Mr Drinkwater looked at them, then back at Matilda, his expression once again impossible to read. ‘I will be back,’ he said. He brushed past them out the door, then paused at the table on the verandah and took the letter to Tommy, glancing at the address.
Matilda heard his boots clang down the steps. ‘You all right, girly?’ said Mr Gotobed. She nodded.
‘Of course she ain’t right, you bast— you old coot. Her pa’s been killed.’
She looked at them, their dirty faces so concerned. And then at last the tears came.
They clucked around her, giving her awkward pats, as she sobbed on the horsehair sofa. Mr Gotobed made tea — strong enough to melt a teaspoon — and handed it to her in a tin mug, as though he was afraid if he touched the china it would break.
‘There, there,’ said Curry and Rice. He’d said it several dozen times before, as though they were the only words he knew to soothe a crying female.
At last the sobs died away.
‘You all right now, lassie?’
She nodded, reaching for her hanky. She blew her nose.
‘Good-oh.’ Mr Gotobed looked relieved. ‘Like we said to the old bast—’ He stopped and looked at her.
‘Biscuit.’
‘Er, biscuit, the union’ll look after your pa. None o’ that Friday stuff, neither. The funeral will be Saturday arvo, when those who has jobs are free to come. Whole town’ll turn out for your pa.’
She wiped her nose again. ‘Why?’
‘Your pa started the union in these parts. He were the one who invited O’Reilly to come, an’ all the other speakers we’ve had here too. We’d do the same for any union man. But your pa — he were the best.’
The others nodded. Mr Gotobed looked at the sack and the box on the table. ‘We brought you some other stuff too. Not much — no one has a brass farthing to rub together around here just now.’
‘Except for Drinkwater,’ put in Curry and Rice.
‘Except for the old, er, biscuit. But we’ll see you right, best as we can. When things is bad you got to stick together.’
‘Comrades got to stick together,’ said Bluey.
‘Thank you —’ she began.
‘Now, you want a lift in to town? Mrs Lacey offered to put you up. And the Fergusons —’
‘No. I want to stay here. This was my father’s place. He’d want me to stay here. It’s mine now.’
To her relief they seemed to have expected it. Bluey nodded. ‘Girl’s got a right to stay in her own home.’
‘Besides,’ she added, ‘I’m not alone.’ She gestured into the room beyond. The woman stirred, as though she had heard their voices, and rolled over, showing her face.
Mr Gotobed stared. ‘That’s old Auntie Love. Ain’t seen her around for a donkey’s age. What’s she doin’ here? What’s wrong with her?’
‘I found her. She’s had an apoplexy, a stroke, I think, but I don’t think it’s too bad. Whose auntie is she?’
‘Sampson’s, I reckon. He’s one o’ the natives that works for Drinkwater. But everyone used to call her Auntie. Sampson’s a good bloke, almost like a white man. Knows sheep too.’ The last sounded like it was one of the best compliments he could pay. Almost, she thought, as good as saying someone was a union man.
Suddenly she just wanted them to go. To leave her alone. She wanted silence and time to think. Time to make soup — if there were the right things in the sack.
Just … time.
The sun had long sunk behind the ridges. Curry and Rice looked out the door, then nudged his companions. ‘Better get back while there’s still light.’
And then, at last, they left.
Mr Gotobed had given her a dozen lamb chops. She kept four to cook tonight. The others could go in the meat safe by the spring, along with a hunk of cheese.
She looked at the things Mr Drinkwater had brought next.
More meat — a giant leg of mutton. The dog whined. It crouched on the floor and gazed up at her longingly. She cut off the shank and put it out on the verandah. The dog chewed it hungrily while she unpacked the rest.
Bread — real bread, not damper, and fresh too; a heavy fruitcake; a jar of melon and ginger jam — not Mr Thrattle’s, she was glad to see, but home-made. A big sack of flour, another smaller sack of sugar. No vegetables or barley to make soup, but she could cut the grilled meat up fine for Auntie Love and dip thin slices of bread and butter in the tea.
