A Waltz for Matilda

by Jackie French

  The valley was in shadow now. Only a bright rim of gold and red showed at the far end of the gorge. Small scurryings in the shadows could be anything. Maybe snakes …

  Why not ghosts too, while you’re at it? she told herself. Or bogeymen. It was too cold for snakes at night. The noises were probably just possums, like back at Aunt Ann’s. She’d seen their droppings on the verandah.

  It was even darker inside. She hesitated, then lit one of the candles. She didn’t really need it, not yet, but its light and the red glow from the fire were comforting. She shut the door and the shutters. At least anything that lurked outside couldn’t come in now. She took off her still-damp shoes in the bedroom. There was no newspaper to stuff into them, to keep their shape, but they’d dry more slowly here away from the fire, so hopefully the leather wouldn’t crack.

  She pulled out one of the sheepskins and stretched it over the narrow bed, covered it with a blanket, and arranged her spare clothes and shawl as a pillow, stirred the pot, then wondered what to do next. She had a feeling that once she stopped doing things the loneliness might be too hard to bear.

  Nonsense, she thought. I’ve borne worse than this. I have a roof over my head — a good roof and waterproof, by the look of it. No mouse droppings, no cockroaches scuttling in the corners, no fug of coal smoke, no factory in the morning.

  No Mum, no stories whispered as she fell asleep. No Tommy, comforting bearer of sandwiches and friendship. No Mr Ah Ching.

  She ran her hands through her hair to get more knots out. It was almost dry now, and reached her waist. The ends looked red in the firelight. She stirred the soup. The potatoes weren’t quite dissolved, but she was almost too hungry to wait. Her eye caught the strange green fruit on the table. She cut a slice off the top. It was bright red inside, even in the dim light. She sniffed it. It smelled sweet and good.

  It was. She cut another hunk, and another, nibbling the red right down to the peel. The juice left her skin sticky, but she wasn’t going out into the growing dark to wash it. She’d have to explore the shed tomorrow, in full daylight, keeping a wary eye out for snakes. There might be a bucket in there, so she could keep water in the house.

  The fruit had revived her. Suddenly she thought of the tatty edges of the blankets. At least there were needles and thread in her bundle. She fetched them, then crouched by the light of the fire and lamp, and began to darn, turning the edges over neatly.

  The familiar routine was soothing too. She began to hum, and then to sing a lullaby that Mum had sung:

  ‘Sleep then, my pretty one, sleep,

  Fast flow the waters so deep …’

  The door was flung open.

  ‘Who the flamin’ hell are you?’

  Chapter 10

  She struggled to her feet, her sewing slipping to the floor, then ran behind the table, to keep a barrier behind her and the stranger. It wasn’t till he’d hung his hat on the peg inside the door that she realised who he was, who he had to be.

  Her father.

  He was … nothing special. No glow of gold. Not tall and handsome as her mother had described, but not ugly either. Just a work-worn man. You could pass him on the street and never look at him again.

  Brown eyes like hers; black hair and beard, roughly trimmed; tanned skin, creased about the eyes; pants and shirt washed till they had lost all colour, like most of the clothes she’d seen yesterday; gaping boots tied together with twine; a bundle tied with more twine in his hand.

  Strong, though. Had she remembered that?

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘What the —’ He stared at her. ‘You’re not Matilda?’

  She nodded.

  He let the bundle drop. ‘Well.’

  Once again, it was nowhere near what she had hoped, but not what she had feared, either. At least he knew who she was. Despite her fantasies she had been half afraid that he might not even remember her, his mind rotted by spirituous liquor, or that he might not return to the house for weeks or even months, perhaps ever. She had even been afraid he might be one of those men who had two families or even more, leaving one and travelling to the north or west, starting afresh, leaving their wives and children never knowing where they had gone or even if they were alive.

  But he was here, at least.

  He moved his bundle near to the bench, still gazing at her, then shut the door behind him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He didn’t sound unfriendly or angry, just bewildered.

  ‘I wrote you a letter. Lots of letters.’

