He inspected his own wound, the horror of what he’d done wiping away the fear and pain, bringing instead a cold calculation of what to do next. The other man’s bullet had shattered his knee and driven up into his thigh before punching a hole in his hip. The pain would soon be all-consuming and the blood loss much too rapid for him to stay here any longer.
He eyed the dead soldier. He was small and lightly built. Shouldn’t pose too much of a problem. Coming to a swift decision, Mervyn grabbed him and slung him over his shoulder. Using his rifle as a walking stick, he hobbled to the mouth of the cave. Guns were still going off on the Turkish side, lights still flickered in the hospital tent, and the command centre was alive with scurrying runners and shouted orders.
Mervyn hitched the man from his shoulder to his back, looping the dead arms around his neck, grasping the lifeless hands to his throat. He would make a perfect shield if a stray bullet came over the hill.
The steep climb down to the hospital tent had been agonising, but his arrival amongst the chaos had a gratifying effect – just as he’d known it would. He was the returning hero. Wounded, he’d risked his life for a cobber. He’d almost laughed when they solemnly told him his mate was dead, and looked at him with pity.
Mervyn came back to the present and stared into the sun. They’d given him a medal, and after many months in hospital, his ticket home. Luck and cunning had saved him that night, just as they would now – for there on the horizon was Lady.
He smiled as the grey mare galloped up to him. Catching the dangling reins, he remounted the brumby and spurred him into a gallop. If Matilda had been thrown, it wouldn’t take long to find her.
* * *
With the sinking of the sun came the long, cool shadows, and with stumbling relief Matilda thrust her way through the clinging undergrowth and sought shelter beneath the canopy of trees. It hurt to breathe, to move, even to think. She was exhausted.
The bush sounds were all around her as she leaned against a tree trunk for a moment’s respite, but it was the splash and trickle of water that drew her on again. There was no time to rest but she could wash and refill the water bag before moving on and the thought of that cold clean mountain fall revived her flagging spirits.
The waterfall began high up in the mountain, gushing down, gathering other springs along the way, until it fell hundreds of feet into the rocky valley below. Yet, as Matilda finally emerged from the dense, green light of the hinterland, she realised it was sadly depleted by the lack of rain. The water that trickled down the worn, glistening rocks was barely enough to fill the pools below. Great tree roots lay in naked arthritic tangles where once they’d been submerged. Forest ferns drooped scorched fronds, and thick ropes of withered ivy hung listlessly from creaking, parched wattle and King Billy pines.
Matilda climbed down to a broad, flat stone that jutted above one of the rock pools, and pulled off her boots. She didn’t bother to undress, she was filthy and so were the remains of her clothes. As she lowered herself into the icy water, she shivered with pleasure. The blisters on her feet would soon heal, the scorch of the sun on her exposed arms would soon turn brown.
She closed her eyes and held her nose, then sank below the surface of the water. The dirt and sweat lifted away. The pain between her legs dulled in the icy caress. Her hair floated and her parched skin was replenished.
Emerging with a gasp, she cupped her hands and drank deeply before refilling the water bag. The birds which had fallen silent on her arrival were now in full song, and she gazed up into the surrounding trees. This had always been a special place. A place where Mary had told her about unicorns and fairies and the little people she’d called leprechauns. As Matilda looked around her, she could almost believe they existed – but harsh reality had a way of making such stories a nonsense.
She dragged herself reluctantly from the water and pulled on her boots. Wincing as the leather caught the angry blisters, the pain was not enough to daunt her – not after what she’d suffered in the past few hours – and she snatched up the bag and shawl bundle and headed deeper into the bush. It was a faster route through it than around it, and if she kept heading south she would come out on the crest above Wilga.
By the time she emerged from the humid green shadows and into the dying sunlight, she was sweating profusely. Yet she felt a jolt of achievement as she looked down on the great sweep of Wilga’s pastures, and the thin spiral of smoke from the homestead on the horizon. She’d almost made it.
