Matilda's Last Waltz Part 26

'We were eighteen, Diane. And without an ounce of sense between us. When I think of the risks we took driving all over Europe and Africa, it makes my blood run cold.'

Diane pursed her lips, her eyes lighting up with mischief. 'But we had fun, though, didn't we?'

Jenny thought of the cold, damp room where they'd lived in Earl's Court, and the dark alleys they'd had to walk through when they'd finished working in the Soho bar. Thought of the dust and flies of Africa, and the dangerous, dark-eyed interest of the Arabs they'd met along the route to Marrakesh. She remembered the camaraderie of being poor and footloose amongst the other Australians who'd left home for adventure. Remembered how danger had only added spice to their travels. Sublimely ignorant and naive, they'd gone their merry way without a thought. But for all that, they'd made good friends during that year after art college, and the memories would always be with them.

'I still can't believe you're here,' she said finally. 'Jeez, it's good to see you again.'

Diane's gaze was direct. 'I was worried about you, that's why I had to come. Your letters were too few and far between. They weren't telling me anything, but I got the feeling something wasn't right.'

Jenny gave her a hug. 'Everything's fine. I just got caught up in the diaries and let my imagination get the better of me for a while. But I've had the time and s.p.a.ce to come to terms with everything, and in a crazy way I reckon the diaries have helped me to see there is life after tragedy. Matilda's example has made me realise it's time I got on with my life and left the past behind.'

'So you're planning to come back to Sydney, then?'

'Not necessarily,' she replied carefully.

'This hesitation wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Brett Wilson, would it?'

Jenny felt the blush creep up her neck. 'Don't be daft. He's here with his girlfriend.'

Diane eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then let it pa.s.s without comment. 'Looks like it's time for the next race,' she said as the crowds began to gather towards the marked out circuit. 'Anyone interesting riding in it?'

Jenny shrugged. 'I've got no idea,' she said truthfully. 'It's the veterans' race before the final.'

They pushed their way through the crowd and were soon caught up in the excitement as they stood by the railings and watched the men and horses prepare. The stock ponies seemed to sense something was about to happen, and they stamped and snorted and kicked out at one another, teeth gnas.h.i.+ng, lips curled.

As in all the races over the weekend, the riders were a fair representation of the men who worked and inhabited the outback. Squatters, drovers, shearers, and station managers. Each dressed in the bright colours of their sponsor, with a bed roll or Bluey over their back.

Silence fell on the crowd. Horses and riders tensed. The starter's flag fluttered in the breeze. Then they were off in an explosion of dust and a roar of encouragement.

The course ran along a narrow straight, then up a hill to wind through trees and around termite mounds. The crowd lost sight of the leaders but even after two days of racing that did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm as they watched the trail of dust hovering over the bush. Long minutes pa.s.sed until the leader was spotted emerging from the trees to begin the steep descent back into the valley. With hooves slipping on shale, breath fiery in their lungs, the stock horses swung left and right through the stand of tea trees and raced over the uneven ground. The men on their backs gripped the reins, heels thumping as they leaned against sweat-frothed necks and shouted into p.r.i.c.ked ears. The finis.h.i.+ng line was up ahead, and there could only be one winner.

Jenny and Diane yelled and cheered as loudly as everyone else when the Kurrajong drover won. 'Whew! This is more exciting than the Melbourne Cup,' said Diane. 'How about putting a bet on the next race?'

'What a splendid idea, ladies. Would you like me to place them for you?'

Charlie smiled down at them. 'I suppose you'll want an each-way bet on your manager, Jenny? His odds are short but you could do worse.'

She studiously avoided Diane's sharp eyes as she gave him five dollars. 'Why not? But let's make it to win, not each way. After all, he's wearing Churinga colours and I'm sure he knows what he's doing.'

'Why are the odds so short?' Diane said, handing over her money.

Charlie laughed. 'Because he's won for the last three years. But Kurrajong have a secret weapon this year and I reckon Brett's reign as King of the Hill is over.' His glance moved swiftly towards a skinny youth with a sly face who sat perched on a vicious little skewbald.

'Dingo Fowley's already won in Queensland and Victoria this year, and he showed up well in the heats. Reckon he's the best rider I've seen in a long while.'