The chest held clothes. There was a dress she supposed was Florence’s, white with a grass stain at the hem. Her lips curled. Of course Florence couldn’t be expected to wear a stained dress. But Aunt Ann had shown her how to get out grass stains with sugar.
A nightdress, far too big for her — it must be Mrs Ellsmore’s. Two handkerchiefs, edged with lace. Soap and a hairbrush. For the first time her heart softened. These weren’t just cast-offs. Mrs Ellsmore must have actually tried to work out what she might need. And the hairbrush was beautiful: ivory with an inlay of silver. This was a genuine gift to a girl who had lost her father.
She’d wash her hair properly tomorrow, and then brush it before she plaited it again.
But the chops first. Her mouth watered. It had been almost a year since she’d eaten meat, except at the factory in Tommy’s sandwiches.
Would Mr Drinkwater post Tommy’s letters? She bet he’d read them first, if he did. She’d better write another letter, in case Tommy never got her first two. A penny was precious, but somehow a letter would make Tommy feel closer.
She had to find a way to make some money. Was town near enough to get a job, but still live here? She suspected she had come the long way round. She should have asked Mr Gotobed how long it took to get there. But probably the striking shearers or their wives and daughters had taken any jobs.
Maybe she could make money doing mending if anyone could afford to pay for it. Her sewing wasn’t good enough to do dressmaking, like Aunt Ann and Mum, despite all their attempts to make her stitches neat.
She put her chin up. (‘Chin up,’ Aunt Ann used to say, when she’d sighed over her copy book or her sums.) Her father would want her to be happy, not sad. Proud of him and proud of Moura too.
Meanwhile there were chops and fruitcake.
Chapter 21
Dear Tommy,
I hope you are well. I am really, really sorry I cannot visit you. I hope you got my last letters too. I will find some other way to send this letter in case you did not. Mr Drinkwater took the letters to post but I do not trust him. He lives next door, except next door is about five miles down the road.
My father had a little money in his swag but I will have to make some more soon. I think I can make money mending; there are a lot more men than women here and their clothes look like they need mending. I do not like sewing much but it is better than the jam factory.
It is very beautiful near my house, I wish you could see it. It is not like a painting of the bush, there is no green except the trees. The cliffs are brown and the dust is white. There were kangaroos up at the spring this morning but Auntie Love’s dog chased them. Auntie Love is a native, she stayed here last night because she had a stroke, I think, but she is getting better. It is nice to have a dog around, they made Mum sneeze.
It hurts to think of Mum and Aunt Ann and Dad, but I am trying to do what they would want me to do, and it doesn’t hurt as much.
I will write again before I post this, so I only have to pay a penny for both letters.
Your loving friend,
Matilda
Auntie Love had wakened before Matilda, and must have somehow made her own way out to the dunny. Matilda found the old woman sitting half sprawled in a chair on the verandah, the dog at her feet. Inside the fire had been freshened with a new bit of wood, and the water in the pot at the edge of the hearth was just off the boil. Auntie Love was used to kitchens, it seemed, despite her bare feet.
Matilda approached her shyly. This looked a different woman from the shapeless bundle she had washed and cl
eaned and dressed.
‘Hello. How are you?’
Auntie Love nodded, almost regally. She waved a hand to the other chair.
Matilda sat. ‘It is all right if I call you Auntie Love?’ she asked hesitantly.
Auntie Love nodded.
‘My name is Matilda O’Halloran.’
Auntie Love nodded again, as though she already knew. Or maybe, thought Matilda, she couldn’t speak much, just like Aunt Ann’s friend had lost most of her words, as well as not being able to use half her mouth. ‘Are you sure you should be out of bed?’
Auntie Love stared at her, her face twitching. Matilda realised the old woman was trying to smile.
‘Not sleep inside. Sleep here,’ she said at last. The words were indistinct, and a touch of spittle ran down her chin. She lifted her right hand — the left one lay still in her lap, as though she had placed it there — and used the hem of her nightdress (Mum’s nightdress) to wipe it away.