As the stands of trees grew sparse and the sun dipped even lower in the sky, Matilda picked her way over the tumble of boulders at the foot of Tjuringa. The water bag was heavy on her shoulder, the bundle cumbersome as she slid and stumbled over the loose, treacherous ground, but she had no thought of discarding either – they were precious. Creatures scuttled and slithered from beneath the rocks as she disturbed their late-afternoon slumber and the laughing jackass mocked her progress, but finally she reached flatter ground and stopped for a moment to catch her breath and take a drink.
It was almost twilight, and Wilga homestead was at least another three hours’ walk away but she had to dredge deep to find the strength to carry on. Mervyn might have come across Lady and could be just a few miles behind her.
Thudding the stopper back into the neck of the water bag, she stepped out on to the plains and headed for the wisp of smoke on the horizon.
Time lost all meaning as she walked. She was aware only of the deepening shadows and the glimmer of Wilga homestead in the distance. Her boots scuffed the dry earth and silver grass as her thoughts centred on Tom and April Finlay.
Tom Finlay’s family had owned Wilga for years. Old man Finlay had passed on a few months after his wife. Now Tom was married and ran the property with his wife. Matilda hadn’t seen him in a long while – not since Mum got sick and Mervyn refused to let him visit. Yet she knew she would find shelter at Wilga. She and Tom had grown up together, and although he was several years older, Matilda knew he regarded her as the sister he’d never had.
She remembered him as a skinny boy who’d teased her mercilessly about her mother calling her Molly. What kind of name was that? he’d asked as he’d pulled her hair. But as they’d grown older, his tugs weren’t quite so hard and he’d agreed that her pet name suited her. For Matildas were supposed to be rather stern people, not larrikins who climbed trees and played in the dust with their hair in their eyes.
Matilda smiled, despite her fear and weariness. How right he’d been, she thought. Great Aunt Matilda was very starched and proper if her portrait was anything to go by. No wonder her mother had changed her mind once her baby began to display less than immaculate behaviour.
A familiar sound disturbed her thoughts and in sharp anticipation she looked around.
The drum of hoofbeats vibrated in the ground, and there, far behind her, was the unmistakable blur of a horse and rider. At last. Someone had seen her and was coming to help.
She waved. ‘I’m here. Over here,’ she called.
Her cries went unacknowledged but the horse kept coming.
Matilda shivered as the first tingle of unease crept over her. There were two horses but only one rider. She took a step back. Then another. And as the outlines sharpened, the dread returned. There was no mistaking the solid figure on the back of the chestnut or the grey lumbering outline of Lady.
She began to run.
The sound of hooves grew closer. Wilga seemed an impossible distance away.
The adrenaline pumped as Matilda raced through the long grass. Her boots slipped and tripped over the uneven ground. Her hat flew off and dangled down her back. But her eyes were fixed on that distant glimmer that was her refuge. She had to make it. Her life depended on it.
The thundering hooves slowed to a steady walk.
She dared not look round, but guessed he was a couple of hundred yards away, playing with her as a cat toyed with a mouse, teasing, provoking, but all the while menacing. A sob of desperation mingled with the gas
p as she stumbled again. He was waiting for her to fall. Waiting his moment. They both knew she couldn’t outrun him.
The pastures stretched endlessly before her, the long grass hampering her escape, the earth seemingly set on making her stumble. Yet she found the strength to stay on her feet and keep going. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.
The steady plod of hooves followed her – never gaining but always there. She heard the soft, malicious chuckle and the jingle of harness. It spurred her on.
The homestead was nearer now, she could even catch a shimmer of light in one of the windows, and Mervyn wouldn’t dare hurt her once she reached the fire-break that surrounded the property.
As her feet pounded over the earth, she searched desperately for a sign of life – of confirmation that someone was out there and would see her. Where was Tom? Why had no one come to help?
