‘You sit here, girly.’ Somehow one of the troopers was back, supporting her, lowering her to the ground. He ran to the others again. The four of them pulled the body onto the far bank of the billabong, laying Dad on his back. Matilda forced herself to her feet.
‘Dad!’ She ran around the sandy edges of the pool, startling the sheep.
‘Baa,’ it complained.
She bent down and touched his cold white face. ‘Dad! Wake up! Wake up!’ She stared up at Mr Drinkwater. ‘You have to make him breathe again!’
‘I can’t,’ said Mr Drinkwater quietly. ‘Child, I can’t do that.’
‘You killed him! You killed my father!’
‘He killed himself.’ Mr Drinkwater’s voice was flat. He added quietly, ‘I’m sorry.’
She hauled her father’s head up onto her lap, desperately seeking some sign of life. ‘You know he didn’t steal the sheep. You know!’
‘Child, you’d better come with us. Up on my horse with you.’
‘No!’ She kicked out as he reached for her, hitting him on the knee. ‘Don’t touch me! I’m not leaving him. I’m not!’
‘We’ll take the body too.’
All at once the breath left her. The body. That was her father. Not a man, not Dad. He was ‘the body’.
It had been too quick. This was the man she had dreamed of most of her life; and he was so different — so much more — than she had ever guessed. Now not just the man had gone, but the life she was going to have with him.
She felt cold, but curiously strong. It was like when Aunt Ann died, and Mum couldn’t stop crying, and she had had to talk to the undertaker instead. It was like when the jam had tipped over Tommy. Lost. They were all lost. And now her father too.
But she had coped before. And she would now. She just had to get through the … the wobbly bits, the confused time till she could work out what to do.
What did she have, now that they were all gone?
Where could she go? Impossible to face Mrs Dawkins’s now, and Grinder’s Alley, after she had seen the sunlight on the hills.
A breeze tickled the edges of the billabong, sending ripples on the water and fluttering the leaves. It was almost as though a ghost was whispering.
And then it came to her.
The land. The land her father had loved, had chosen to stay with — in her grief she admitted it — rather than go to the city with his wife and child. His land was hers.
His dreams were hers, as well. She knew what her father wanted for her now, as surely as if he had spoken.
She took a deep breath. She put her father’s head onto the ground, then bent to kiss his cheek, like Mum had shown her how to kiss Aunt Ann, like she had kissed Mum, just a couple of weeks before. His flesh felt cold already.
He is really dead, she thought.
She looked up at Mr Drinkwater. His face was twisted, his expression impossible to read. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘But you have to take the swag. It’s mine.’
He nodded.
‘And the sheep.’
He stared. ‘What do you want with a sheep?’
‘It isn’t yours. There’s no mark on the ear. That’s right, isn’t it?’
He didn’t answer. She took silence for agreement. ‘If the sheep is mine it proves my father wasn’t a sheep stealer.’
‘How am I supposed to transport a sheep?’
Suddenly she knew. ‘The same way you brought it here.’ One of the troopers sucked in his breath. She knew now that she was right.
Murderer, she thought.
Mr Drinkwater seemed to come to a decision. ‘The sheep is yours. Now will you come with me?’
‘I’ll come.’
Chapter 18
Sitting on a horse was strange. It was higher than she’d expected, and curiously easy, though maybe that was because Mr Drinkwater kept them to a walk, steadying her in front of him while he held the reins. Or maybe it was because nothing felt real now, not even the trees that she and her father had passed only the day before.
Her father. Her father. The man who held her on this horse had killed her father.
One of the troopers rode beside them. The other two troopers walked, one leading the horse laden with her father’s body; the other leading his horse and the sheep, a rope around its woolly neck. They were far behind by the time Mr Drinkwater directed his mount into the long, tree-lined avenue to the house.
The sound of the horses’ hooves changed as they hit the gravel of the circular drive in front of the house. Mr Drinkwater pulled at the reins. The horse stopped. A man came running and took the bridle. Mr Drinkwater dismounted, then held out his hand. ‘Come on, girl.’