There was no way to argue with the certainty in those brown eyes. ‘Would you like some breakfast? I could make toast and jam. Chops.’
The dog looked up at the word ‘chops’. It had shared her bread last night, then her two chop bones too. The bones sat, well gnawed, between its paws.
Auntie Love seemed to consider the chops, to realise perhaps that she couldn’t chew them. At last she mumbled, ‘Toast.’
It was almost an order. Matilda nodded, and went to cut the bread.
The man arrived while they were on their second cup of tea, Matilda holding the cup — china, today, with its border of pink rosebuds — to Auntie Love’s lips. The old woman had eaten two slices of toast, sodden in tea, then waved her refusal of a third.
The dog heard the horse before they did. It sat up, but didn’t give its yipping bark. Matilda stood as the rider dismounted and came up the steps.
He was a native, but not a wild one, she saw in relief. Except for his dark skin he looked like all the other stockmen she had seen, from his boots to his sweat-stained hat. He was about her father’s age. He tipped his hat to Matilda, then bent down to Auntie Love. ‘What you doin’ here, Auntie, eh? You all right?’
Auntie Love gave him a blunt nod. The man stood and took his hat off politely. ‘Good day, miss. I’m Sampson,’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you —’ She hesitated. Did you call natives ‘mister’? But this man had a job, and wore proper clothes. ‘— Mr Sampson,’ she added.
He looked at her consideringly. Very like his aunt, she thought, the same stare, the same wrinkled eyes and hair, though his had no sign of grey.
‘Thanks for looking after Auntie. How did she get here?’
‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t want to tell a stranger about the cave. ‘Why wasn’t anyone looking for her?’ She felt a spurt of anger that an old woman could wander so far without anyone sending out a search party. But then they were natives.
‘She doesn’t live with me,’ he said shortly. ‘Auntie don’t like houses much these days.’
Matilda stared at Auntie Love. ‘You mean she’s … she’s wild?’
She thought she saw a flare of anger, well controlled. ‘I mean she don’t like houses.’
She bit her lip, unsure of how much she should say. ‘A few days ago I heard Mr Drinkwater’s son say he and his father and brother had been hunting wild natives. He said they’d shot one …’
He went still, waiting for her to say more.
‘Could … could Auntie Love have been there?’
He didn’t move. At last he said, ‘She ain’t been shot, has she?’
Matilda shook her head. ‘I think it’s what’s called an apoplexy, stroke. But she’s better today than she was yesterday when I found her. I think she needs a doctor though.’
‘Doctor won’t come, eh? Not to her.’ His voice was matter-of-fact. He turned to the old woman again. ‘Hey, Auntie … did they shoot at you?’
The woman looked from him to Matilda, then back again.
‘Shot Galbumayn.’
‘Who’s Galbumayn?’ Matilda whispered.
He didn’t look at her. ‘Not a name. You don’t name the dead. Means younger brother. They didn’t hurt you, Auntie?’
‘Found him.’ The effort of talking seemed too much for her.
Matilda could almost see it: the old woman, hearing the shots, running, stumbling. The man and boys on horseback already gone, perhaps, the body lying in the sand.
‘Please, could you ask her why she came here?’
Mr Sampson crouched down by the chair. The old woman spoke again. At first Matilda thought the words were strange because the old woman mumbled. Then she realised this was another language, one that Mr Sampson understood.
He looked up at her. ‘Auntie was coming to tell me about her brother. Heard your father died.’
‘How did she hear that?’
He shrugged. ‘Auntie hears everything. Heard two stockmen talking, I reckon. She came here to see you was all right.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Matilda slowly. The old woman must have set out here before she had left Drinkwater. Or maybe she’d travelled faster, knew a shorter way than the road.
But why would a native woman bother about a white girl? And why had she gone to the cave? Did Mr Sampson know about the cave? She didn’t like to ask in case he didn’t. Her father was right — hiding places were good sometimes.
The old woman banged her hand against the chair to get Matilda’s attention without having to mumble. She shook her head at Matilda, as though to tell her to stop asking questions.
