Matilda's Last Waltz Part 34

'Can't feel the b.l.o.o.d.y pedals in these things,' she explained with a hiccup.

'Are you all right to drive? You look fairly tanked.' Diane turned to Jenny. 'Perhaps she'd better stay the night.'

'No worries, girls,' laughed Helen. 'What can I hit out here?' She patted Jenny's hand. 'Good talking to you, Jen. I feel much better now it's all out in the open.' She smiled. 'Stay in touch, and if you decide to go back to Sydney look me up. Here's my address in Paramatta.'

Jenny and Diane watched the car speed off in a cloud of dust. When it was merely a blur on the horizon they went indoors. The light was fading fast, thunder was rumbling in the distance and flies swarmed in black clouds around the horses in the paddocks.

'That was some story,' muttered Diane.

Jenny nodded. 'It explains a lot. Mervyn must have suspected Matilda wasn't his child that was why he did what he did. Out of spite.'

Diane yawned. 'I don't know about you, Jen, but I've got a headache. Time for bed.'

Jenny agreed. The storm and the gin were having the same effect on her. The last of the diaries would have to wait until morning.

Brett had not been surprised to see Helen drive into Churinga. After all, he reasoned, if there was to be a wedding, she would be the one to make all the arrangements. But he was surprised she had come alone. Ethan might be an old man and confined to a wheelchair, but this wedding was the culmination of years of plotting and Brett was puzzled that he hadn't made sure he was in at the death. How he must be rubbing his hands at the thought of finally getting Churinga into the family.

The day had dragged on, the work around the station making it necessary for Brett to remain close to the homestead. He watched the women surrept.i.tiously as they ate on the verandah, and although he could hear their laughter and chatter, was never close enough to overhear what they were discussing so earnestly. Yet he suspected a plot was being hatched, a wedding being planned. As soon as Helen left he would face Jenny and hand in his notice. There was no point in staying once Squires owned the place.

He found it almost unbearable to be around the homestead and finally managed to escape to the paddocks, but his mind wasn't really on what he was meant to do. Jennifer was different from any other girl he had met and Brett acknowledged sadly that even after three months she was still a mystery to him. They had sparred with words and gestures to begin with but he'd sensed a gradual change in her and in himself. The night of the dance had been his chance to make his feelings known.

Yet he'd blown it because he'd lacked the courage to speak to her. He'd been afraid of rejection. Afraid that his mates' taunting gibes of making up to the boss had reached her, and she would think the same.

His smile was bitter as he turned the horse towards home. The rejection had still come had been far more painful because of the distance she had put between them. Lorraine wasn't helping either, and her recent behaviour did nothing to ease his conscience. She'd made herself look cheap by sleeping with one of the stockmen in the bungalow he'd shared on the night of the dance. It had been impossible to stay there with all that noise coming from the other man's room and Brett had been made all too aware the next morning that she'd done it out of spite.

He thought of how he'd taken a bed-roll and bunked in with the horses. Of how she'd come creeping into the stall at first light and told him what a great time she'd had. Then how she'd cursed and reproached him before tottering back out.

His sigh was deep. It was time to move on. Jenny would soon be married and Squires would put his own men on Churinga. The little sheep station in Queensland was beginning to look an attractive alternative.

He looked up at the looming sky and watched the heavy clouds roll. There was one h.e.l.l of a storm brewing, he'd better make sure the mob was secure and that the penned animals couldn't break loose. One bolt of lightning and he'd have b.l.o.o.d.y woollies everywhere.

It was dark when he finally returned to the homestead. The Holden was gone, and the lights were out. The thought of handing in his notice depressed him.

'Jeez, Brett,' he muttered. 'You're getting to be a b.l.o.o.d.y old whinge. For Christ's sake, pull yourself together,' he muttered crossly as he rubbed down the horse and headed for his bungalow.

Slamming the door behind him, he threw himself on to the bed and stared at the ceiling. If the storm hit in the night there wouldn't be much sleep for anyone, but he doubted he would sleep anyway. All he could see was Jenny's face, and no matter how much he tossed and turned, the image refused to fade.

Chapter Nineteen.