  He shook his head. ‘Haven’t had a letter for a year. More ’n that, I reckon. Drinkwater’s men pick up the mail bags for round here from the train. Reckon the old bast— I reckon Drinkwater only passes the mail on to those he likes.’

  ‘He doesn’t like you?’

  It was as though he hadn’t heard the question. A smile twisted his face. It looked almost familiar, and then she realised; she had seen that twist of the lips when she’d looked in the mirror back at Aunt Ann’s. ‘My Matilda,’ he said softly. ‘I never thought …’

  Tears prickled. It sounded like … like he really was glad to see her. More than that …

  ‘You’re really here. My daughter. In my house.’ He took a step toward her, uncertain. She walked to him in a daze, felt his arms around her, her face pressed into his shirt. It smelled of sheep and sweat.

  She had never been hugged by a man before.

  He grabbed her shoulders and held her back, staring into her face. ‘You’ve your mother’s hair,’ he said slowly. ‘Your great-gran’s eyes. The shape of her face too.’

  ‘You mean your grandmother?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye.’

  Excitement lit a flame inside her. ‘You mean I have more relatives? I can meet them?’

  The happiness on his face vanished, as though someone had blown out the lamp. ‘No. Not any more.’ He stepped back. ‘Matilda …’ He said that name as though he loved the sound. ‘What are you doing here? Your ma —’ he added sharply, looking toward the other rooms. ‘Is she here too? Why aren’t you at Ann’s?’

  ‘It’s just me.’ She didn’t know how not to make it hurt. ‘Aunt Ann died a year ago.’

  He sat on the bench, gesturing to her to take the horsehair sofa. ‘I’m sorry. I liked your Auntie Ann.’ The smile twisted his lips again. ‘I think she liked me too, in a way, though she told your ma not to marry me. But what about your ma? What does she think about you being here?’

  ‘Dad.’ Somehow the word and the man didn’t quite fit together yet. ‘I’m sorry; Mum’s dead.’

  She expected him to cry, as she had done. Instead he just said, ‘I’m sorry, girl. Must have been hard for you. I wish I’d known.’

  ‘You … you’re not sorry for you though. Are you?’ she said slowly.

  He met her eyes — his brown eyes, so like hers. ‘No, Matilda. With your ma gone, I’m free.’

  She shivered at the matter-of-factness in his voice; there was almost even a touch of joy. He’s just happy to see me, she told herself, not happy that Mum is dead.

  But it hurt, nonetheless, that the only person who would cry for Mum’s death was her.

  Suddenly the word ‘free’ struck her. Free for what? She stared at him, this dark man so different from her imaginings, this father who she knew not at all.

  Chapter 11

  The pot on the hearth gave a glop.

  He glanced over at it, then gave her a tentative smile. ‘Smells good.’

  ‘A man named Mr Doo gave me the vegetables. He brought me here.’

  ‘The Chinaman? He didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘No,’ she said gently. ‘He was kind.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ He nodded at the pot. ‘Let’s be tasting it.’

  ‘Are there bowls?’

  ‘False bottom in the chest in the bedroom. I’ll get ‘em.’ He saw her look. ‘I’m away a lot. There’s bast— blokes out there who’d steal the salt from a man’s body given half a chance, my o
ath they would. No need to make it easy for ‘em.’

  She pulled the pot away from the heat, and stirred it again. The vegetables had caught on the bottom. She hoped her father didn’t notice. He handed her the bowls — deep tin plates really — and a couple of spoons. They’d been good once. Now the silver was worn so thin the edges were almost sharp.

  ‘I’m sorry, there was no meat.’

  ‘No matter.’ He spooned a bit up. ‘It’s good.’

  She tasted it. ‘No, it isn’t. It needs salt.’ And it had a burned taste to it too.

  He laughed. ‘It tastes good to a hungry man. It’s better than most things I’ve eaten. Maybe you’ve got your aunt’s touch with cookin’, girl.’

  ‘Not my mother’s?’

  He kept his eyes on his soup. ‘Not unless she changed in the past few years.’

  ‘Dad … Why did you stop sending money? Why didn’t you tell us the house was built? We could have come out here.’ And Mum might still be alive, she thought, if she’d had this fresh, dry air to breathe.