She looked at the hand, then at his face. He put his hand down and flushed. He watched as she slid down the horse herself, then began to climb the steps to the verandah.
‘Hello, cocky! Hello, cocky!’ The big white bird edged back and forth along the perch in its cage.
Matilda followed Mr Drinkwater through a door with stained glass on either side, and wooden latticework above to catch the breeze, then into a wide hallway, with sombre paintings along the walls, and the smell of polish and roasting lamb.
It was cool inside, despite the warm scent of cooking. She stood, while Mr Drinkwater opened a door. ‘Wait in here.’ His face looked strange, his mouth twisted. He is upset too, thought Matilda. She wondered if it was because her father had finally escaped him. There would be no one to imprison for the burned shearing shed now.
‘He’s beaten you,’ she said.
He blinked, as though his mind was somewhere else. ‘What?’
‘My father. You can never catch him now.’
‘You know nothing about it, child. Go and sit down.’
She stepped into the room as he marched down the hallway. It was a parlour, as big as the whole house at Moura. The floor was dark and polished, like at Aunt Ann’s. Bright coloured mats, shining like silk, lay next to three giant sofas. There were soft-cushioned chairs, small tables with carved legs and those deep, rich, green velvet curtains at the windows.
She was afraid to sit down in case she made the chair dirty. This was the sort of house she had always dreamed of. Everything so smooth, from the furniture to the rugs. So many colours … she felt a pang of guilt at her own disloyalty.
Her father’s house — her house — had been made with hope and love. This place had been furnished with money, by the man who had killed her father.
She sat on the nearest chair without even trying to brush the dirt from her skirt.
How long was she supposed to wait here? If it was going to be hours then maybe she could cry.
The door opened. It was the woman from the train. She had evidently been told what had happened — or a version of the story, anyway. She recognised Matilda too. ‘My dear, I’m Mrs Ellsmore. We met briefly a few days ago. I am so very sorry about your father.’
Matilda looked up at her face. It was smooth, and white from a life of hats and veils and parlours. But she seemed sincere.
She stood up as the older woman came into the room. ‘Thank you.’ The politeness was automatic. She wanted to yell at her, ‘Your brother murdered him!’ But then she might have to explain, and the tears would come.
‘Would you like anything to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry. Thank you.’
Mrs Ellsmore looked her up and down. ‘Clean clothes then. My daughter’s should fit you.’
Matilda opened her mouth to refuse again, then shut it. Her dress was filthy. This family owed her more than they could ever give. A dress was nothing. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead.
The door shut. Suddenly her legs would no longer hold her. She sat — not on the chair, but on one of the carpets, her back against the sofa. There was a painting on the wall: a picture of fruit in a bowl. She stared at it, trying to keep her mind away from what had happened — what was happening now. There was a pineapple, two apples, a pear …
‘Who are you? What
are you doing in here?’
She scrambled to her feet. It was the older boy. What was his name? James. He wore working clothes, a sweat-stained shirt and dust-stained trousers, unlike his brother when he’d pushed Florence on the swing. But these clothes were almost new, and had been freshly ironed.
He raised his eyebrow at her, almost amused. ‘Maids stay in the kitchen till they’re needed, in case you didn’t know. They don’t sit on carpets either. You won’t last here long if you do that.’
‘I’m not a maid.’
He stared — at her worn dress, then at her hair. She had plaited it tight yesterday morning, but it must be a mess by now.
‘No,’ he said frankly. ‘You’re too dirty to be a maid. So why are you here? A thief?’
‘No! Your father brought me here.’
He sat on the edge of a sofa and looked at her, interested. ‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because he killed my father!’ The words tumbled out before she thought.
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous.’ He stood up, as though to leave her.
‘It’s true! Your father was going to have my father arrested as a thief. My father drowned trying to get away.’