The deep, menacing growl of thunder finally woke Jenny up. Her sleep had already been disturbed by dreams and images from the past. They paraded before her, faces indistinct and voices unintelligible.

She lay there for a while, hoping the images would fade. Yet even as they drifted away with the final tendrils of sleep, she could still feel their presence. They seemed to be all around her. Hiding in the shadows. Hovering close to her bed. Entwined in the very fabric of the old building.

Jenny swung her legs out of bed and padded into the kitchen. Her nights.h.i.+rt was soaked with perspiration. The temperature was high even though it was a winter midnight and the thunder rolled mercilessly on over the land as if in search of a place to rest.

Lightning forked in yellow veins across the black sky. She s.h.i.+vered. She had always hated storms ever since her first foster father had locked her in a barn and left her there for the night. She'd been terrified as the storm gathered overhead and shook the earth and had screamed to be let out. It was only the threat of fire that had sent his wife to rescue her, and ever since then storms had a way of bringing back that terror.

Reaching for the remains of the lemonade, she took a long drink. Yet it couldn't quench her thirst, or cool her, for the heat seemed to have lodged deep within and nothing could touch it. With restless energy, she wandered through the house.

She could feel Matilda walking beside her but her presence neither soothed nor unsettled Jenny. The memories of the past were too vivid for that the haunting refrain of the waltz too familiar.

The storm seemed to be growing nearer, the heat pressing down like a great weight, and after a sluice in tepid, murky water, Jenny returned to the bedroom and lay exhausted on top of the covers. The windows were open, only the screens keeping out the bugs, and the night sounds of the outback drifted in beneath the rumble of thunder.

She lay there thinking about what Helen had told her, and finally reached for the last of the diaries. The pieces of the jigsaw of Matilda's life and times were almost in place and, although she doubted she could concentrate with the elements fighting overhead, Jenny was ready to finish the story.

Churinga was at last making a profit. After discussing it with Finn, Matilda decided to seek help in investing that profit for the future. Life out here was uncertain, feast or famine, and after the drudgery of the war years she was determined not to return to grinding poverty.

After a series of letters to and from the business adviser at the Bank of Australia in Broken Hill, Matilda decided to make the long journey and discuss her business face to face with him. She was used to dealing with men who understood the pitfalls of life in the outback and had no idea how the city folk conducted their business.

The thought of having to deal with such an important issue as the future of Churinga with a stranger made her uneasy.

This was the first time she'd left the familiar surroundings of Wallaby Flats and Churinga. Although Finn had offered to come with her, Matilda had declined. She had managed alone this far, she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to let a little thing like this beat her.

It took several days of careful driving on the new highway to reach Broken Hill. At night, as she lay rolled in a blanket on the flat-bed, she rehea.r.s.ed what she would say to the adviser, Geoffrey Banks.

His office was on the second floor of an elegant Victorian building that Matilda guessed had once been a private house. Fronted by a white colonnade, it was surrounded by well-tended gardens where smartly dressed women sat on benches under the shade of flowering gum trees.

Feeling a little awkward in her new shoes and summer dress, she squashed her hat firmly over her recalcitrant hair and climbed the steps.

Geoffrey Banks was young, with a firm handshake and a pleasant smile. Matilda watched him for signs of duplicity as he told her he understood her problems at Churinga, but when he mentioned that it was his brother who owned Nulla Nulla, her anxiety faded.

It took some time to settle upon a portfolio of investments but finally it was done and Geoffrey poured her a gla.s.s of sherry. He eyed her over his gla.s.s for a moment then said thoughtfully. 'Have you considered drawing up a will, Miss Thomas?'

Matilda was startled. It was something which had never occurred to her. 'Not much point,' she said. 'No one to leave the property to when I've gone.'

He leaned his elbows on the desk. There was a twinkle in his eye that might have been interpreted as flirtation if Matilda hadn't known better. 'You're still a young and, may I say, attractive woman, Miss Thomas. Who knows what the future might bring? I suggest that unless you want the government to take over your property when you pa.s.s on, you put the whole estate into trust for your heirs just as your mother and grandmother did before you.'

