Can after can … pick up a label, dip it in the glue, slap it on the hot tin, pick up a label, dip it in the glue …
Beside her women coughed, deep coughs that wracked their bodies, made worse by steam and smoke. Everyone who worked at the factory coughed after a few years. It was the factory cough.
Pick up the label, dip it in the glue, slap it on a tin, wait for the next …
Her hands kept working even when her mind was elsewhere — back at Aunt Ann’s cottage, or Dad’s farm … she had never seen it, couldn’t remember her father either. But Aunt Ann had had a book about a farm. The farm kitchen was painted white, with a yellow cloth on the kitchen table and a fat brown cow peering through the window. And in the background white lambs with wriggly tails and fat pink pigs.
She peered up at the factory clock again. Forty minutes to go. Behind her the brackets creaked as another vat of plum jam was swung over into the funnel.
Something cracked, loud as lightning. Men yelled.
She turned in time to see the giant vat swing off its hinges, spilling the jam onto the floor.
Tommy had said the whole thing was rusted … for an instant she felt nothing but pleasure that he’d been right, that Mr Thrattle would lose the profits of a whole vat of jam. Maybe he’d even let them take some of the spilled jam home …
And then she saw a shape among the red.
Chapter 2
‘It’s young Thompson!’
‘My oath! Help him, someone!’
Matilda’s skin crawled cold, despite the steam. That shape was Tommy, half buried in the still bubbling jam.
Why did no one move? Were they afraid of getting burned? Her mind moved faster than her body … pulling him away from the jam wouldn’t be enough. The jam would stick on his flesh, still burning to the bone.
Somehow she was already at the giant hose, turning it on full force. Within seconds the crowd was saturated. They moved apart, some in anger, others seeing what she was trying to do.
It had to work! It had to!
The top layer of jam began to sizzle. Slowly it began to move, washing back bit by bit, showing the details of the shape beneath.
Matilda let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She had imagined Tommy burned to a skeleton. But part of the mechanism had sheltered him. Only one arm and the side of his face had been burned: they were revealed, red as the jam, as the water washed him free.
Men moved now, using the jam stirrers to move the still-hot cauldron away from him. Tommy’s face stared up, mouth open, eyes shut, one side stark white, the other blistered red. His left leg was folded under him at a strange angle.
‘Is he dead?’
Matilda didn’t know who spoke. She stood, the hose still in her hands, vaguely aware that someone had turned it off.
‘Move away there.’ It was Mrs Eastman, the steadiest of the women on the line. She held her skirts up out of the jammy water while she kneeled by Tommy’s body, her hand on his neck, then ran her hands along his sides.
He didn’t move.
Mrs Eastman looked up. ‘Bring one o’ the doors. Now!’
Men moved. Mrs Eastman nodded at Matilda. ‘Good work,’ she said shortly.
‘Is he … is he alive?’
‘He’s breathing. One leg broke, I think. Might lose the arm too.’ She spoke with the dispassionate voice of a woman who had lost ten of her twelve children to disease and a husband to drink. ‘He’d have been a goner if you hadn’t got that jam away. You saved his life.’
‘Here, you!’ she called more loudly. ‘You men, put him on the door. Gently now: don’t jar that leg. Don’t touch them burns, neither. You.’ She fixed her eye on Mr Thrattle. ‘Get a taxi cab to take him to the hospital.’
‘But who will pay …?’
The woman fixed him with her eyes. ‘You will,’ she said.
The man opened his mouth as though to argue, then hurried to do her will.
Chapter 3
They wouldn’t let Matilda see him at the hospital. One of Tommy’s brothers sat with her in the wide hospital corridor, with its wooden benches and smell of antiseptic, awkwardly twisting his hat in his hands, as though he had no idea how to handle a crying, jam-splattered girl who refused to leave till she knew how his brother was. ‘He ain’t woke up yet. But Ma says Doc told her he should be all right, long as it don’t get infected. Doc has set his leg.’
‘Will he be able to use his hand?’ Matilda tried to keep her voice steady. Impossible to think of Tommy not using his hands. Tommy, grinning as he took machines apart, creating new ones from scraps of cogs and wire. Tommy, grinning as he watched her eat his sandwiches.