‘He shouldn’t have stolen then.’
‘He didn’t steal! You’re the ones who are thieves.’
‘What?’ The boy stepped toward her, his hand up. For a moment she expected him to hit her. ‘How dare you?’
‘Your father took my father’s life. Isn’t that stealing? Your father stole this land too.’
‘He did not!’
‘He did! He just squatted here, pretending he owned it all.’
The boy laughed, and put his hand down. ‘Ancient history. It’s paid for now. It’s ours.’
She stared at him. Her father was dead, and this boy laughed. She wanted to hurt him — hurt him like she had been hurt.
‘You’re the son of a thief. You can’t change that.’
‘My father can have you whipped!’
‘He can’t! I’m leaving here now!’
The door opened. ‘Mrs Murphy is bringing the tea tray. I think these should fit you —’ Mrs Ellsmore stopped and stared at the two of them, her arms filled with a froth of clothes. ‘What is going on?’
‘Nothing,’ said Matilda. Or everything, she thought. But she wasn’t going to explain. Not to them. Never to them. ‘Where’s my swag?’
‘Your what?’
‘My father’s belongings.’
Mrs Ellsmore looked puzzled. ‘There’s a bundle on the verandah. Is that what you mean?’
‘That will be it.’ Matilda tried to find the voice Aunt Ann used to the drunk who tried to dance with her in the street. ‘Good day to you.’
She was halfway down the hall before she felt Mrs Ellsmore’s hand on her shoulder. But it was a gentle hand, almost an entreaty. ‘My dear, you can’t go off into the wilderness by yourself.’
‘I’m not. I’m going home.’ She met the woman’s eyes. ‘My father’s house is just down the road. I can be there in an hour.’
‘Not in this heat. Not by yourself.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
The woman gave a wry smile. ‘I probably can. But I won’t. I wish though that you’d wait till one of the men can take you in the wagon. Or James could take you —’
‘No!’
‘My dear, please don’t go. Not like this. Do you have any other family? Someone we could contact?’
Matilda stared at her. ‘My mother is dead. My Aunt Ann is dead. Granny and Grandpa Hills died before I was born. Now my father is dead too. But I am going home.’
Mrs Ellsmore stared at her. ‘You’re in shock. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I promise —’
Matilda began to walk again.
‘Wait!’ Mrs Ellsmore peered out at her from the front door. ‘What shall I tell my brother?’
Matilda turned. ‘Tell him to bring my father’s body home. And my sheep.’
It took more than an hour to get home. The swag that had looked so light against her father’s back bent her almost double. In the end she held it by one strap and half dragged it, the billy clanking and bouncing through the dust.
But the pain was good. The struggle was good. While she forced her body along the road she couldn’t think.
She didn’t want to think.
Her mouth felt as dry as the gum trees by the time she reached the shadow of the cliffs. She almost ran the last stretch between them, dropped the swag and plunged her hands into the cold clear water of the pool, gulping great mouthfuls, then drinking more slowly. Finally she washed her face and her hands over and over, as though she could wash away all that had happened today, as if when she lifted her face from the water her father would be back in the house, and she would see smoke rising from the chimney as he put the billy on.
She lifted her face. The house sat still and quiet. No smoke rose from its chimney. She wiped away the tears, and then bent to drink again.
She should have filled the billy with water before leaving Drinkwater. Or asked for food, at least. No, she couldn’t have done that. She would never ask them for anything, ever. But all she had was the flour in the tucker bag, the treacle, the salt and the tea. And some money, maybe … She drank again, slowly now, then picked up the swag.
It was hot inside the house, and stuffy. She put the swag on the floor and opened the windows, and left the door open too. Her letter was still nailed to the outside of it. She picked it off and put it on the table. Her father’s table, made with such love and care.
Something moved out the window: a yellow shadow, gone in the blink of an eye. She stared up at the rock face, wondering if she’d seen it at all. A wallaby, maybe, she thought. Could a wallaby get up that high?