Matilda eyed him sternly. Who did he think he was, getting fresh with a woman old enough to be his mother? 'There are no heirs,' she said firmly. 'And I don't see my life changing.'

'I understand, Miss Thomas,' he said carefully. 'But I really do advise you to reconsider. Life has a habit of catching us out, and who knows? You might yet wish to get married, even have a family. If you die intestate, then that family will have to fight in the courts to attain what is their rightful inheritance. Now you wouldn't want that, would you?'

Matilda thought of Ethan and Andrew, and of the way the Squires family had always wanted to get their hands on Churinga. If what he said was true, then the minute she died, they would pounce. She looked back at Geoffrey Banks. He had the cheek of the devil but even though she was likely to remain a spinster, Matilda could see what he was getting at.

'It probably won't make much difference one way or another but I suppose it wouldn't hurt,' she said finally. 'What do I have to do?'

Geoffrey Banks smiled. 'First, we have to decide who you want to inherit Churinga. Do you have anyone in mind?'

She stared off into the distance. Her way of life had left her with few friends and no relatives. She and April wrote to each other but somehow Matilda could feel a distancing between them and as the years pa.s.sed it had become harder to find things to write about. Their lives were different now, with April living in the city and working in an office among smart, sophisticated people who sounded so interesting after the parochial blinkered people of the outback. April's children would be well taken care of when their grandparents pa.s.sed on and Matilda doubted they would want to return to the outback anyway.

If she was to keep Churinga out of Squires' hands, then she had to find someone she could trust.

She thought for a moment then came to a decision that surprised her. Yet, as she examined the idea more closely, she realised it made perfect sense. She had been very wary of Finn McCauley when he'd first arrived, but as the months pa.s.sed realised she had grown to like him and to value his friends.h.i.+p. Despite his youth and his handsome appearance, he was a quiet, almost shy man, who loved the land and was reticent with strangers. Yet he seemed at ease with her, making the three-hour drive to Churinga from Wilga at least once a week, and Matilda had fallen into the habit of cooking a special dinner for them both every Sat.u.r.day night. After the meal they would listen to the wireless or talk about the week's work then he would leave as quietly as he'd come.

She smiled to herself as she thought of their deepening friends.h.i.+p and the trust which had been forged through it. He was bound to find himself a wife eventually but it would be nice to think she could leave Churinga to someone who would take care of it.

But he must never know what I've done, she told herself silently. I don't want our friends.h.i.+p tainted.

'I want Churinga to go to Finbar McCauley of Wilga station,' she said finally. 'And to be held in trust for his heirs.'

Geoffrey didn't question her decision and soon they were shaking hands. 'The papers will be typed and ready for you to sign in a couple of hours, Miss Thomas. It has been a pleasure to meet you at last.'

Matilda smiled up at him and left the office. She was pleased with the way things had turned out and those two hours would give her time to look around Broken Hill.

She walked along the parade of shops and stared in awe at their windows. Everything was so sophisticated here compared to the ramshackle ordinariness of the shops in Wallaby Flats. Her cotton dress looked drab beside the gowns that hung upon the plaster manequins, and although she knew she would probably regret it, she couldn't resist buying three new dresses, a pair of trousers, a jacket and some new readymade curtains for the bedroom.

But it was the underwear that astounded her. She had never imagined women wore such fine things next to their skin. The cloth was soft and slippery and melted between her fingers like b.u.t.ter. And the colours ... So many to choose from after the plain white cotton of the catalogue underwear she usually bought.

Her spirits rose as for the first time in many years Matilda began to have fun.

Loaded with parcels, she finally retraced her steps back to the utility. As she pa.s.sed the broad, inviting window of the art gallery, she hesitated, intrigued by the bright posters advertising an exhibition.

The only paintings she had seen since she was a child, were in books and magazines she'd borrowed from the travelling library. This was a chance she might never have again.

She paid her sixpence and stepped into a world of outback colour and Aboriginal folklore. The sight of so many paintings took her breath away. The richness of their colour and the clarity with which the artists conveyed the world she knew p.r.i.c.ked something deep inside and she recognised it as a longing to be able to create such beauty for herself.