‘I’ll bring the cart over, take her home. Me wife’ll nurse her, and me and the boys. My sons —’
‘No.’ The word was the clearest Auntie Love had spoken yet. She took a deep breath, then forced the words out clearly. ‘Stayin’ with the girl. Women’s business.’
What was ‘women’s business’? Was it like having babies? But she was too young to have babies and Auntie Love too old. She waited for Mr Sampson to argue or even to just tell the old woman she was coming home. But instead he just crouched down, his face level with the old woman’s. ‘All right, Auntie. I’ll bring your things, eh?’
Matilda stared. ‘You’re just going to leave her here?’
‘What she wants.’
‘But —’ You might have asked me if I mind, she thought. It would be a lot of work caring for the old lady. Then she remembered the fire lit this morning, the kettle on to boil … or maybe not so much.
Mr Sampson tipped his hat again. ‘Miss.’ He walked back down to his horse. It was almost as beautiful as the ones Mr Drinkwater and his sons had ridden, the same shiny brown.
‘Tea,’ ordered Auntie Love.
Matilda went to make another pot.
She spent the morning sewing the hem of Mum’s black dress more securely — she had only had time to tack it for Mum’s funeral — so she could wear it on Saturday for her father, and taking in the waist so she didn’t have to tie it with a belt.
She thought that Auntie Love was sleeping in the chair on the verandah, but when she looked up the wrinkled eyes were open. She looked at Matilda for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. She gestured for her to come closer, and then to help her down the stairs.
Did Auntie Love want to go to the dunny? She put her arm under the old woman’s shoulders. Once more Matilda was aware of how small she was, how thin and light. She helped her down the stairs, the dog following them, but when she tried to head over to the dunny the woman shook her head, and moved in the opposite direction.
Why on earth does she want to go over there? thought Matilda. It was just a patch of dirt and tussocks. But she moved that way obediently.
‘Baa.’ It was the sheep, nudging at her.
‘Go away,’ said Matilda crossly. This was hard enough without a sheep.
The dog growled, long and low, then made a lunge at the sheep’s back leg. The sheep skittered out of the way.
‘Baa,’ it said, reproachful again.
It headed off to eat near the spring.
Auntie Love looked around, then let herself slide down onto a bit of ground seemingly just like all the rest of the ground around. The dog lay down next to her. She picked up a bit of branch and held it out to Matilda.
‘What should I do with this?’
The old woman made digging motions. At last, because it was easier, Matilda obeyed, scratching at the hard baked soil. She had only got a few inches down when she saw a round shape, almost like a potato, but longer. She held it up, glancing back at Auntie Love.
Half of the dark face smiled. The old woman nodded, and pointed to another place. Matilda began to dig again.
There were about twenty of the potato things by the time Auntie Love seemed to think they had enough. Or perhaps, Matilda realised, she was too tired to sit there any longer. But she had the strength to reach over and pull at a sheet of thin white bark lying in the leaf litter. As Matilda watched she twisted it, this way and that, till suddenly a basket appeared in her hands.
‘Can you teach me to do that?’
The old woman gave the twisted half-smile again. It was as though Matilda had passed a test. Of course, thought Matilda. She’s teaching me. Women’s business …
She wondered how these strange roots would taste like. Could you use them to make soup? She put them in the basket, then leaned down to help Auntie Love to her feet.
Mr Sampson was back that afternoon with a few clothes and two blankets in a hessian bag, and another hessian bag clustered with flies.
‘Meat,’ he said as he dumped it on the table. ‘Flour too, an’ sugar.’ He paused. ‘Drinkwater don’t pay wages, not to me and the boys. Just rations. But I can bring you those.’
‘But … but everyone gets paid wages.’
A sharp look, this time. ‘Not natives. You all right, eh, Auntie?’
Auntie Love nodded. She’d slept for an hour, then hobbled in to take the damper dough from Matilda’s hands and show her how to mix it more lightly before she sat on the verandah chair again.
‘Mr Sampson?’ He waited for her to speak.
A Waltz for Matilda Page 12