Matilda's Last Waltz (29 page)

‘Jenny … Jenny.'

His voice came from far away. It was almost a lullaby in tune with the orchestra of birds and water.

‘Jenny, wake up. It's time to eat.'

She reluctantly opened her eyes and found herself mirrored in clear grey that was flecked with blue and gold. Like precious opals, they gleamed with fire. She sat up, confused by the things she read there, and shook out her wet hair to cover her embarrassment. ‘Have I been asleep long?' she asked quickly.

‘Drifted off a bit there. You looked so peaceful – seemed a shame to wake you.' His voice was different, as if he was having difficulty breathing, but before she could analyse it he became brisk. ‘Come on. Ma's packed us another picnic and there'll be hell to pay if we don't eat this one.'

He held out his hand, and as she grasped it, pulled her to her feet. They were closer now, the warmth of their bodies mingling in the dappled sunlight. She noticed how his eyes had darkened, felt the tremor of his fingers, heard the catch of breath.

‘Mind your step,' he said gruffly as he released her hand and turned away. ‘It's slippery.'

Jenny dragged herself back from the spell he'd woven and followed him through the undergrowth. Common sense told her she'd misread his signals. He was merely being polite to his boss, showing off his Churinga, pleased with her reaction to it. But a small, insistent voice niggled deep in her subconscious. She'd thought he was going to kiss her – and she'd been disappointed when he hadn't.

As she stumbled into the grassy clearing on the other side of the pool, she realised with horror that her wet underwear was transparent. Grabbing her shirt, she dived into the bushes and covered herself quickly. Hot with embarrassment, she chided herself for being a fool. No wonder there'd been a change in him, seeing her like that, as good as naked, stretched out on that bloody rock. It wasn't surprising he hadn't bothered to wake her. Must have got a real eyeful.

She fastened the buttons, tucked the shirt into her trousers and pulled on socks to hide her toe. As reason returned, she acknowledged that at least he'd been a gentleman about it. Most red-blooded males would have jumped her – but, with her being his boss, he'd obviously decided discretion was better.

But how to face him again? How to brazen it out and act as if nothing had happened? She took a deep breath and stepped out of the bushes. Nothing
had
happened, and if he didn't say anything then neither would she.

Brett had his back to her as he laid out the picnic on the rocks. There was chicken and ham, damper bread, cheese, tomatoes and a large bottle of homemade lemonade as well as beer and a flask of tea.

Jenny avoided eye contact and tucked in. She hadn't realised how hungry she was and the chicken was delicious. Brett was either unaware of her earlier discomfort or had decided nothing had happened to merit comment. He spoke only of Churinga.

She listened as he told her about wool and sheep auctions, and about the problems of transport and finding reliable men to work the place. The minutes slipped past with no mention of the swim and she began to relax and enjoy his company.

When the sun dipped behind the trees they fished out a dozen yabbies to take back for supper and made their way back to the homestead. Jenny was bone weary, and yet it was a satisfying feeling – one that came after a pleasant day and exercise. As they approached the home paddock, she looked forward to a good night's sleep.

With the horses unsaddled, rubbed down and fed and watered, she and Brett leaned on the fence as the world softly descended into night. A canopy of stars covered the earth, so bright and clear she felt she could reach out and touch the Southern Cross. Take it in her palm and hold it close. ‘It's been a wonderful day, Brett. Thanks. I've seen some beautiful sights today.'

He looked down at her, mouth twitching, eyes glittering with humour. ‘So have I,' he said, and he loped away towards the bunkhouse before she could think of a cutting reply.

Chapter Eleven

As the shearing season was in full swing and the mobs had arrived from the smaller stations to be shorn, Brett had little time to spare so Jenny would take off with her sketchbook and spend hours capturing the essence of this red earth country. Their evening rides out into the pastures were cool and leisurely after the heat of the day, and as the weeks went by she came to look forward to them and was disappointed when Brett's work made them impossible.