There had been a time, long ago, when she had spent hours watching her mother paint. Watercolours of the landscape of Churinga, and the birds and animals which inhabited it, seemed to appear like magic on Mary's paper and Matilda had been fascinated. It was a gift her mother had pa.s.sed down to her, but since her death there had been no time for child's play and her need for beauty had been fulfilled by the sight of her sheep, fat and healthy in the fields.

Yet, as she stood there in front of a particularly fine oil painting of an isolated cattle station, she felt that surge of longing return. Life had changed for her since the war. With money in the bank and men to do the hard work, there was time for the things she had neglected. With rising excitement, she walked through the gallery until she came to the counter.

There was such a confusing array of artist's materials set out that it took her a long time to decide but finally she chose a box of watercolours, some fine brushes, pencils, paper and a light easel. Guilt surged through her as she handed over the money and waited for them to be wrapped. This journey was proving to be expensive and self-indulgent.

It took a few minutes to sign the papers and lodge them with the bank for safe-keeping. When she eventually returned to the street, she realised she'd had enough of Broken Hill. The hotel was expensive, the people were strangers, and she missed Churinga. Climbing back into the utility, her shopping loaded up beside her, she headed for home.

At Churinga Matilda settled down to doing the things she had always wanted to do but never had the time for. There were books to be read, clothes to be made on the treadle machine she'd unearthed from one of the barns. A dollop of oil and new needles and it worked like a charm.

Then there was the joy of painting. The pleasure of fine, new paper beneath a brush. The soft sweep of colour that took her away from her day-to-day problems and completely absorbed her.

Matilda eyed her latest effort critically. It was better than she could have hoped she realised, as she studied her impression of how Churinga had once been before the improvements. Who would have guessed that these stubby, work-worn hands could manipulate brush and colour to create such delicate beauty? She grinned with pleasure but knew she had a long way to go to even being to compare her work with that in the gallery.

The clash of gears startled her and she glanced at her watch. The time had flown while she'd been painting. Now Finn was here and she hadn't even started on dinner. She hastily stuffed her brushes in a jam jar of water and took off her ap.r.o.n. The new cotton frock was mercifully clean of paint but her hair was as usual flying in all directions. She pinned it back with clips and grimly eyed herself in the sc.r.a.p of mirror she'd hung on the wall.

What a sight, she thought. Baked by the sun, freckled and wild-haired, you're beginning to look your age.

Yet, without really knowing why, she'd begun to take care of her appearance since Finn began his visits, making sure her dress was clean and pressed and her shoes polished. Gone were the old moleskins and boots, the felt hat and unbrushed hair. She told herself it was because she was the owner of a wealthy station, and as such, it was only proper for her to appear a lady and not a hoyden. But deep inside she wondered if perhaps it had more to do with Finn's visits than anything else.

He knocked on the door and she called out to him to come in. She looked forward to their evenings together and had meant to try the new recipe she'd found in a magazine but now it was too late. They would have to do with the left-overs of last night's roast.

'G'day, Finn,' she said as she walked into the room. 'Caught me on the hop. Time sort of runs out on me when I'm painting.'

'If that's the reasons, then it's good enough for me. You've really caught the spirit of the old place in this one. I didn't realise how clever you were.'

He turned from the watercolour on the easel and smiled at her. For the first time Matilda noticed the subtle changes in him. His s.h.i.+rts were crisply laundered, his trousers pressed. He'd shaved and cleaned his nails, cut his hair. His efforts to tame the wild Irish curls by plastering them with water were commendable but not particularly successful. But that was all a part of his charm.

She blushed and turned away. 'Dinner will have to be make-do and mend tonight. I hope you aren't too hungry?'

'No worries,' he said in his mellow voice, 'Give me a beer and I'll do the spuds.'

They worked together in silence, and when the meal of cold meat, potatoes and pickles was ready, they ate it in the glow of a kerosene lamp on the verandah. Matilda found herself responding to his gentleness as he described his day with his beloved horses. He was a man in tune with his life and land. As she listened to the deep, melodious voice, she knew these moments were precious. For he was young and handsome and soon he would meet a girl and fall in love, and their friends.h.i.+p would necessarily take a back seat.