Jenny watched him saunter away and turned to find Diane staring at her. 'So, which one is he then?' she said impatiently. 'I want to see what I've bought for my five dollars.'

Jenny looked across to the starting line. Brett was astride a chestnut gelding, the Churinga emblazoned in Aboriginal artwork on his green and gold s.h.i.+rt. He looked handsome and darkly powerful in the saddle, his capable hands soothing the excited horse and keeping him steady. Their eyes met and held. His lazy wink suggested an intimate conspiracy that isolated them both from the crowd and drew them together.

Diane made a sensuous growling noise in her throat. 'Now that's what I call a secret worth keeping. No wonder you didn't have the time to write.'

Jenny could feel the heat in her face as she looked away from Brett. 'You've got a dirty mind, Diane,' she said firmly. 'Nothing could be further from the truth. This is the first time I've seen him all weekend.'

'Really?' her friend murmured thoughtfully.

The starter's flag was up and Brett took a firmer grip on the reins. Stroller was twitching beneath him, dancing on his toes in nervous antic.i.p.ation. Dingo Fowley's skewbald nudged and baulked beside him but Brett kept his concentration on the track. He'd heard about Dingo and the tricks he'd played in the heats, and was determined to beat him. He had a reputation to keep and a trophy to win and with Jenny watching him carry her colours, it was more important than ever to remain King of the Hill.

The flag dropped and Stroller burst from the line with the skewbald neck and neck. The narrow run was rutted and steep. Dingo's boot jarred against Brett's stirrup, kicking his boot loose, upsetting his balance. Stroller lengthened his stride and pulled away as they made the first turn at the top of the hill and began the tortuous run through the bush.

Adrenalin was pumping as trees lashed them to either side and hooves thudded against dry earth and scrub. Termite hills loomed as high as a man solid barricades that had to be swung around with the sure-footed swiftness that came only from years of experience with rounding up sheep.

Man and horse were lathered in sweat and dust as they approached the tunnel of light at the end of the bush. Dingo was still with him lying almost flat to the skewbald's neck, his hands and legs pumping encouragement to go that bit faster as he kicked out again to dislodge Brett's foot from the stirrup.

Sunlight blinded them after the green shade as they thrust their way out of the bush and pounded along the ridge. The world was a kaleidoscope of heat and dust, of drumming hooves and the smell of sweat. As Brett turned Stroller's head to begin the steep descent, he knew Dingo was still with him.

Hooves slid on shale, muscles bunched and mighty lungs heaved as slender legs fought to keep their balance. Hands gripped reins, knees gripped horse flesh. Sweat and grime clung as closely as rider to mount as they reached the final plateau. The finis.h.i.+ng line was up ahead, but the sound of the crowd was lost in the drum of hooves. Dingo was beside him still, the skewbald's neck stretching nose to nose with Stroller's.

The colour and roar of the crowd enveloped them as the flag went down and the horses plummeted to a slithering, skidding halt. Stroller's nose had just edged in front.

'Nice goin', mate,' Dingo shouted. 'But it won't be that easy next year.'

Brett brought Stroller round to face him. His temper was barely in check as he grabbed the skinny little man's s.h.i.+rt collar. 'Try that again and your teeth'll be so far down your throat, you'll be eating dirt with yer a.r.s.e,' he growled.

Dingo's eyes widened in mock innocence. 'Try what?'

Brett resisted the urge to pull him off his horse and smash his face in. He could see the Squires party approaching with the trophy and didn't want to cause a scene. 'The old boot in the stirrup routine, Dingo,' he hissed into his face. 'At least try and be original.'

The little man's laughter was cynical as Brett released him. 'See you next year. That's if you've got the b.a.l.l.s.' He swung away and was lost in a circle of admirers.

Brett slid from Stroller's back and as he gathered up the reins was almost knocked off his feet. He reached out to steady himself and found he was trapped between Stroller and Lorraine. Her arms were around him, her mouth as persistent as blow flies as she smothered him in kisses. 'Great,' she breathed. 'You were great. I just knew you'd win.'

He tried to pull away, but without being heavy-handed about it found it impossible to break her grip. 'Lorraine,' he said roughly. 'Leave off. You're making an exhibition of yourself.'