The days were full of noise and bustle. More than four hundred thousand sheep needed to be sent up the ramps to be shorn before the shearers could move on to the next shed. She watched the animals skitter down the ramps where they were grasped by strong brown hands and dipped. Those same hands plunged syringes down their throats, drenching them of intestinal parasites before releasing them into the pens where Brett and the stockmen divided the wethers from the breeding rams, the lambs from their ewes.

Castration of the male lambs was swift and bloody, the slaughter of the sheep past their wool prime inevitable, their carcasses fit only for the tannery or the knacker's yard. Life at Churinga was harsh, there was no room for sentiment. Even the cats which slunk between barns and pens were lean and predatory, each one a practised, cunning killer. Never handfed or petted, they were expected to keep the property clear of vermin. As Brett had said, everything on Churinga had to earn its keep.

When Jenny rode out with the stockmen and listened to their stories she began to understand the enormity of what Matilda had taken on. The size of the property meant the men took it in turn to patrol the pastures, their rifles and stock whips always to hand. They would sleep in the fields guarding the sheep, shooting rabbits that ate the grass and dingoes and rooks hunting the lambs. Wild pigs, black and hairy and as big as a cow, could create havoc in a tightly packed feeding mob and the men were extra vigilant if they knew one was around. One thrust of those long curved tusks and a man could be ripped in half.

Jenny soon got used to being in the saddle for hours on end and even began to learn how to use the impossibly long and heavy stock whip the men seemed able to flick so effortlessly over the sheep. She became immune to the dust lifted by thousands of Merino feet and the swarms of flies that drifted in black clouds, waiting to settle on shitty back-sides, as she followed the mob to winter pasture. Her skin glowed from the sun and her hands grew calloused. She fell into bed at night and didn't stir until the cookhouse clanger rang in another day.

Ripper, whose creamy paws, chest and eyebrows had been reddened by the dust, followed her everywhere with adoring eyes and lolling tongue. He seemed to know he wasn't expected to work like the other Kelpies but watched over them all the same, his canine grin revealing a certain superiority.

A month passed, then half another. The shearers were packing up and moving on. The bustle of the yard and wool-shed died to a murmur and Brett travelled with the trucks to ensure the wool transportation went smoothly.

Jenny felt peace descend, stillness creep over the quiet stock pens and empty home pastures. Simone and Stan would be leaving tomorrow. Life was about to change once again – returning, perhaps, to the isolation Matilda must have experienced.

She thought wistfully of the unread diaries, and of the green dress in the trunk. The enticing music of the past was growing louder as the days passed, and she knew she would soon have to return to that world. Return to the haunting but familiar threads of a life she was only just beginning to understand.

The kitchen was sweltering, the temperature way up to a hundred and ten, and as Jenny sweated over dinner she admired Simone's tenacity. To cook in this heat deserved a medal, but to do it every day for such vast numbers of men was worthy of sainthood.

Dinner was to be eaten at ten when the day was done and with it the fierce heat. Jenny was dressed in a cotton shift and low-heeled shoes when her guests arrived promptly at nine-thirty.

Simone was tethered into bright yellow cotton, her face for once made up, her hair in tight curls. Stan, who could never look anything but a shearer with his elongated arms and hunched back, was unusually smart in an ill-fitting suit and water-slicked hair. He shuffled his feet, looking sheepish and uncomfortable out of his usual singlet and flannels.

Jenny led them through the kitchen, where the aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafted from the oven, and out on to the back porch. The French windows of the extension had been flung open, the chairs pulled outside into the cool evening. She'd spent most of the day polishing and dusting, sweeping the verandah and arranging great bowls of wild flowers on the small tables she'd set beside the chairs. The kitchen table was outside as well. It was hardly recognisable beneath white linen and fine china. Silver glittered in the moonlight, and a vase of wild lilies stood between the candlesticks she'd unearthed from the back of the kitchen cupboard.

Simone stood and looked at everything, eyes wide with pleasure. Jenny watched as she wonderingly touched the napkins and the silver cutlery. Perhaps she'd gone too far. These were poor working people, as rough and resilient as the land they worked, not go-getters from Sydney.

‘Jenny.' It was a sigh of pleasure. ‘Thank you for making dinner so special. You don't know how much I've wanted to sit down at a real nice table with flowers and silver and candles. I'll always remember this.'