‘Don’t know.’ The young man’s voice cracked. He’s trying not to cry in front of a girl, thought Matilda. The image of a one-armed Tommy must be as hard for him as her.
‘Tell him … When Tommy wakes up, tell him I was here. Tell him I’ll come back tomorrow night.’
‘Might not let you see him.’
‘I’ll come anyway. Tell him.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ The boy had his voice under control again. ‘That old lady said you saved his life.’
Matilda shrugged.
‘Thank you.’ The words were even more awkward. ‘Tommy’s …’ The young man bit his lips. ‘Tommy’s a good ‘un.’ ‘Yes,’ said Matilda softly. ‘He is.’
The smell of boiled cabbage and stale wash-rags lingered around the front door of Mrs Dawkins’s boarding house. Matilda slipped upstairs as quietly as she could.
For a few seconds Matilda let herself linger on the memory of Aunt Ann’s tiny cottage up above the beach, the salty sea air, the scream of seagulls overhead. It was only an hour’s cart ride away, but it was gone from her life as surely as the jam had burned the flesh from Tommy’s arm.
She shuddered, trying to shut away the image, and fixed a smile on her face.
Mum lay under the grey cotton sheet. Her eyes opened at the click of the door. They seemed too vivid for her white face. She managed a smile.
‘Matilda …’ Her eyes darkened. ‘Rabbit, what’s wrong?’
How could she think she’d hide the truth from Mum? The tears that wouldn’t come before erupted in a giant choke. ‘Tommy. There was an accident at the factory. He’s burned.’
‘How bad?’
Mum’s voice was just a thread; there was no breath behind it. One thin hand touched hers, its fingers long and soft. The nails had grown since she’d stopped sewing.
‘I don’t know. He’s at the hospital. They said they think he’ll live …’
‘Oh, my little rabbit.’ Matilda could feel Mum’s warmth as she lay next to her, the comfort of her arms. ‘Come, lie down. He’s strong, little rabbit. He’ll pull through.’
Matilda nodded, her sobs easing. Tommy was too — too bright to vanish into death. But his arm, his hand … how could he be Tommy without two hands?
‘Have you had something to eat?’
‘Yes,’ lied Matilda. She’d go down soon and make Mum’s soup. She glanced over at the bowl and cup she’d put out before she left. Both were empty, and she could smell the chamber pot had been used too. Surely that must mean Mum was getting well. In a few weeks she’d be up again.
‘How’s the pain?’
‘Better. Much better.’
But Mum said that every evening, and every day she was weaker still. Weariness flooded Matilda suddenly, as though her bones were liquid. Just a few more minutes before she went downstairs. Just a few moments to dream.
‘Mum, tell me the story.’
For a moment there was silence. Matilda lifted her head. Was Mum too tired to talk? But Mum was smiling again. ‘Once upon a time …’
Matilda nestled back into the warmth.
‘Once upon a time,’ whispered Mum, ‘a golden man rode into town. He had brown eyes, deep as a well, and a smile as bright as lamplight.’
‘Tell me about the horse.’
‘It was a big horse, black as night.’<
br />
Night isn’t black, thought Matilda, not with the gaslights and the lanterns in the windows. The horse would be as black as Mrs Dawkins’s velvet dress, the one she kept for funerals …
‘Go on,’ breathed Matilda.
‘Most men stopped at the hotel. But the golden man came into the Presbyterian Ladies’ Tearoom.
‘“I could eat a horse and chase the rider,” he said.
‘The waitress had never seen anyone like the golden man. “We don’t sell horses here,” she said. “There’s cheese on toast, or creamed asparagus on toast, or cinnamon toast. You couldn’t fit a horse on toast.”’
Matilda smiled. It was the best joke in the world: the most familiar too.
‘“You smell like spices,” said the golden man.
‘“That’s the cinnamon,” said the waitress.
‘“Then I’ll have a pile of cinnamon toast right up to the ceiling,” said the golden man. And he did, all of it dripping with butter.’