She glanced over his shoulder and Brett caught the sly glint in her eye before she laughed up into his face and planted a kiss on his mouth. 'My hero.' Her tone was sarcastic but tinged with something akin to triumph and when she finally pulled away he understood why.

Jenny was standing a few feet away. By the look on her face as she turned back into the crowd, she'd obviously witnessed the whole charade.

He held Lorraine at arm's length. 'Why are you doing this? It's over between us, why make trouble?'

'Not until I say so,' she retorted. 'You don't get rid of me that easy, Brett Wilson.'

'Who's the tart?' Diane came straight to the point as usual.

'Lorraine,' Jenny replied flatly. 'She's Brett's girlfriend.'

Diane grunted. 'Don't think much of his taste.' She put a cool hand on Jenny's arm. 'I shouldn't worry too much, Jen. It won't last.'

'Who's worried?' she retorted carelessly, but her tone belied the rush of despondency that took the brightness out of the day. She wished she was back at Churinga.

'Jenny, Dad wants you to present the trophy.'

She looked at Charlie in horror. 'Why me?'

He smiled down at her. 'Because you're the owner of the winning station. Come on.'

With a helpless look back at Diane, Jenny walked reluctantly towards the crowd that surrounded Brett. She heard the murmurs as she pa.s.sed, and was aware of their eyes following her, but all she could see was Lorraine's smug face as she stood beside Brett.

Ethan glared up at her from his wheelchair. 'Congratulations,' he barked. 'Beginner's luck of course. We'll have that trophy back next year.'

She took the ornate figure of the bucking horse and turned to Brett. He was scowling ferociously as he stepped away from Lorraine. 'Congratulations,' she said coldly, and turned her head in time to avoid the kiss he was about to plant on her cheek.

'Jenny,' he said softly into her hair. 'It isn't how it looks.'

She looked into his eyes, saw something there that made her pulse race, then caught sight of Lorraine's possessive hand on his arm, and knew she had to be mistaken. 'I'll see you back at Churinga, Mr Wilson.'

As she turned back to Diane and Charlie, she heard the soft sn.i.g.g.e.r of Lorraine's laugh and had to force herself to make polite conversation and drink champagne as though nothing was wrong. And yet it was it was. What game was Brett playing? And why did his eyes send messages that belied his actions?

The rest of the day petered out as the picnic hampers were put away for the last time and the fairground booths were dismantled. Jenny made her excuses to Charlie and the others, made arrangements for one of the drovers to take her utility home, and climbed into the garishly painted camper with Diane.

'Welcome to Trevor,' she said as she switched on the ignition. 'All mod cons, even got air conditioning.'

Jenny looked into the back. A makes.h.i.+ft bed had been spread over the floor, sarongs from Bali had been strung from the roof, and sketchbooks and easels were stacked in the side compartments next to spare tyres and water canisters.

'Reminds me of something,' she said with a smile.

Diane laughed. 'Too right. Trevor could be Allan's twin.'

Jenny sat back and watched the pa.s.sing scenery. Allan had been their camper all those years ago in Europe. Bought in Earls Court, he was painted blue, with a tube of high surf on one side, a sun and moon and stars on the other. He'd had the Australian flag painted on his roof, and the back doors had been decorated with very yellow sunflowers. Trevor had orange flames licking at his sides, with death's head skulls on his doors and ban the bomb symbols emblazoned on his roof. A different generation, perhaps, but the messages were the same. 'I wonder what happened to poor old Allan?'

Diane negotiated the rough road as she followed the Squires' cars. 'Probably still going,' she said wistfully. 'He was a good old bus.'

They fell into companionable silence as the miles pa.s.sed, and when they'd finally pulled up in front of Kurrajong, Jenny smiled at Diane's reaction. 'A gin palace. How wonderful,' she breathed.

'Wait until you see inside,' she said wryly.

Helen greeted them in the hall. 'I hope you don't mind sharing? It's just that the house is full.'

Jenny and Diane grinned at one another. 'It'll be like old times, Helen. No worries.'

Jenny led the way upstairs and stood back so her friend could get a proper impression of their room.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. You are moving with the rich and famous. I've never seen anything like it.' Diane gathered up an excited Ripper and moved around the room, picking up ornaments and perfume bottles and peeking into cupboards and drawers. When she stepped into the bathroom, she let out a shriek.