The pursuing drumbeat gathered pace. Nearer and nearer, its approach filled the world with its sound until there was nothing else.
Her breath was ragged. Her heartbeat a hammer against her ribs as the chestnut gelding came up beside her. Sweat foamed its flanks, the great bellows of its lungs rasped as it came to a skittering halt in front of her.
Matilda twisted away.
The horse followed.
She ducked away from the trampling, stamping legs and weaved through the grass.
The horse closed in, the booted foot left the stirrup and kicked up.
The blow to the side of her head sent her stumbling, arms flailing, trying to catch hold of the harness to keep her balance. Then she was falling. Down, down, down she went – the earth rushing to meet her, embracing her in a cloud of dust and cruel stones, punching air from her lungs.
Mervyn’s bulk blotted out the remains of the sun as he loomed over her. ‘Just how far did you think you were gonna get?’
Matilda glanced through the grass at the silent, deserted homestead. If she hadn’t taken time to rest she’d have made it.
His grasp on her arm was brutal as he yanked her to her feet. A gleam of sadistic relish was in his eyes as he tugged her hair and forced her to look up at him. Matilda knew he wanted her to cry out, to plead with him not to hurt her, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction – no matter how much he was hurting her.
His breath was foul, his mouth inches from her face. His voice a low, menacing rasp. ‘What happens on Churinga’s no one else’s business. Understood? You shoot through again, and I’ll kill you.’
Matilda knew this was no idle threat. She lowered her gaze and tried not to flinch as his fingers increased their hold in her hair.
‘Look at me,’ he growled.
She dredged the last of her courage and stared back at him.
‘There ain’t no one going to believe you. I’m a hero, see, and I’ve got a medal to prove it.’
Matilda looked into his eyes and thought she saw something else behind the threat – could it be fear? Impossible. For his words held the ring of truth and in those few seconds she knew she was truly alone.
Chapter One
Sydney sweltered, and the graceful white sails of the new Opera House gleamed against the dark iron struts of the harbour bridge. Circular Quay was a kaleidoscope of colour with its crush of people, and the water busy with craft of every size and shape. Australia was celebrating as only she knew how, the narrow streets of the burgeoning capital full of noise and bustle. Jenny had gone to see the Queen open the Opera House out of curiosity, and to help fill the hours of another long day. Yet the great swarm of people who joined her on the sun-drenched quayside did nothing to alleviate the feeling of isolation, and she’d returned home to her house in the northern suburb of Palm Beach as soon as the ceremony was over.
Now she stood on the balcony and gripped the railing with the same desperation as she’d clung to the debris of her life during the past six months of mourning. The death of her husband and baby hadn’t come softly, with time to prepare, to say the words of parting that should have been spoken – but with an obscene swiftness that had swept everything else aside and left her stranded. The house seemed too big, too empty, too silent. And every room held a reminder of how it had once been. Yet there could be no turning back, no remission. They were gone.
The Pacific Ocean glittered in the sun, its reflection mirrored in the windows of the elegant villas on the hillside overlooking the shore, and the bright, purple heads of the bougainvillaea nodded against the white stucco walls of the house. Peter had planted them because they were the same colour as her eyes. Now she could hardly bear to look at them. Yet it was the sight of the children splashing at the water’s edge that most reinforced her loss. Two-year-old Ben had loved the water.
‘Thought I’d find you here. Why did you run off like that? You scared me, Jen.’
She turned at the sound of Diane’s soft voice to find her friend standing in the doorway. She was dressed as usual in a caftan, her dark curls anchored by a silk bandanna. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but after six months of shutting myself away, the noise and the crowds in the city were too much. I had to get away.’
‘You should have said you wanted to leave. I’d have come with you.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘I needed to be on my own for a while, Diane. Needed to make sure…’
She couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t put into words the awful hope she carried each time she left the house. For she knew the truth, had seen the coffins lowered into the ground. ‘It was a mistake. I know that now.’
