Matilda's Last Waltz Part 17

Squires reached into an inside pocket of his neat tweed jacket. His face was tinged with colour, anger emanating in waves from beneath rigid politeness.

'My card. If you should change your mind, Mrs Sanders, please call me. The price is of course negotiable, but only for so long.'

Jenny took the heavily embossed card, looked from the gold lettering to the blazing blue of his eyes. 'Thank you. But you already have my answer.'

She walked to the door, the thud of his boots on the wooden floor like hammer blows as he followed her. They reached the verandah and she stepped outside with relief. The house had become claustrophobic.

Andrew Squires adjusted his soft, narrow-brimmed hat and pulled on his gloves. Jenny almost gasped at his audacity when he caught her hand, and after a courtly bow, kissed her fingers. 'Until we meet again, Mrs Sanders.'

She stood transfixed as he went down the steps to his car, gunned the engine and roared off towards Kurrajong in a cloud of dust. The feel of his lips remained with her, and she wiped the back of her hand down her trousers.

'What did he want?'

She turned to see Brett at the far end of the verandah. He was clutching the reins of two horses saddled and ready to ride, his eyes flint sharp in the morning sun.

She told him.

Brett dropped the reins and strode across the verandah. He grabbed her by the arms, pulling her close, forcing her to look up into his face. 'He's poison, Jenny. Just like his father. Have nothing to do with any of them, or everything Matilda built up here will be destroyed.'

'You're hurting me, Brett,' she protested.

He let her go and ran his fingers through his hair. 'Sorry, Jen. But I meant what I said.'

'I've met his kind before. Cold, calculating and greedy, used to buying their way through life but I'm no fool, Brett. I can handle his sort.'

'How did you leave it with him?' His face was still grim.

'I told him I wouldn't take his three-quarters of a million bucks.'

'How much?'

Jenny laughed. 'You should see your face! Thought that would shock you.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Even I would've been tempted by that much money,' he said in wonder. 'I had no idea Churinga was worth so much.'

'It isn't, believe me,' she said dryly. 'But he was willing to pay over the odds. I can't pretend I wasn't tempted, but it didn't seem right to sell to a Squires after all these years. Besides, he knew too much about me and my business. I reckon he's had someone spy on me.'

'I wouldn't put it past him.' Brett muttered.

Jenny took a deep appreciative breath of the cool, early air. 'Never mind about him. Sun's up, the horses are ready, and so am I. Let's go for that ride.'

'Andrew and his family can't just be swept aside like that, Jen. They're wealthy, powerful people and not to be trusted.'

Jenny looked up into Brett's face and saw he was haunted by the thought of things changing and having to move on. 'I know,' she said solemnly. 'But I'm not poor like Matilda I've got the means to fight them and it's me who owns Churinga, not them.' She put a conciliatory hand on his arm. 'I'll never sell to them.'

She plastered on a smile. 'Forget the Squires family and show me your Churinga,' she said brightly. The conversation with Andrew had left a sour taste but she wasn't going to let it spoil her day with Brett.

They caught the reins and slowly walked across the hard-packed earth of the central clearing. They didn't speak and Jenny hoped Brett's mood wouldn't last for too long. She wanted Andrew and the Squires family out of her mind so she could see Churinga as Brett did.

She needn't have worried. He was soon pointing out the various buildings, taking her to see the stock pens and explaining the seasonal rituals.

'We move the sheep according to the weather, the water, the gra.s.s and the grade of sheep. To ensure good breeding and the finest wool, all the sheep on Churinga are Merinos.'

Jenny stood by the stock pens, looking over the woolly, s.h.i.+fting backs. 'Why pack them in so tightly? Surely there's no need?'

He grinned. 'Because they're the silliest b.u.g.g.e.rs on earth. They take it into their heads to shoot through, and when one goes they all follow. If it wasn't for the dogs, we'd never get the d.a.m.n things shorn.' He eyed her solemnly for a moment. 'They're only penned like this for a short time. The shearers work fast. They have to. Most of them are on a tight schedule to get to the next shed, and there's always a bonus for quick, efficient work.'

'It seems cruel to shear them just as winter's coming. Surely they need all that wool to keep them warm and dry?'