'Whoever did that needs shooting,' she laughed. 'Have you ever seen such a terrible sculpture? Poor old Venus.'

Jenny laughed with her. 'She does look horribly smug. But then so would you if you had nothing better to do than sit in here all day.'

Diane threw herself on the bed and stretched like a cat in the last few rays of the sun. 'Bit different from when we shared as kids, eh? I keep expecting Sister Michael to walk in.'

Jenny shuddered. 'Don't remind me. If I ever see that woman or place again, it will be too soon.'

Diane rested on one elbow, her expression suddenly sombre. 'It was better than some of the places we were fostered to.'

Jenny didn't want to remember the nightmare of her first foster home. Didn't want to remember how her foster father crept into her room at night or the terrible row when she'd screamed and run to his wife. She hadn't been believed, told she was a lying, vindictive, evil little girl, and sent back to Dajarra.

Reverend Mother had listened and been kind, but Sister Michael's snide whispers told her she should have kept quiet and stayed put regardless of what could have happened to her. She'd had to wait another year before she'd been taken to the refuge of Waluna.

Jenny fixed on a bright, determined smile. 'Want to take the first bath? We have three hours until the barn dance.'

Jenny had taken her time to dress and was just finis.h.i.+ng her make-up when Diane came back from the bathroom. She was dressed in a deep purple s.h.i.+ft that was threaded with silver and showed a great deal of cleavage and long, tanned legs. Her dark hair was piled high, fastened with silver combs, ringlets framing her face. Amethysts sparkled in her ears and at her throat. 'A going away present from Rufus,' she giggled. 'Rather nice, aren't they?'

Jenny noticed and looked ruefully at her own simple hoops and locket. 'You make me feel under dressed,' she said wearily.

'Rubbish. That dress is drop-dead gorgeous all you need is my jade earrings to set it off and a decent pair of shoes.' Diane began to rummage in her over-sized holdall and emerged triumphant with the earrings.

Jenny was looking with pleasure at the way the green and silver set off the dress when there was a knock on the door and Helen came into the room.

'Are we late?' Jenny took in the elegant black gown that showed pale, slender shoulders, the discreet pearl studs and choker that had probably cost a fortune.

The older woman smiled. 'Not at all. I just wanted the chance to have a chat and make sure you have everything you need.' She eyed them both with unaffected pleasure. 'What pretty girls you are,' she sighed. 'You'll have all the men asking you to dance.'

Jenny felt absurdly gauche before this elegant, sophisticated woman, and glanced nervously across at Diane. 'You don't think we've overdone it a bit, do you?'

Helen laughed. 'Of course not. When else can you dress up and have fun in this place?' She reached out and touched the sea green dress. 'This is beautiful. The colour does something to your eyes.' She sighed. 'I could never wear that colour without it making me look washed out. I hate being so fair.'

Jenny eyed the silky swirl of platinum hair that had been coiled so intricately into the nape of her porcelain neck. 'I could never hope to look as cool and elegant. I've always envied blondes.'

Helen's hand was soft on her arm. 'We do seem to have formed a mutual admiration society, don't we?' She gave a girlish giggle. 'But would you be offended if I give you a little advice?'

Jenny swallowed and glanced across at Diane. What had she done wrong? What taboo had she broken?

'It's the shoes, darling. Much too informal. Wait here and I'll fetch a pair of mine.'

Jenny and Diane exchanged glances as the door closed behind Helen. 'What about my toe?' she said in an urgent whisper. 'I'll never get into her shoes if they're too narrow.'

'Don't ask me,' said Diane. 'Let's just hope they're not too old-fas.h.i.+oned, because come h.e.l.l or high water, you're going to have to wear them if they do fit.'

Helen returned minutes later with a shoe box that had an impressive label. 'I reckon we're about the same size. Try them on.'

They were made of the palest, most delicate lace, and fitted as if made for her. The tapering heel was stiletto thin, the toes long and encrusted with seed pearls. Jenny heard Diane gasp, and looked up at Helen.

'They're beautiful,' she breathed. 'But I don't know if I dare wear them.'