She smiled to soften her words. ‘You are kind, John, but I’ve gone bush before and know what to expect. It won’t be as bad as you think. They really are quite civilised out there, you know.’
His relief was obvious, even if it was tinged with doubt, and Jenny hurried on before he could protest. ‘I’ve already made some travelling arrangements, and as you can see, I shan’t really be alone at all.’ She put the train and bus tickets on the desk. ‘I’m going on the Indian Pacific as far as Broken Hill, then catching a bus to Wallaby Flats. I thought, as I have time on my hands, I might as well see as much of the country as I can. If you could contact the manager at Churinga and ask him to meet me at Wallaby Flats, I would be grateful.’
John eyed the tickets. ‘You seem to be very organised, Jennifer.’
She sat forward and leaned her arms on the desk. Excitement was bubbling in her but she felt a little bit sorry for this man who would probably never venture further than his office now he’d made the transition from England.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock. It will take at least two days to get to Wallaby Flats, but I can afford to take my time. From there, I hope to catch a ride or hire a car if the manager can’t send someone to meet me.’
John Wainwright’s blank stare was magnified by the thick glasses. ‘Wallaby Flats is not a city, Jennifer. It’s a forgotten mining town which boasts a few hovels, tin shacks and a pub frequented by swagmen, drovers and fossickers. It’s in the middle of nowhere. You could be stuck for days before you found someone to take you out to Churinga.’
Jenny noticed his shudder of distaste. She’d been right in her opinion that he would only have been a burden if just the thought of the place could make him so uncomfortable.
‘Then you’ll just have to make sure the manager sees to it someone’s there to meet me,’ she said firmly. He might consider her stupid and wilful, but this was her adventure and she meant to see it through.
‘As you wish.’ His tone revealed his misgivings.
‘I’m not afraid of the outback or of travelling alone, John. I was brought up in an orphanage at Dajarra, and have had to fend for myself all my life. I’ve met some of the roughest working men in the harshest of places during my years on a Queensland sheep station. They’re only people like you and me. Honest, hard-working, hard-drinking people who wouldn’t harm me. Believe me, John, I’m far more at risk here in the city.’
She fell silent for a moment to let him digest her words. ‘Peter left me Churinga so I could return to the land. The outback is a part of me, John – I have nothing to fear there.’
Her impassioned speech seemed to decide him. ‘Then I’ll contact Churinga and let Brett Wilson know you’re on your way. If you’d wait a moment, I’ll try and get through now. I don’t want you leaving here before I’m quite certain you’ll be met.’
He raised an eyebrow and Jenny nodded her acquiescence. At least he seemed to care what happened to her, she thought. And she was grateful for that.
Three-quarters of an hour and two cups of weak tea later, he came back into the room. He was looking pleased with himself and rubbing his hands. ‘I have spoken to Mr Wilson, and he’s arranging for someone to meet the coach in three days’ time. You’ll probably arrive in the early evening so he suggests you stay in the hotel in case there’s a last-minute hitch. He assures me it’s quite proper for a young woman to spend the night alone in such a place.’
Jenny smiled and stood up. His handshake was warm but limp. ‘Thank you for being so kind, John, and for your concern over my travelling arrangements.’
‘I wish you well, Jennifer. And, may I say, I admire your courage. Let me know how you fare, and if there’s anything you need … well, you know where I am.’
Jenny’s footsteps were sure and light as she left the shadowed building and walked down Macquarie Street. She was at last looking forward to her future.
Chapter Two
Jenny’s emotions were mixed as she said goodbye to Diane, who as usual was decked in an exotic caftan, heavy eye makeup and too much clanking, jangling jewellery. ‘I’m excited, nervous, and not at all sure I’m doing the right thing,’ said Jenny, her voice not quite steady.
Diane laughed and gave her a hug. ‘Of course you are. You don’t have to stay there if you hate it, and I promise not to throw wild bohemian parties in your house.’ She gave Jenny a little shove as the slam of train doors echoed around Sydney’s central station. ‘Now go, will you? Before I cry and make my mascara run.’