She pushed the thought away and took a sip of beer. Perhaps it was time to make him aware of how their innocent friends.h.i.+p was being discussed, give him the chance to back off before it was too late. 'The gossips are having a field day, you know,' she remarked quietly.

His eyes were dark jewels in the flicker of the lamp light as he ran his fingers through his hair. 'What about?'

'Your visits here, Finn. Don't tell me you haven't heard them?'

He smiled and shook his head. 'Never listen to gossip, Molly. Got better things to do with my time.' He paused as he took a drink. 'Anyway, what business is it of anyone's if I decide to spend my free time on Churinga?'

She laughed. 'None. But that doesn't stop them. The mothers of the outback are sharpening their claws, Finn. You don't seem to realise you're the object of fevered speculation. The natives are getting restless, they have daughters to marry off.'

Finn laughed and returned to his dinner. 'Let them fuss and bother, Molly. Gives them something to keep their tiny minds occupied. Besides,' he added, looking into her face, 'I think I'm old enough to choose who I want to spend my time with don't you?'

Matilda studied him. It was pleasant to have him here, sharing dinner and the wireless concerts. His company meant a great deal to her after all the years of loneliness, but she could understand why the gossip had started. She was much too old to be keeping company with Finn. He should be out looking for a companion of his own age a wife.

The thought made her lose her appet.i.te, and the swift, almost painful realisation made her pulse race. How foolish she'd been to encourage his visits! One day he would bring a wife to Wilga and then their close friends.h.i.+p would fade to polite conversation as they pa.s.sed one another in the fields or in town and with a sickening jolt of horror she realised she was jealous of this future wife, couldn't bear the thought of his being with someone else, sharing dinners and quiet confidences that up until now had been hers alone.

Matilda sat there in silence, her dinner forgotten as the appalling truth dawned. She had begun to see Finn through the eyes of a woman and one who was old enough to know better. For what would this young, handsome man ever want with a dried up, middle-aged old maid?

'Molly? You feeling crook?'

His voice made her jump even though the words had been softly spoken. She looked away, afraid he could read her thoughts in her eyes. The muscles were tight in her face as she forced a smile. 'Just a bit of indigestion,' she muttered. 'I'll be right.'

He eyed her for a long moment as she fiddled with her napkin and cutlery. 'Gossip doesn't worry me, you know, and you shouldn't let it worry you either. Live in Ta.s.sie long enough and you'd soon get used to it.'

'I keep forgetting you don't come from around here,' she said with a lightness she didn't feel. 'Somehow I think of you as part of this place. You seem so at home here.' Her newfound emotions were troubling and she dropped her gaze swiftly to her gla.s.s of beer.

Finn pushed back his chair and crossed his booted feet as he lit a cheroot. 'I've never really told you much about myself,' have I?' he said finally. 'We always seem to be discussing the land and the properties, not what really brought us both to this place.'

'You know most of my history,' she said quietly. 'But I'd like to know about your life before Wilga.'

He puffed on his cheroot as he stuck his thumbs in his trouser pockets and stared out over the paddocks. 'Mum and Dad had a small place in the centre of Ta.s.sie, called Meander. It's in a vast plain surrounded by mountains and it gets very hot and very cold. We raised horses. I can't remember a time where there weren't horses in my life. That's why, after the war, I decided to take the government's offer to start my own place here.'

She studied him in the lamplight and saw something shadowing his eyes. 'Why didn't you go back to Ta.s.sie and begin again there?'

Finn s.h.i.+fted in his chair, took the cheroot out of his mouth and inspected it closely before flicking the ash into a saucer. 'Dad died several years back and I kept the place going until Mum pa.s.sed on. The war came then and I was soon old enough to be called up so I sold everything and put the money into the bank for when I returned. Somehow the place just wasn't the same without Ma.'

Matilda sighed. 'I know what you mean. I'm sorry if I've pried into things you'd rather not talk about.'

He shrugged. 'No worries, Molly. The old man was a bit of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and to be honest it was almost a relief when he went. But Ma ... Well, that was different.'