  ‘You and your ma did come here,’ he said shortly. ‘Any more o’ that soup?’

  She filled his bowl automatically. ‘No, we didn’t.’

  ‘You were too young to remember, I reckon. Hardly toddlin’. Fat little thing you were an’ all. So pretty. Your hair was almost white then. It’s like gold now.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Simple enough,’ he said flatly. ‘Your ma couldn’t see me for what I am. Ann knew it. I didn’t. Fool that I was back then. Your ma had dreams of what a farm would be …’

  ‘Woolly lambs and white tablecloths,’ she said slowly.

  He met her eyes. ‘That’s it. She never lost them then?’

  Matilda shook her head.

  ‘I’d paid off this land afore I met her. Proud as a peacock, I was. Built the house by the time you were born. Borrowed a cart off Drinkwater to meet the train … I was still workin’ for him back then. I’d even set the table nice for her; the beds were made; a new rug by the hearth. A possum made a mess of it a few years back.

  ‘Your ma took one look at this place an’ burst into tears. Said —’ He stopped. ‘Some things are best forgotten.’

  ‘But you remember.’

  ‘Yes. But you don’t have to hear.’ He shrugged. ‘She cried the whole damned … dashed … night. Three days later I took her back to the train, an’ you too.’

  He looked at her, and Matilda could see that he was telling the truth. ‘I wanted to yell at her not to go. She was taking my whole life with her on that train, taking my daughter, all my hopes. I wanted to get down on my knees and plead with her to stay. But I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Her voice was almost a whisper at the memory of pain in his eyes.

  ‘Because I loved her. Because she was right. Your auntie was right. You’ve got to be strong to live out here. The land would have sucked your ma dry. It was best for her to go back. Best for you too, I thought.’

  ‘You didn’t even want to see me?’

  He was silent for a moment, and then he met her eyes. ‘You want the truth? I tried to forget I had a daughter, growing up somewhere. Tried to forget how you looked, that first morning here, curled up with my dog by the fireplace. Some things hurt too much. You were hers now, not mine. Your ma went back to the nice cottage by the sea, with her parents’ polished furniture and her big sister to take care of her, the church down the road and her white aprons with the lace at the tearoom. But every time I worked a shed I sent her all but a few shillings, to keep you an’ her at Ann’s, to make sure you got the best schooling to be had.’

  ‘But then you didn’t.’

  ‘And then I couldn’t,’ he said flatly. ‘We was on strike.’

  It was like the flames leaped from the fireplace to her. ‘You could have kept on working! We almost starved. Maybe if Mum had the right food she’d be alive. If we’d had the money for a doctor —’

  ‘I wasn’t to know that! I thought your aunt would see you right. She was doin’ pretty good with her dressmaking. What I sent was for luxuries, to see you schooled and pretty clothes …’

  ‘Mum sewed too. But when Aunt Ann died she couldn’t make enough to pay the rent, even when I helped. We sold all we had, but it didn’t bring much.’ She looked at him straight in the firelight. ‘Would you still have gone on strike if you’d known?’

  He was silent a moment. ‘You want a lie this time? Nice and sweet like your ma’s dreams?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t think so. You’ve more of your Aunt Ann in you than your ma. No, girl. Some things matter. It’s a new world we’re fightin’ for here, not just a few more shillings to our pay. We’re fighting for the rights of —’

  ‘The rights of working men,’ she said tiredly. ‘Fighting for a new Australia. I was at the meeting last night.’

  ‘You were? I didn’t see you!’

  So the men had been taking her to her father. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Suddenly she just wanted to sleep. To sleep and sleep till somehow this all made sense.

  ‘I’m sorry, Matilda,’ he said simply. ‘I truly am.’ He stood up and took her bowl. ‘You’ll want to go to bed.’

  ‘I need to wash the dishes —’

  ‘You’re like your aunt, all right. Can’t wash up till daylight — the breeze’ll blow the lamps out if we take them outside. I’ll show you where I hid the buckets then. Matilda …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You can’t stay here, you know.’