Matilda felt her tummy rumble. She hoped Mum didn’t hear it.
‘He had cup after cup of tea, and so much toast the kitchen ran out of bread. Then when the tearoom closed he walked the waitress home. That night there was a church dance. The golden man and the waitress danced every dance, and then they waltzed, out through the door and onto the verandah. The moon shone a golden road down the sky. “One day I’ll take you along a golden road,” whispered the man. “We’ll go to my farm.”
‘“It’s a golden farm,”’ said Mum softly. ‘That’s what he said. Hills of golden grass and golden paddocks. He’d build us a house there, and one day we’d waltz in the paddocks, under the moon —’
She stopped to cough. But just a little cough, thought Matilda. She held the water to her mother’s lips. ‘And six weeks later you were married, and a year after that there was me. One day we’ll go to the farm and see the golden hills.’
Mum nodded. ‘One day,’ she whispered.
‘There’ll be the sheep,’ said Matilda dreamily, ‘and lots of lambs, just like in Aunt Ann’s book, and a dog for me and a big chair out on the verandah for you to sit in.’ She felt Mum nod next to her.
Matilda shut her eyes. Sometimes she thought she remembered her father: a big man, with strong hands. But it was so long ago, and maybe the person she remembered wasn’t her father at all.
All that she really knew of him were the postal notes. No letter with them — men didn’t like to write, said Mum. Dad was off shearing to earn enough money to build their house.
But one day the golden man would come again. He’d take them to their house. Mum could sleep in the sun on the verandah, away from the city smoke, and get strong enough to waltz in the moonlight. And Matilda could have a dog, and books, and Tommy could come and stay —
Tommy! Her eyes opened. She wished she could go back to the hospital to see if he had woken up or over to the Thompsons’ house to see if there was any more news. But she needed to make Mum’s broth, and empty the chamber pot.
She sat up. Mum was asleep, smiling. She always smiled when she talked about the golden man. Matilda stroked her cheek. It was so soft, so …
Cold.
‘Mum! Mum!’
The shadowed eyes didn’t open.
Chapter 4
Dear Dad,
I hope you are well.
Mum is dead. I am sorry I do not know the polite way to write that to someone, they didn’t teach us that at Miss Thrush’s school. We could not pay a doctor but Old Mother Basket down the street who delivers babies said Mum had a growth inside her that spread. I do not know if that is true but Mother Basket is good at delivering babies.
The grave does not have a headstone. It cost too much. It is a pauper’s grave but I bought a proper coffin and Mrs Thompson has a rose bush and she gave me some flowers. There aren’t any other rose bushes near here, not like at Aunt Ann’s where there were lots of flowers. The book on farms I read said they have lots of flowers like wattle and boronia and native honeysuckle. I wish I could have picked a big bunch for Mum. There were only five roses on the bush.
Please could you come to the city? I know you are very busy, but I do not know what to do.
Your loving daughter,
Matilda
PS If someone else is reading this could you please send it to my dad quickly?
The hospital floor was so polished her boots kept slipping. They were Mum’s boots, worn with newspaper stuffed in the toe, to look respectable for Mum’s funeral. The black dress was Mum’s too, the hem hastily taken up and the sides tacked in. ‘No point cutting good cloth,’ said Mrs Dawkins, when it could be let out again later as Matilda grew.
Tommy’s bed was at the end of the row of neat grey blankets and white sheets, and men’s white faces too. Tommy looked younger and smaller, somehow, on the starched pillow. One side of his face was still puckered and red, but at least the jam had missed his eyes. She looked down at his hand. His arm was still bandaged, but now he held a small rubber ball in his fingers. She could see the sweat on his forehead as he tried to clasp it.
‘You should wait till your hand has healed.’
He looked up at her and tried to smile, one half of his face twisting while the other stayed still.
‘I need to stretch it before the scars set. I was reading about a cove who kept working on his muscles when his leg was crushed. Got his leg working again after six months. Arms and legs are just like machines, except they got muscles and tendons instead of cogs and pulleys.’
It was so like Tommy to have read how arms and legs worked. ‘I’m sorry. I should have bought you grapes or something.’