‘I was worried you'd think I was showing off,' she admitted. ‘I got a bit carried away when I found all this locked in the cupboards. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can always put some of it back.'

Simone turned horrified eyes on her. ‘Don't you flamin' dare. I'm just Ma to most people. They forget me when they've got full bellies. This is the nicest thing anybody's done for me in years.' She poked Stan in the ribs. ‘And that goes for you too, mate.'

Jenny poured sherry.

Simone eased her bulk into an overstuffed chair and sipped her Amontillado with relish. ‘This is something I'll remember for a long time,' she said wistfully. ‘Living on the road does have its drawbacks.'

Stan sat on the edge of the couch, his long arms dangling between his knees as he looked around. ‘You made it nice, Mrs Sanders.'

‘Thanks. Here, I know you'd prefer a beer. And, please, take off that tie and jacket. It's far too hot to be formal.'

‘Oh, no you don't, Stan Baker,' roared Simone. ‘Just for once in yer rotten life youse gonna do things proper. Keep that flamin' jacket and tie where they are.'

Jenny saw determination on Simone's face, resignation on Stan's. She topped up Simone's drink. Perhaps she'd relent once she'd eaten.

The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was a success, and Jenny served peach pavlova and thick cream for pudding. She'd made the meringue earlier that day, and had had to keep it in the gas fridge to stop it from wilting. It was devoured with relish, and followed by coffee and brandy.

Leaving the table, they returned to the softer chairs and looked out over the sleeping land. ‘I'll miss you, Simone. You're the only woman I've talked to since Wallaby Flats,' Jenny told her wistfully.

‘None of your city friends got in touch then?'

‘Diane's written several times, but the phone line is so bad it's impossible to have a decent conversation.'

‘Have you decided what you're going to do yet? You seem to be settled here, now you and Brett have got over squabbling.' Simone slipped off her shoes. Stan's jacket and tie had been surreptitiously removed and slung over the back of a chair.

‘I haven't made up my mind yet. This place has a strange hold over me, and yet there's so much I still haven't done in the outside world. I don't know if I'm just using Churinga as an excuse to run away from reality.'

‘Humph,' grunted Simone comfortably. ‘Nothing unreal about this place, luv. You see all of life out here.'

Jenny looked out over the moonlit pastures. ‘The harsh side of life, maybe. But there's so much more of this country to explore. Such a big world to travel.' She thought of Diane's last letter. Of Rufus' offer to buy Jenny out of the gallery and rent her house if she wanted to stay at Churinga. But she couldn't let go that easily. The house, the gallery, her friends were all a part of her. And she wanted to paint. Needed to paint. Her sketchbook was full of drawings that cried out to be put on to canvas. Painting was an itch demanding to be scratched, and if she stayed away from it too long, she got edgy.

‘It's lonely, I grant you. I been traipsing round New South Wales and Queensland all my adult life, and I seen a lot of changes. Women have to be tougher than the men, stronger-willed and immune to the bloody flies and the dust. We stay because of our men and our children. Because of the thing that's born in us – the love of the land. I reckon you'd be happier in the city.'

Jenny eyed her as sadness welled. Simone was right. There was nothing to keep her here but lost dreams. She had no husband and no child to care for any more, no consuming passion for the land to tie her to Churinga. Yet she didn't want the mood of the evening to spoil, so she changed the subject. ‘Where you headed next, Simone?'

‘Billa Billa. Bloody good shed, and the cookhouse is fitted out real nice. Then we're off up to Newcastle to see our daughter and the grandkids. Ain't seen 'em for a while, have we, Stan?'

A man of few words, he merely shook his head.

‘We got three kids. Two girls and a boy,' Simone said proudly. ‘Nine grandchildren in all, but we don't get to see them much. They're spread all over the bloody country, and if the sheds we work are too far away, we don't see 'em from one season to the next.'

She stared out into the soft darkness. ‘That's when we mooch around looking for casual work. The money soon runs out if there's no work between shearing seasons, and Stan's too old to go back to the cane.'