  Fright drove away the tiredness. ‘Why not? Please … I’m useful. I can cook … and sew …’

  ‘Matilda my darlin’, it’s not that.’ He bit his lip. ‘I have to get away for a while. Never mind why. I just came here to pick up a few things. I’ll be making tracks in the morning.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Anywhere. Just away till things cool down. Pick up some work, maybe.’

  ‘It was you,’ she said slowly. ‘You burned down the shearing shed.’

  ‘How did you hear that?’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind about that. And no, they won’t pin that on me — not on anyone. But old Drinkwater’s brought troopers down. They’ll get me for something, just to get even, to show the union he won’t be beat. So I’m going away.’ He hesitated. ‘You can stay with one o’ the women round here if you like. I can give them a few shillings for your keep.’

  ‘No!’ She thought of the bare baby, the boy throwing stones at the chickens. ‘Please — can’t I stay here?’

  ‘Not by yourself. An’ I ain’t got enough money to send you to boarding school.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What about someone in the city — you got a friend you could stay with there?’

  It had been a year since she’d seen any of the girls at school, hadn’t known any of their families well enough to want to stay with them or even ask for help when Mum was sick. She would be even more foreign to them now, after the year at the factory, even the two days out here. She thought of Tommy’s family briefly. She’d just be another burden there. She shook her head.

  He looked at her, a slow smile lighting up his face. ‘All right then. Come with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It ain’t so bad camping out. Stars for your ceiling and the wind in the trees.’ He grinned, his teeth very white in the lamplight. ‘See if you’re your mother’s daughter or mine.’

  ‘I’m both.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see if you’re the bit that can take sleeping in a swag. What do you say? If I do pick up work you can’t sleep in the bunkhouse,’ he added. ‘But there’s always room for another maid at places like that. You can cook. Add your wages onto mine. Then in a year, two at the most, we’ll come back here. Buy some good ewes, the best ram we can find. A couple of horses. By the time you’re a woman we’ll have this place as rich as Drinkwater.’

  Safety. A life. Someone who loved her. Somewhere she belonged. But once more sleep was almost all she could thin
k about.

  ‘Sweet dreams, Matilda,’ he said softly.

  She turned to go into the second bedroom. At the last moment she turned. ‘Dad? Why did you say now Mum was dead you were free?’

  ‘Because now I don’t have to send her almost every penny I make, I can make this into a proper farm. Not with white sheep and baa-baa lambs. Something real.’

  He looked at her as though she was a bucket full of gold. ‘Your ma took that from me, just like she took you. I’m going to get my life back now.’ He crossed the room and took her shoulders again, then kissed the top of her head. ‘Sleep well, my daughter.’

  Chapter 12

  Dear Tommy,

  I hope you are well. I really, really hope you are out of hospital soon and that your arm is getting better.

  I am leaving this nailed to the front door of my father’s house with a penny for the postage. My friend Mr Doo will see it and I hope he will post it to you. Please do not write back, I mean I would love to get a letter from you but I will not get it, as the post is sorted by Mr Drinkwater who is the biggest farmer here, and he is an old biscuit who does not give the letters to people he does not like, which includes my father.

  I think I like my father, which is good. He has to go away to work for a while so I am going with him, but I will write to you when we are anywhere I can post a letter. We will come back in a year or two, when we have money to buy rams (they are male sheep with big horns, I have to learn more about sheep now) and ewes. We’ll wait till it rains, because there is not enough water for lots of sheep here till then.

  Do not worry about me. My father is glad I am with him, and he will look after me. It is dry and hot and there are lots of flies but I like it better than the city. There is space and you can breathe. This morning I saw a thousand green birds, they are called budgerigars. They were on all the trees and the rocks. It was beautiful. Dad says you can eat them too but they are not worth the plucking.

  When we are back here maybe you can visit us. Dad says he can build another room on the house easy and that can be for you. He has no machines here yet but he says when we have money he will buy some, perhaps a plough so we can put in crops such as turnips or corn for the sheep to eat (I have learned that already). There is one that can jump over stumps, you would find it most interesting.