‘Ma brought those.’ He gestured to the bowl by his bed. ‘Go on, eat them. I’m that sick of grapes.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Eat them.’ The voice was gentle, but firm. She nodded. It was funny, everyone wanted to feed her now, even Mrs Dawkins, but her appetite had gone.
‘How was …’
‘The funeral.’ She forced herself to eat another grape. ‘It was just me and Mrs Dawkins. But it was a proper coffin, not a pauper’s. I pawned Mum’s wedding ring.’ She glanced up at him. ‘I’ll get it back one day. Bury it with her.’
He nodded. ‘What now?’
‘I don’t know. Mrs Dawkins has let our room to someone else. I’m sleeping with her Monica. She says I can stay, as long as I go on working at the factory. My wages will pay for my keep.’ She shrugged. ‘Or I can go to the Destitute Children’s Home.’
‘No!’
She gave up on the grapes. ‘I heard they send the orphans to school.’
‘Only till they’re big enough to work. They’d farm you out as a maidservant, working all hours just for your keep.’
‘Oh,’ she said slowly, ‘I didn’t know.’
He sat forward, grunting a little with the pain, and reached out to her with his good hand. ‘Stay at the factory for now. Maybe … maybe you can live with us. I’ll be out of here soon.’
No, you won’t, she thought. And when you do you’ll need nursing. She’d met his ma two days ago, thin-faced and anxious. She’d thanked Matilda over and over for saving her son. But she had eight children already in that small house, and now Tommy not working. Matilda couldn’t add another burden to that tired face.
She said steadily, ‘There’s one other thing that I can do.’
‘What?’
‘Go to my father.’
Tommy stared. ‘You don’t know where he is.’
‘Of course I know where his farm is. It’s called Moura, north of Gibber’s Creek.’
‘Gibber’s Creek! That’s beyond the black stump.’
‘What stump?’
He gestured with his good hand. ‘Just a saying. But Gibber’s Creek’s hundreds of miles away from here.’
‘I know. I found it on the map when I was at school. But even if he’s not there, there has to be someone looking after his farm. Don’t you see,’ she added urgently, ‘it makes sense.’
‘No, it doesn’t. Write to him, send a telegram, and wait for him to come to you.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Matilda sat silently. She wasn’t even sure she knew the answer. Just that so much she loved had vanished. Mum, Aunt Ann, even Tommy, though he’d come back (wouldn’t he?). She needed something of her own, and there was only one thing left.
Her father.
‘You don’t even know how to get there.’
‘There’s a train.’
‘The train’ll only take you as far as Drinkwater. That’s just a big property, not even a town.’
Drinkwater. She stored the bit of information up. She should have known Tommy would know the nearest train station to anywhere.
‘How do people get to Gibber’s Creek from the train?’
He lay back, suddenly exhausted. ‘I don’t know. Someone picks them up in a cart. Maybe there’s a mail coach. I don’t know everything. Matilda?’
‘Yes.’ She leaned closer.
‘Why didn’t your dad help you before? When your ma was ill?’
‘Because he’s off shearing,’ she said patiently. ‘I told you.’
Tommy shook his head. ‘They don’t shear all year round. Why doesn’t he ever visit you?’
‘He’s … he’s busy on his farm. He’s building us a house to live in.’
Tommy watched her from his bed. ‘He … you do have a father, don’t you?’
‘Of course! Everyone has to have a father.’
‘Not everyone,’ he said gently. ‘Sometimes … sometimes men don’t want a family.’
She shook her head. ‘My dad’s not like that. He sent us money, up till last year. I told you, remember? I went to school and everything.’
‘Are you sure that wasn’t your Aunt Ann’s money?’
Matilda shook her head. ‘I saw the postal orders. And Aunt Ann didn’t have any money, just what she and Mum got from sewing. Besides, Mum wouldn’t lie to me.’
She took his hand again, the good one. ‘All sorts of things can happen when you’re out shearing. Floods, so that letters can’t get through, or he could be a long way from a post office.’
A Waltz for Matilda Page 2