Jenny kissed her, adjusted the rucksack more comfortably on her shoulders and turned towards the train. Central Station was busy with people rushing out of the city for the weekend, many of them dressed as she was, in shorts, shirt and thick boots and socks. Her felt hat was crammed into the back-pack, along with insect repellent, plasters, drawing materials, and three changes of clothes. She wouldn’t need much where she was going, and she certainly didn’t envisage staying very long. This was just a reconnaissance to satisfy her curiosity, her need to return to the outback just once more to see if she could pick up the pieces of her old life again.
With a last wave to Diane, she stepped up into the old diesel train and found her seat in economy. Thrift was a habit, and her cheap seat meant she would have to sit all the way through the journey and not take advantage of the luxury sleeping compartments. Yet she felt at ease with that decision. It would give her a chance to meet and talk to the other passengers then perhaps she wouldn’t feel quite so alone.
As the train pulled slowly out of the station, she experienced a twist of excitement. What would Churinga be like – and would she still feel the same way about the outback as she had as a child? She was more sophisticated now, older and hopefully wiser, soft from the years in the city with its air conditioning, shops, abundant water and cool, leafy parks.
Sydney slid by the window and she stared out at the suburbs. The old Holden would never have stood the journey, she was glad she’d chosen the train. Yet, as everything familiar began to fade into the distance, she wished Diane was beside her.
The train made regal progress out of the city and into the Blue Mountains. To Jenny it was like a majestic and magical picture book, spread before her in breathtaking panorama. Great, steep-sided gorges spilled waterfalls into wooded blue-green valleys. Jagged rocks, softened by the blue haze of eucalyptus oil, formed pinnacles which stretched endlessly into the distance and shimmered on the horizon. A scattering of holiday cabins peeked from between the trees and small settlements of older houses huddled on steep-sided plateaux, but nothing could mar the beauty of this awesome sight.
The tourist cameras were out, clicking and whirring beneath the excited chatter of the other passengers. Jenny furiously regretted not having brought her own, but as the miles of mountain track meandered on and on, she knew this scenery would be forever implanted in her memory.
Several hours later they had left one range of mountains for another. Passing through Lithgow, Bathurst and Orange, the train swept through the Herveys Range and on to Gondobolin, stopping only for a few moments to pick up passengers from dusty, remote platforms.
Jenny never tired of watching the sheep grazing this rough land which yielded only tough, yellow grass. Although the mountains had been awe-inspiring, the sight of scrubby trees and red earth touched something primal within her. A mob of kangaroos bouncing across the grasslands brought cries of delight from the others and she quietly enjoyed their pleasure in her beautiful country.
Night fell swiftly and Jenny was rocked to sleep by the whisper of the wheels on the tracks. ‘Going home. Going home. Going home.’
Day came with a sky of red and orange overhanging the land, reflecting its colours in the very earth it warmed. Jenny looked out of the window as she drank her coffee. The land seemed to be ripening in the heat. How beautiful it was, how desolate and achingly lonely. Yet what powerful emotions it evoked. How bravely the trees stood under the sun, their leaves wilting, bark bleached t
o ghostly grey. She was falling in love with her country all over again.
Another day, another night. Through the National Reserve, past Mount Manara and Gun Lake, the miles of sparsely populated land sprawled into infinity on either side. Small hamlets and deserted pastures, tranquil lakes and silent mountains, slipped by in majestic cavalcade.
Morning again, and Jenny’s neck and back were stiff from sitting so long. Sleep had come fleetingly as her destination drew nearer, and she’d spent most of the night playing cards and drinking beer with a group of young English backpackers. The train slowed as it reached the desert oasis that was Broken Hill. The gauge on the line changed here, the next leg of the journey for the others would be in another train.
Jenny packed up her guide book and prepared to get off. Silver City, as it had once been called, lay on the banks of the River Darling, lush undergrowth and bright flowers jarring against the backdrop of dust and turn-of-the-century buildings.
