Matilda's Last Waltz (12 page)

The dirt road meandered past the hotel and was lost in the desert. The houses on either side of this track were blasted by heat and dust. Paint was cracked and peeling, wooden shutters shrunken on rusting hinges. The river, now down to a trickle, ran parallel to the road, and was obviously in the habit of flooding during the wet, for every building was perched on stone pilings.

Jenny headed for the sulphur pools. Les had been right, she hardly noticed the smell any more, but at the sight of the bilious yellow water she decided against testing their therapeutic powers and went off to explore the mine shafts instead.

They were nothing more than deep holes punched into the ground, shored up by railway sleepers. According to her guide book, opals had once been big business around here, but these didn't look as if they'd been worked for years. She leaned over the side of one and almost lost her balance as a voice boomed in her ear.

‘Wanna watch yerself there, lady.'

She spun round and came face to face with a gnome. Short and spare, with a gnarled nose and bright blue eyes, the little man glared up at her ferociously from beneath bushy white brows.

‘G'day. This yours then?' She was finding it hard to keep a straight face now she'd got over the initial shock.

‘Too right it is. Been digging here for two years. Reckon I'll hit the big one soon.' He smiled. There were only a few teeth on display – and they were rotten.

‘So there are still opals here?'

‘Yeah. Got me a beaut the other day.' He looked over his shoulder then leaned towards her. ‘No point shouting me mouth off or some bludger'll come and nick me mine. I could tell you stories that'd make your hair curl, lady, and that's a fact.'

She had no doubt he could. Like most Australians, he'd obviously kissed the blarney stone, and there was nothing like a tall story to pass the time.

‘Wanna have a look around?'

‘Down there?' Jenny wasn't too sure. It looked awfully deep and horribly dark. Besides, there was probably nothing to see down there anyway.

‘Yeah, she'll be right. There ain't snakes down there any more like the old days when the miners kept 'em for guards. C'mon, I'll show yer.'

His hand was rough to the touch, and she felt the strength in his fingers as he grasped her arm and showed her the best way to go down the ladder. He might have been small and goodness knows how old, but he was amazingly powerful. As Jenny balanced on the rickety rungs, she wasn't at all sure she was doing the right thing by going down a hole with him.

‘Wait on,' he said as they reached the bottom. ‘Let's get some light.' He struck a match and the warm glow of a kerosene lamp chased away the darkness.

It was cool down here in the ground, and as she looked around her she forgot her misgivings. It wasn't just a hole but an enormous web of tunnels, the earth chiselled away to reveal centuries of colour and texture.

‘Beauty, ain't it?' He grinned with pride, then winked. ‘But it's what's hidden in the earth that's really something.' He turned away and reached into a narrow shelf dug into the wall of the tunnel. Moments later he opened up a leather drawstring bag and spilled the contents into his hand.

Jenny gasped. The lamplight caught the opals, sending glints of red and blue and green through the milky white. And here and there were the rarest of them all. The black opals. Gleaming and secretive, they were flecked with spell-binding gold.

He took a particularly fine specimen and placed it in the palm of her hand. ‘I polished it as best I could, but I reckon it'll get me a good price in the city.'

Jenny held it up to the light, turning it this way and that until the deep red fires flashed and danced. ‘It's magnificent,' she breathed.

‘Too right,' he smirked. ‘Give you a fair price if you wanted to buy it.'

Jenny looked at the opal. She'd seen them in the jewellers in Sydney and knew how much they cost. ‘I doubt I could afford it,' she said regretfully. ‘Besides, aren't opals meant to be unlucky?'

The old man threw back his head, his laughter ringing in the labyrinth of caverns. ‘Fair go, lady. You've been listening to blokes that don't know what they're talking about. They're only unlucky for the poor bastards that don't find them.'

She grinned back at him as he tipped the stones into the drawstring bag and returned it to its hiding place. ‘Aren't you frightened someone might come down here and pinch them?'

He shook his head and reached for a tiny wire cage. ‘Put me scorpions in there when I leave the mine. No bastard'll tangle with them.' He released the scorpions and shut them in with the pouch behind a thick slab of stone. ‘Must be time for tucker. Lorraine cooks a fair brekkie, even if she does look like an accident in a paint factory.' He laughed again at his own joke, and set off up the ladder.