A wallaby wouldn’t hurt her. She was pretty sure there weren’t any savage wild animals in the bush, nothing that could harm her. Except snakes of course. And spiders. And men …
But the house sat in its well of silence. There were no men here. Just her.
At last she could sit down and cry.
Chapter 19
Dear Tommy,
I do so hope you are well, and that your arm is getting better.
I am back here at Moura. My father died. It was sudden. I do not want to write about it yet. But I have the house he built and the farm so I am quite all right and you are not to worry about me.
I will give this letter to Mr Doo to post with the other one, both will fit in an envelope for a penny. But I am quite all right, really.
Your loving friend,
Matilda
She had thought she’d feel lonely by herself, despite her determination to come here. But she didn’t. Not yet, at any rate. Her father’s hands had built this house, for her and her mother. He’d carved the chair, found just the right branches to make curved runners for the rocker. Maybe he’d even tanned the sheepskins for the beds, and trimmed them to just the right shape.
This was hers. The house, the land around it. It was the first time she had ever owned anything except her clothes and books and toys, and even those had been sold when Mum grew ill.
This was … solid. What had her father said? The land will still be there.
She ran her hands over the wooden surfaces then gazed out the door again. The high cliffs seemed like protective hands clasped around her, keeping her safe not just from the winds and heat. The high cicada buzz in the trees could have been the land itself singing to her: we are yours, we are ours, you are ours, we are yours.
A sense of peace flowed through her. This is the first time I remember, she thought, that I have nowhere I have to go. Not to Miss Thrush’s school, not to the factory, nor to find her father. She was here, forever.
And she had water to drink and a bed to sleep in. All she needed now was food.
She moved slowly over to the swag, then crouched down and untied it, rolling out the grey blanket that held the tucker bag, her spare dress, her father’s trousers. There was a leather
pouch too. She pulled open the drawstring and felt inside. Coins …
A threepence, three sixpences, a couple of shillings, ten big brown pennies and a ha’penny. Four shillings and sevenpence ha’penny. More than a week’s wage at the factory, and Mr Doo had sold all those vegetables for tuppence.
Or was that charity? she wondered. She didn’t want charity. But maybe she’d have to accept it, for a while.
There was a lump in the tucker bag. She shook it over the floor. Two sinkers fell out, smelling faintly of fish. She’d need to wash the bag before it stank.
She picked up one of the sinkers and began to nibble it as she carried the blankets back into the bedrooms, hung the clothes on the wooden pegs on the wall. She was still wearing her father’s hat, she realised. She hung it up too.
The sinker sat hard and heavy in her stomach, but she couldn’t afford to waste food. You had to eat to keep on going. She turned back to get the other.
A furry shape glared up at her from the doorway. She bit back a scream. For a moment it was no animal she recognised; then she saw it was a dog, but moving like no dog she had ever seen, down on its belly so it seemed to have no legs, creeping toward the tucker bag. As she looked it grabbed the last sinker in its jaws, leaped to its feet, then bounded out the door and down the steps.
‘No!’ That sinker was hers. She was out the door and halfway up toward the cliffs when she realised what she was doing. She wasn’t desperate enough to eat a sinker covered in dog slobber. And anyway the dog would have eaten it by now.
Plus there would be no one to help her if the dog bit her. Weren’t wild dogs dangerous? But that’s what they had said about Bruiser. She was good with dogs, and anyhow she didn’t care, not now. This was something to do, something to keep her moving, stop her thinking. She kept on going, scrambling up toward the cliff to where the yellow streak had vanished. Maybe she was already more lonely than she had realised. Maybe it was the memory of Bruiser, still chained up at the factory, back in the city …
She slipped between the tumbled boulders. There was a path, she realised, trodden perhaps by wallabies or other animals. Or by her father … she remembered him saying I’ll show you where I hid the buckets. But he hadn’t. They had left the next morning.
A Waltz for Matilda Page 10