Brett shook his head, a knowing smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 'Common fallacy of the city dweller,' he murmured. 'Wool is king out here. Sheep are a commodity. To ensure a thicker, better fleece, they have to be shorn now.'

Jenny eyed the penned animals, realising that bleeding heart sympathy was of no use out here where only the strong and useful survived. 'So, what does a year on this place entail? I suppose winter's about the only time you can relax.'

Brett lit a cigarette and meandered along the labyrinth of pens. 'Sheep have to be looked after all year round there's never much time for anything else. We move them from pasture to pasture, grade them, separate them, breed them. After shearing, they're dipped and marked, then drenched to get rid of internal parasites. If the rains don't come and the gra.s.s is poor, then we scrub cut and try to feed the blasted things by hand.'

He tipped back his hat and smeared sweat from his forehead. 'Sheep are the most witless things on earth. They won't eat anything that isn't from their own pastures and refuse point blank to take the scrub we give them unless the Judas eats first.'

Jenny smiled. 'Sounds familiar. I remember John Carey going on about the Judas sheep. The leader of the pack. Devil and saviour blasted nuisance.'

'Yeah. But if you don't get it through the open gate first, the rest of the idiots will stand about and get burned to a cinder in a bush fire because they haven't got the sense to see escape is only inches away.'

She looked up at him. 'But you love your work, don't you?'

He nodded. 'Most of the time. Not so much fun at lambing though. Each one has to be caught, its tail ringed, ear tagged, and if not wanted for breeding, castrated. Crutching's not my favourite job, and neither is shooting lambs who've had their eyes eaten by crows and are still running around the fields.'

Jenny s.h.i.+vered despite the heat of the rising sun.

'I never promised it would be pretty, Jenny. It's life, that's all. We breed the finest Merino sheep. Everything here is geared to perfect wool. None of the sheep are sold for meat. When they're past wool-producing years, they're s.h.i.+pped off for skins, tallow, lanolin and glue. Everything is used there's no waste.'

Jenny eyed the pens and fields beyond. She was still finding it hard to believe she owned all this. 'How many sheep are there?'

'We have about two sheep for every acre of pasture. That's about three hundred thousand head in all, but the numbers fall rapidly in the droughts or if there's a fire or flood.'

They moved away from the sheep pens, past the carpenter's shed where the pungent aroma of fresh wood shavings brought back memories of Waluna. There had been a small timber yard nearby and she'd loved the smell of it as a child, often slipping beneath the wire to gather the shavings which she kept in a box by her bed.

The hen house was a rough lean-to, fenced in by wire, the c.o.c.kerels strutting amongst the hens with pompous majesty. The dairy was spotlessly clean, the milking machines glistening against the white tiles.

'We only keep a few head of cattle. They're not as profitable now as sheep, but they provide us with milk, b.u.t.ter and cheese, and the occasional steak to vary the diet of mutton.'

Brett moved on to the stockyard which sprawled over several acres behind the jackaroos' bungalow and leaned on the fence. 'Most of these are hard-mouthed, bad-tempered b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, but can turn on a pin and will give you a good day's work. We rotate them so they don't get blown. No stockman will ride the same horse two days running unless he's out in the pastures and can't get back.'

'Do you breed them here?'

He shook his head. 'They're all geldings or mares. Stallions are a pain in the neck, so we don't keep them. If we need new stock, we buy in.'

Jenny stroked the twitching neck of the bay mare. The flies were swarming around her eyes, and her tail never seemed to stop flicking at them. 'She seems quiet enough.'

'She's one of the few, but she's still a good stock horse.' He took the reins and climbed into the saddle. 'Come on. I'll take you to the dog pens, then we'll head out.'

The pens were fenced, the kennels merely rough, low shelters filled with straw. The blue-grey dogs snapped and snarled, leaping at the wire, teeth barred.

'We keep the b.i.t.c.hes separate so we can breed them properly,' he said pointing to the far pen where puppies suckled their mothers. 'We have some Kelpies, like Ripper, but there's nothing like a good Queensland Blue for herding sheep. Reckon it's all that a dog should be intelligent, aggressive, alert. Not like the pampered lap dogs in the cities.' His sideways glance was mocking.

'Everything out here seems to be half wild,' she said quietly as two cats came storming out of a nearby barn and rolled in a frenzy of fur, claw and tooth.