‘Not a mistake, Jen. Just confirmation of your worst fears. But it will get better, I promise.’
Jenny eyed her friend with affection. The exotic clothes, garish jewellery and heavy makeup hid a softness she would have denied vehemently. But Jenny had known Diane for too long to be fooled. ‘How come you know so much?’
There was a flicker of sadness in Diane’s brown eyes. ‘Twenty-four years of experience,’ she said dryly. ‘Life’s a bitch, but you and I’ve survived this long, so don’t you dare give up on me now.’
The kaleidoscope of their lives flashed through Jenny’s mind as they embraced. They had met in the orphanage at Dajarra, two small girls clinging to the hope of finding their parents – and when that dream was shattered they’d built another. Then another.
‘Remember when we first came down to Sydney? We had so many plans. How come it all went wrong?’
Diane gently pulled away from the embrace, her silver bracelets jangling as she smoothed Jenny’s long brown hair away from her face. ‘Nothing was ever guaranteed, Jen. There’s no point in lingering over what fate dished out for us.’
‘But it’s not fair,’ she exploded, anger finally rising above the misery.
Diane’s expression was enigmatic. ‘I agree, but unfortunately there’s nothing we can do about it.’ She gripped Jenny’s arms in strong fingers. ‘Let it go, Jen. Get angry – cry – yell at the world and everything in it if it makes you feel better. Because you aren’t doing yourself any favours by letting it eat away at you.’
Jenny waged an inner war as she turned away from that all-penetrating honesty and stared out over the bay. It would have been easy to rage, to give into tears and recriminations, but there had to be some part of her life still within her control and this enforced calm was all she had left.
* * *
Diane swept back her long sleeves, lit a cigarette and watched the inner battle reflected on Jenny’s face. I wish I could do or say something to break down that great wall of resistance she always puts up when she’s hurt, she thought. But, knowing Jenny, she’ll come round to it when she’s good and ready. It had been the same all their lives, and Diane could see no reason why she should change now.
Her thoughts drifted back to the orphanage and the silent, solitary little girl who’d rarely cried no matter how much she was hurting. Of the two of them, Jenny had always appeared to be the stronger. Not for her the tantrums and tears, the raging at what life had thrown at them – but D
iane knew that beneath the facade of strength lay a soft, frightened core which was no stranger to pain. For how else could Jenny have sustained Diane through the hell of being told she couldn’t have children? How else could Jenny have understood the agony when David had stood her friend up at the altar for a fertile tart he’d met at the office?
Diane stubbed out her cigarette as the old anger resurfaced. Two years and a lot of hard work in the studio had taken the sting off that rage, but a great many tears had been shed. They had been an intrinsic part of Diane’s healing process, something Jenny too must accept if she was to have any kind of future.
Frustration at not being able to reach her friend made her restless. She ought to be at the gallery they both owned, helping Andy display her sculptures for the forthcoming exhibition, but she didn’t like to leave without making sure Jenny was all right.
Jenny turned from the balcony railing, her violet eyes fathomless in her pale face. ‘I expect you want those paintings?’ Her voice was toneless, her emotions tightly reined.
‘The exhibition’s not for a month yet, and I know how I want to display them. They’ll keep for a while.’ How the hell can she be so calm? thought Diane. If my husband had just dropped dead and taken my baby with him, I’d be climbing the bloody walls, not thinking about art exhibitions.
‘I’ve already packed the canvases. They’re in the studio.’ Jenny flicked a glance at her watch. ‘I have to go.’
Diane was startled. ‘Go? Go where? Everything’s closed for the day.’
‘Solicitor’s office. John Wainwright wants to discuss certain aspects of Pete’s will more fully.’
‘But probate was granted almost six months ago. What the hell’s left to discuss?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t tell me over the phone but it’s got something to do with me being twenty-five yesterday.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Diane’s alarm at her friend’s unnatural calm made her voice rather sharp.
Matilda's Last Waltz Page 5