They walked in amiable silence back to the hotel. Jenny would have liked to ask about Lorraine and Brett Wilson, but knew that in such a small place her curiosity would cause comment. Besides, she acknowledged, it was really none of her business, so long as it didn't affect his work.

The kitchen was enormous and filled with noise. Long trestle tables were covered in plastic cloths and dishes, the benches crowded with the tourists from the bus, and the passing drovers and fossikers who'd stayed overnight.

‘Cooee!' Mrs Keen's voice sailed above the general clamour. ‘Over here, luv. I saved a place for you.'

Jenny had barely squeezed in beside her room mate before Lorraine dumped a plate of steak, egg and fried potato in front of her. She looked at it in horror. ‘I don't usually eat breakfast. Just coffee, please.'

‘We only got tea. This ain't some fancy hotel in Sydney, you know.' The plate was snatched away, the tea pot slammed down in its place.

‘Too right it isn't,' Jenny snapped. Then instantly regretted it as the room fell silent and all eyes swivelled from her to Lorraine. She heard Mrs Keen draw in her breath.

‘So why don't you push off back there?' Lorraine tossed her head, and with bracelets jangling, left the room.

Jenny laughed to hide her shame at having lost her temper so easily. ‘And go through that bloody bus ride again? No, thanks,' she said to the room in general.

There was a relieved sigh and the others laughed with her. Soon the room was once again filled with chatter and the clink of cutlery. Yet Jenny knew she'd made a bad start to her stay here. There were few enough women out in the bush, she'd been stupid to alienate the first one she'd come across.

Mrs Keen left on the bus an hour later, and after waving goodbye Jenny sat on the porch with her sketch book. She was eager to begin for there were so many things she wanted to commit to paper. The colours were primary but each of them a shade deeper or lighter than the next, melding into one glorious tapestry of red and tan, orange and ochre. Impossible to capture in the softness of pastel or pencil. She wished now she'd brought her oils and canvases.

She was lost in her work, page after page filling with colour and movement as the desert vista was transformed by the rising sun.

‘Mrs Sanders?'

She hadn't heard his approach but his mellow drawl didn't startle her. She looked up into grey eyes flecked with green and gold, and fringed by long black lashes. The sun had creased them at the corners, and the face that looked down at her was square and rugged beneath the shadow of his drover's hat. His chin was cleft, nose long and straight, mouth sensuous and curved by humour. He looked about thirty, but it was hard to tell a man's age out here once the sun had got to him.

‘Brett Wilson. Sorry I'm late. Got held up back at the property.'

‘G'day,' she managed once she'd got her breath back. So this tall, handsome man was the manager of Churinga? No wonder Lorraine guarded him against all-corners. ‘Jenny's the name,' she said quickly. ‘Pleased to meet you at last.'

He withdrew his hand, but his gaze lingered a fraction longer than was comfortable. ‘Reckon it's better I call you Mrs Sanders,' he said finally. ‘People out here like to talk, and you are the boss.'

Jenny was surprised. It was most unusual for an Australian not to be on first name terms, even if they were a hired hand. Yet something in his eyes stopped her from saying anything. Quickly she gathered up her things. ‘I expect you'll want to be getting back?'

He shook his head. ‘No worries. Could do with a couple of schooners first. Want me to send Lorraine out with one for you while you wait?'

She didn't really, but if she was being forced to wait then the least he could do was shout her a beer. ‘Righto, Mr Wilson. But don't let's hang around for too long. I want to see Churinga.'

He tipped back his hat and Jenny had a glimpse of black, curly hair before the brim was firmly tugged back over his forehead again. ‘No worries,' he drawled. ‘Churinga ain't goin' nowheres.' He drifted into the hotel.

Jenny slumped back into the chair and picked up her sketch book. She would have to get used to this slower pace of life, even if it was frustrating.

Lorraine's excited chatter was followed minutes later by the sound of her high heels clattering over the wooden verandah. ‘There you go. One schooner. Brett said he shouldn't be too long,' she said victoriously. The screen door slammed behind her.