Brett drew his heavy stock whip from the saddle and flicked it with deadly accuracy at the snarling, hissing flurry, the crack thunderous, centimetres above their ears. They ran off as if scalded, and he and Jenny laughed.

Jenny climbed into the saddle, turned the mare's head and followed him out into the paddock. 'How many men are left here after the shearing?'

'Usually ten, sometimes twelve. Stockmen are notoriously hard to keep for more than a couple of seasons. They're always moving on to what they think are bigger and better stations, real swaggies if the truth be told. But we still have to look after the animals all year round.'

Jenny screwed up her eyes as she looked out over the dry, silver gra.s.s that shone glaringly bright in the morning sun. Blasted trees stood as lone sentinels in the sweeping acres. The bark peeled in stiff ribbons down the trunks, and tiny whirlwind spirals of dust moved dead leaves and gra.s.s from one listless heap to another. One careless match, a tin can in the gra.s.s or a piece of gla.s.s, and Churinga would perish.

As they rode through the stand of box, coolibah and stringybark, a swarm of budgies darted and weaved above them, joined by a pink cloud of galahs which finally settled in the two pepper trees on the far edge of the timberland. Bell birds called their fluting song, and a kookaburra chortled a warning before descending with a flap of brown speckled wings on to a low branch in front of them. Vast spider webs laced the leaves of the trees, crystal drops of dew sparkling in the sun, their hairy, long-legged inhabitants making Jenny shudder. She was used to the redback spider in Sydney, but these were monsters, and probably twice as deadly.

She began to relax as they left Churinga homestead behind. Despite the heat, the flies and spiders and snakes, it was majestic. But could she live here?

She was used to the city now, enjoyed the sea and the feel of salt spray on her face. She thought longingly of soaking in a tub of gin-clear water instead of the sludge green showers she'd endured recently. Thought of Diane and her other friends who understood her need to paint. Who shared her interest in the theatre and art galleries, and brought colour and life into her world. Once Simone moved on to the next shed, she would be the only woman on Churinga. Alone amongst men who said little, who lived for the land and the animals they cared for and probably resented her being there.

'How you doing, Jenny? The heat and dust got to you yet?'

She grimaced. 'I seem to be permanently covered in dust. It's everywhere, and I've given up trying to clean the house. But the flies don't bother me, and I'm used to the heat.'

They rode in silence as the crows cawed and the c.o.c.katoos shrieked. And yet Churinga was growing on her, she realised. There was something here which seemed so familiar so much a part of her that although this was her first visit, it felt like coming home.

'We're on Wilga land now,' said Brett an hour later. 'See the trees?'

Jenny s.h.i.+elded her eyes against the glare. Thick lime green fronds dipped in perfect symmetry towards the ground, offering sheltered arbours from the sun. 'Does the wind make them that shape? They look as if someone's come out here and done a bit of barbering.'

Brett laughed, and she noticed the attractive way it crinkled up the corners of his eyes. 'You're part right. The sheep do the cropping until they can't reach any higher. That's why all Wilga trees are round.'

The horses plodded through the tinder dry gra.s.s. 'Won't the owners mind us trespa.s.sing? Should we call in first?'

Brett pulled on the reins and his cranky gelding snorted and stamped as he looked across at her. 'I thought you knew. Didn't Wainwright explain?'

'Explain what?'

'This all belongs to you. It's part of Churinga.'

Jenny absorbed this information with astonishment. 'But I thought you said we didn't breed cattle? And what happened to the Finlays?'

Brett eyed the prime beef herd that grazed all around them. 'We don't at Churinga, but Wilga's run separately, with a manager to look after it. The Finlays left after the war.'

The mare dipped her head to crop the gra.s.s, her harness jingling pleasantly in the still, warm air. 'Why the different names? Why not all under the Churinga banner?'

'Used to be a separate station. The trees gave it its name, of course, and I suppose no one thought to change it when it became part of Churinga.'

'Everything out here sounds musical.' Jenny sighed. The smell of the baked earth was strong, the sound of the birds and crickets harmonious with their surroundings.

'The Abos have a musical language. You should hear them jabbering on when they get together for a corroboree. Most of the places out here are called by their Abo names, except for a few which reminded the original squatters of homes back in Europe.'

'That's true all over Australia,' Jenny said with a smile. 'Ta.s.sie's littered with them.'