The incongruous sight of the simple nineteenth-century iron mosque caused an excited babble amongst the others, who also talked of visiting the ghost town of Silverton which lay west of Broken Hill and was now used mainly for film locations. She would have liked to join them, and as she said goodbye to the back-packers, felt a twinge of regret that she couldn’t complete the journey and go cross-country to Perth. There was so much to see and experience, so many places that had only been names on the map until now. Yet the bus would be waiting, and her journey would take her in a different direction. Perhaps another time, she promised herself silently.
Easing the straps of the pack, Jenny set off down the road. Broken Hill was a quaint mixture of outback village and city pretensions. Grand buildings from the age when silver mining boomed, jostled alongside wooden shacks and colonnaded shops. The Catholic cathedral vied with the Trades Hall and post office clock tower for attention amongst the newer, rather brash hotels and motels.
The coach was waiting outside the Prince Albert Hotel that stood proudly in a lush garden. Jenny was disappointed. She had hoped to explore and take time out to shower and change her clothes, maybe get something to eat. But if she missed the bus, she would have to wait a week before the next one, and with Brett Wilson due to meet her at Wallaby Flats, this was not possible.
‘Name’s Les. I’ll take this, luv. You hop on board and make yourself comfy. There’s cold beers and cordial in the cool box, leave the money in the tin.’
The driver grabbed her rucksack and stowed it away. He was dressed in shorts, white shirt, boots and long white socks carefully turned over just below the knee. He seemed friendly, with a face leathered by the sun and a bright smile beneath his dark moustache.
She gave him an answering smile and clambered aboard. With a bottle of beer in her hand, she nodded and returned the other passengers’ greetings as she passed down the bus to her seat. The space between them was narrow, the bus airless and flies buzzed around her face. She brushed them away, an automatic gesture as natural to an Australian as blinking, and took a long, refreshing pull of cold beer. Her excitement was building. In eight hours’ time she would be in Wallaby Flats.
As the bus pulled away in a plume of red dust, the flies disappeared and a warm breeze came in through the windows. Hats and newspapers were used to stir the air, but despite the discomfort Jenny loved it. This was the real Australia. Not the cities and beaches, the parks and shopping malls, but the real essence of the country with all its faults.
The heat increased, the beer stock was depleted, and Les kept everyone amused with his constant chatter and terrible jokes. More beer was purchased in Nuntherungie, and this was repeated at every stop in the eight-hour journey. Jenny was weary from lack of sleep, the heat and too much beer and excitement. Lunch had been doorstep sandwiches at a small hotel in the middle of nowhere, but there had been no time for a wash and change of clothes.
It was almost dark, but thankfully cooler when the bus finally reached Wallaby Flats. Jenny stepped down with the others and stretched. Her shirt and shorts were dark with sweat, and judging by the look of the others, she knew she must look a fright. Yet her spirits were high for she’d come through the journey and was almost at her destination.
She stood in the twilight and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that awful smell?’ she gasped.
Les grinned. ‘That’ll be the sulphur springs, luv. But you’ll soon get used to the pong. No worries.’
‘I hope so,’ she muttered, retrieving her bag.
The Queen Victoria Hotel had a faded glory about it, despite the dilapidated sign that stood crookedly above the entrance. Years ago it must have been quite something, she thought. Now it just looks sad and worn out. The two-storey sandstone building was girded by a balcony and verandah. Paint peeled and the filigree ironwork was rusted and missing in places. Heavy shutters lay along the sides of the narrow windows, and wire screens kept out the flies and mosquitoes. Dusty horses were tied to a hitching post, their tails flicking, necks drooping towards the concrete water trough. The long verandah looked cool beneath the balcony and was obviously a popular meeting place for the local men. They sat in rocking chairs or on the steps, watching the tourists from beneath broad-brimmed hats which, by the look of them, had seen many years’ service.
Jenny took it all in with an artist’s eye. The oldest had stubbled chins, their weather-beaten faces and sun-dazzled eyes telling stories of hardship. I wish I could get to my drawing things, she thought as she climbed the steps. Some of these old blokes would make wonderful studies. She paused to take off the heavy pack. ‘G’day. Been a hot one again.’ Her gaze swept from one stoic face to the next.
