared and their sheep prospered, they began to increase their acreage. When Mary took over, Churinga was almost a hundred thousand acres, and the shack was now surrounded by barns and sheds.’
‘Mary was Matilda’s mother?’
Brett nodded. ‘She ran the place during the first world war, when her husband Mervyn was away in Gallipoli. She brought in the Merinos and the dairy herd, and with the money she made from the wool, she improved the homestead. The rumours have it that Mervyn resented her success, and when she died, he tried to sell Churinga to Ethan Squires.’
‘But he couldn’t,’ murmured Jenny. ‘It belonged to Matilda.’ She finished her beer. ‘I’ve read some of the early diaries, and they aren’t pretty. But I’d like to know what others thought of Matilda. What about these rumours you mentioned?
‘Matilda Thomas was a legend around here before she turned twenty. She was unusual because she was a woman alone in a man’s world. She was thought odd, perhaps eccentric, living the way she did with her Aborigines, and people are always a little afraid of what they don’t understand so she was left very much to herself. There were rumours about a baby, of course, prying eyes don’t miss much. But when there was no sight of it, that was all forgotten.’ He stopped, knowing there was more but reluctant to spread what he considered to be vicious speculation.
‘But she made Churinga what it is today?’
He nodded. ‘She was respected for what she achieved here, although the other squatters and their wives disapproved of her.’ He grinned. ‘She was a bit of a larrikin, by all accounts. Charging around in men’s clothes and not giving two hoots what anyone thought of her.’
‘What about her father? What did the rumours say about him?’ Jenny’s voice held a low urgency he understood.
‘He came back from the Great War a hero. But it wasn’t until after the flash flood when he drowned that the truth came out. He wasn’t shot while bringing a mate back through enemy lines but by one of his own who’d found him hiding from the fighting. Mervyn killed him, put him over his back and returned to base camp. He was awarded the Victoria Cross and after a year or more in hospital was sent home. He thought he’d got away with it, but a man down in Sydney recovered from his amnesia and made a statement to his commanding officer. He’d been overlooked when they’d searched for the wounded near Mervyn’s hiding place, and had seen it all.’
‘I’m not surprised he was a coward,’ Jenny said grimly. ‘A man like that could never be a hero.’
Brett drank his beer and wondered how much all this was affecting her. She was, after all, recently widowed, and the diaries were a graphic account of the Churinga years. Had her tears tonight been for her personal loss or the loss of Matilda’s innocence?
‘Tell me about Matilda.’
‘You’ve read the diaries. You know as much as I do,’ he countered.
She shook her head. ‘Not all of them, Brett. I want to know what happened after the baby died. And what part the Squires family had to play.’
He was on dangerous ground. Although the diaries never revealed much about Ethan’s involvement, truth and rumour had a nasty habit of melting into one another, and he didn’t want to speculate. He looked across at her, knew he would have to say something, so decided to stick to what he knew as the truth.
‘No one saw much of Matilda after the baby died. She went into town a couple of times a year on that old horse of her father’s, and got reacquainted with her neighbours Tom and April Finlay over at Wilga. As Churinga prospered, she modernised and bought a utility but she never travelled far.’
He lit a cigarette and stared off into the distance. ‘Talk has it she got to be a hermit. She was alone with her Bitjarras except at shearing time, never went to the picnic races or dances, didn’t socialise. Andrew Squires made a play for her, but she knew he was only after the land and sent him packing. Squires’ youngest son, Charlie, was said to be keen on her, but nothing came of it.’
‘But she did have someone, didn’t she?’ Jenny leaned forward, her fingers inches from his on the table.
Brett shrugged. She’d find out soon enough if she finished the diaries, but he wasn’t prepared to enlighten her so soon after her crying storm. ‘Don’t know, Jenny. Sorry.’ He said finally.
She eyed him solemnly then leaned back in the chair, her expression thoughtful. ‘According to the diaries, Ethan Squires was after her land. And according to my solicitor, the family is still interested.’
Her eyes were on him, direct and penetrating. ‘What is it about Churinga that makes them so hell-bent on owning it?’
‘Water,’ he replied promptly. ‘Kurrajong has bore holes and a good river, but Churinga has three rivers running through it as well as deep artesian springs. The O’Connors knew good land when they saw it, and Squires never got over being too late to stake a claim.’
‘Tell me about the Squires family.’
Brett sighed. Why couldn’t she just let things drop? If only Ma had done as he’d asked and burned those bloody diaries, none of this would concern her. ‘Ethan’s father was the youngest son of a rich farming family in England. He was sent out here in the early eighteen hundreds to make his fortune, with just enough money to see him right for his first few years. He started out in Queensland, learning the differences between English sheep and Australian, then came south. He saw the land, realised this was a good place to settle, and built Kurrajong. But with Churinga expanding to the south and east of him, he had no option but to spread north. It’s drier there. Much less rain and fewer rivers.’
‘So the feud began?’
Brett shrugged. ‘I don’t think it ever came to blows, but Ethan’s father certainly made it known he resented the O’Connors and did everything he could to hinder them. He passed on his legacy to Ethan, who tried to marry off his stepson to Matilda, but she ruined his plans by refusing to co-operate. Ethan’s still bitter about that.’
‘I thought you said Charlie Squires was interested? Why didn’t anything come of that if his father was so keen?’
Brett shrugged. ‘I have no i
dea,’ he said truthfully.
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Is this place cursed, Brett? Is the Churinga an evil amulet?’
He snorted. ‘That’s ridiculous. This place is like a hundred others. Lonely, cut off and surrounded by the harshest elements in the world. What happened to Matilda could have happened to anyone out here. You have to remember what she achieved despite the setbacks, not dwell on your vivid imagination. There’s nothing evil here – just life in the raw.’
‘You really love this place, don’t you?’ she murmured. ‘Despite losing your wife because of the isolation.’
Brett was relieved at the turn in the conversation. He began to relax. ‘Marlene was a city girl. She liked the shops, the cinema, new clothes and lots of parties. I should have known she’d hate it here,’ he said quietly. ‘I tried my best to keep her happy, but it wasn’t enough.’
It was suddenly important to her to see Churinga as he knew it – as it really was. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea about this place, Jenny. It might be cut off, but there is a certain primal spirit about it. Think about Matilda. She didn’t have the luxuries we have today or the men to help in those early years. Yet she stayed. She worked and struggled for years to make this place what it is today because she loved it. She loved the land, the heat and the wide open spaces – and despite all the things she went through, she wouldn’t be beaten by any of them.’
Not all of them anyway, he thought. But Jenny doesn’t need to know that yet.
He fell silent. He’d said more than enough, and she seemed satisfied. The urgency had left her face, the intensity was gone from her eyes.
‘Thanks, Brett. But the more I read of those diaries, the less I feel I should stay. Churinga seems to cast a spell over the people living here. It’s as if Matilda still haunts the place. There are times when I know she’s in the house. Drawing me further and further into her world. And I’m not sure I like it.’ She shivered. ‘It’s as if she knows I’ll understand her pain. But it’s too soon after losing Ben and Peter. My own wounds are still too raw to take hers on board.’
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