They rode side by side through the pastures. 'Have you travelled a lot, Jenny?' he said finally.

'A fair bit. When I left the foster home at Waluna, I went to art college. Then after I'd finished, I travelled with Diane through Europe and Africa for a year to study the history of art.' She thought fondly of Diane's flowing caftans and outlandish jewellery. 'Diane fell in love with all things exotic after we went to Marrakesh but I loved Paris best. Montmatre, the Left Bank, the Seine, the Louvre.'

He must have heard the wistfulness in her voice. 'Do you wish you could go back?'

'Sometimes. Maybe I will some day, but it wouldn't be the same. Things never are. The people we knew back then would have moved on, things would have changed. Besides I'm older now, perhaps less careless of the dangers.'

'Nothing in Paris could be as dangerous as the Tiger snakes you get out here surely,' he said thoughtfully.

Jenny thought of the rat-infested lodgings she and Diane shared, and the lecherous, Frenchmen who thought all young girls were there to be seduced. 'There are snakes everywhere,' she said bluntly. 'Not all of them crawl on their bellies.'

'Cynic,' he teased.

She laughed. 'That's what travelling does for you. Perhaps I'll take my chances here. There are worse places to live, but at least you know what to watch out for.'

'I'll remember that.' He gathered up the reins. 'Come on. I'm going to show you my favourite place. It's similar to where we went the other day, but on the other side of the mountain. It's not far now, and I don't think you'll be disappointed.'

They galloped over the endless plains, through the timber, past the sentinels of blasted trees, and on towards the s.h.i.+mmering blue of the distant mountains. Spidery fingers of acid green traced a web through the gra.s.s evidence of the bore head water that must drain into the pastures somewhere up ahead.

Her joints ached, and her limbs trembled, and as much as she was enjoying the ride, Jenny looked forward to getting off for a rest.

'Almost there,' Brett shouted about half an hour later.

Jenny saw that the leaves were fat and green on the trees and the gra.s.s verdant, startling against the surrounding mirror-bright silver. The thought of water made her urge the mare on until they reached the shade of the outlying trees. Sliding down from the saddle, she took off her hat and wiped away the sweat. Flies buzzed around her, settling, darting, drinking the moisture on her face and arms.

Brett took the reins of both horses and led the way through the thick scrub. The heat beneath the canopy of trees reminded her of Queensland, damp, humid, buzzing with insect life. Sweat drenched her clothes and ran down her face as she followed closely behind him. Would this walk never come to an end? she wondered.

Then suddenly they were in a clearing of pure, golden light, where the sound of a waterfall cooled the heat of the day. Brett stood aside and she gasped. It was an oasis, hidden in the folds of the mountain. Trees, verdant and lush, bent their fronds to the wide pool which lay still and clear at their feet. Tumbled, jumbled rocks sprouted flowers and vines which trailed, picture book bright, down crevices and along fissures. Birds, disturbed by their presence, flew in an agitated cloud above their heads. Bright scarlet and blue rosellas swooped with green and yellow parakeets. Tiny finches, sparrows and starlings fluttered and called as they flew from perch to perch. It was as if the world consisted only of birds. They swooped and dived in their hundreds before settling, bright-eyed and inquisitive, to watch the intruders.

Jenny laughed with the sheer joy of it, and the sound caused a flutter of wings as a flock of c.o.c.katoos flew out of the trees above them.

'I told you it was special,' he said, smiling with pleasure.

'I never thought such a place could exist out here. Not in this wilderness.'

'You don't have to whisper,' he said with a smile. 'The birds will soon get used to us.' He caught her arm. 'Look. There in the mud bank.'

Jenny followed his pointing finger. Crayfish claws were visible in the slimy grey mud, dozens of them. 'Yabbies,' she exclaimed. 'We'll have to take some back for supper.'

'Later,' he said firmly. 'What we could both do with now is a swim.'

Her spirits fell. The water looked so inviting in that clear pool, but to swim fully clothed would take away the pleasure. 'You should have warned me. I didn't bring anything to wear,' she protested.

Brett grinned, and like a conjurer, pulled something from his saddle bag and threw it across. It was lurid orange with purple flowers dotted all over the nylon ruching. 'It's Ma's. I expect it's a bit big, but it's the best I could do.'