‘Silly cow,' Jenny muttered into her beer. It was as cold as Lorraine's eyes. Brett Wilson had better get his act together. She wasn't going to sit here all bloody day waiting while he messed about with a barmaid. A couple of schooners should see him right, then she wanted to get moving.

Finishing the beer, she left the verandah and went upstairs to fetch her back-pack. After washing her face and hands, she set to and brushed her hair. It always soothed her, and by the time it was gleaming, her humour had been restored. She would go back downstairs and enjoy the scenery. Brett was right. Churinga wasn't going anywhere, and neither was she until he was ready to take her.

The beer glass was still on the arm of the chair where she'd left it. Lorraine was obviously busy elsewhere. With a grin, Jenny placed it on the floor and picked up her drawing things. She could still remember the way it had been with Pete in those early days. Snatching moments whenever they could. Tumbling into bed, unable to keep their hands off one another.

She sighed. Sex had been good with Pete, and she missed that intimacy, the feel of another skin against her own, the thud of a second heartbeat. With an impatient toss of her head, she snapped her thoughts back to the present. No point in dwelling on such things. They only brought back the pain.

Her attention was caught by the old opal miner sitting in a rocking chair at the far end of the verandah. As her pencil flashed over the paper, she forgot about Brett and Lorraine. The old man was a wonderful subject, hardly moving, staring into space, his broad-brimmed hat pulled back just enough from his face to expose the weather-beaten profile.

‘That's real good. I didn't know you could draw, Mrs Sanders.'

Jenny smiled up at Lorraine. Perhaps this was a peace offering now Brett was firmly in her clutches. ‘Thanks.'

‘You should try and sell your stuff to the gallery at Broken Hill if you're planning on staying around for a while. The tourists love this sort of thing.'

Jenny was about to say her work was already quite well known in Australia, but held back. She didn't want to spoil this attempt at peace-making by sounding smug. ‘It's just something to do to pass the time.'

Lorraine perched on the arm of the chair and watched as she finished the drawing. ‘You got old Joe just right,' she said in admiration. ‘Even down to the way his bottom lip sort of sticks out when he's thinking.'

Jenny tore the drawing from the pad. ‘Then you have it, Lorraine. As a gift.'

Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘You sure? Gee, thanks.' There was a hint of colour in her cheeks that had nothing to do with rouge. ‘I'm sorry about … you know. I don't usually blast off like that, and out here there's so few of us women it'd be a shame to fall out.' She put out her hand. ‘Mates?'

Despite her misgivings, Jenny took the hand and nodded. ‘Mates.'

Lorraine seemed satisfied and returned to the drawing. ‘Do you mind if I show this to Joe? He'll be tickled pink.'

‘Of course not,' said Jenny with a smile.

‘I'll shout you a beer for this. Brett shouldn't be too long now.' Lorraine hopped off the arm of the chair and trotted over to Joe to show him his picture.

The old man laughed and looked down the verandah. ‘Good on yer, missus. Better than any mirror.' He lifted an empty glass in salute.

Jenny took the hint. ‘My shout, Lorraine. Joe deserves something for being such a good model.'

*   *   *

Brett left the gloom of the bar and stepped through the screen door and out on to the verandah. Mrs Sanders was sitting next to Joe, listening to his tall tales of opal mining, and hadn't noticed him standing there, so he took those few moments to study her.

She was much younger than he'd expected, and quite a looker too with that shiny hair and those long brown legs. He regretted having been so short with her. But old Wainwright had just said she was widowed – hadn't prepared him for such a surprise. Yet it was her eyes that had unsettled Brett most. From the moment she'd looked up, he'd been fascinated by the way they changed from deepest purple to palest amethyst. She would never have made a good poker player – not with those eyes.

Brett nudged his hat back from his forehead and wiped away the sweat. She looked too delicate for Churinga. Probably wouldn't last more than a couple of weeks before scuttling back to Sydney. Lorraine was right. They were all the same, these townies. Big ideas about going bush, but when faced with the reality of no running water, fire, floods and drought, they soon left. Good riddance, he thought. I didn't reckon on taking orders from some skinny woman who wouldn't know a sheep's arse from its elbow.