Finally a grizzled old codger replied, ‘G’day,’ his eyes curious for a fleeting moment before he returned to staring at the darkening landscape.
Jenny realised they felt awkward, and wondered if the influx of so many people at once was an intrusion on their quiet, settled lives. Perhaps the isolation of their outback town had instilled a deep suspicion of outsiders.
She lugged the pack through the door and followed the others into the bar. A drink, a wash and something to eat would set her right for a good night’s sleep.
Several men lounged against the bar, beer in hand, eyes following the new arrivals from beneath their hats. One flat-heeled boot was propped against the tarnished brass pole that was firmly bolted to the floor; shirts and moleskins bore traces of their day’s labour. Conversation, if there had been any, was stopped, but there was no animosity in their silence, merely an amused curiosity.
A ceiling fan turned sluggishly through the humid air and fly papers hung black from every beam and picture rail. The bar itself was a long plank of wood which stretched the length of the room, presided over by a hawk-nosed, thin man who wore braces over his singlet and a belt around his baggy trousers. An array of dusty bottles lined the walls, the radio crackled with static, and ancient Christmas decorations did their best to brighten up the gloom.
‘Ladies’ lounge is out back,’ said the landlord in a thick Baltic accent. He jerked his head in the vague direction of a door at the far end of the bar.
Jenny followed the other women. It was irritating to be treated as a second-class citizen. This was the Seventies, for goodness’ sake. Yet as she sank into a cane chair and dropped the pack beside her, she knew better than to make a fuss. Even Sydney was not yet totally enlightened. Australian men didn’t like to see their women in pubs – to them it was the breakdown of a system that had suited them well for years and they didn’t see why it should change. But change was coming, and the sooner the better, she thought, wondering if they would ever be served. She was parched.
A blonde came clattering into the room, her stiletto heels rapping a tattoo on the rough floorboards. She had obviously just applied fresh lipstick, but it clashed with the pink plastic earrings and tight orange skirt. Her over-developed cleavage bounced beneath a frilly blouse and numerous cheap bangles clattered on her wrists. She was in her late twenties. Jenny guessed, and proba
bly too young to be the landlord’s wife, but she seemed friendly enough and certainly brought colour and life to this dismal room.
‘I’ve had enough beer, thanks,’ Jenny replied to the offer of a drink. ‘A cordial or a cup of tea would be right.’
‘Righto. Nothing like a cuppa to settle the dust, is there?’ The young woman’s smile was bright as her eyelashes fluttered. ‘Name’s Lorraine, by the way. How’ya goin’?’
‘She’ll be right once I’ve had a drink, a wash and something to eat.’ Jenny smiled. The aroma of roast lamb was sharpening her appetite. Reminding her that lunch was a distant memory.
Within minutes she was sipping her tea. It was strong and hot, and just the thing to revive her flagging energy. Lorraine had disappeared back into the bar, and Jenny could hear the to and fro of those high heels below the banter and raucous laughter. She looked around the quiet lounge room. Most of the women were half asleep; those that weren’t merely stared into space, too tired even to make the most desultory conversation. Jenny wished she was with Lorraine. It sounded much more fun in the bar.
It was a good half hour before she returned, and after they’d followed her into the kitchen and she’d served the heaped plates of meat and vegetables, Jenny caught her attention. ‘Are there any messages for me? I was expecting someone to meet me.’
Lorraine’s over-plucked eyebrows shot up. ‘What did you say your name was, luv? I’ll check.’
‘Jenny Sanders.’ She was unprepared for the reaction.
Lorraine’s face froze in mid-smile and her eyes grew sharp and predatory as they swept over her. ‘Brett’s not here yet.’
‘But you do have a reservation for me?’
‘Jeez, I don’t know, Mrs Sanders. See, Dad’s got the place full what with the bus and everything.’
Matilda's Last Waltz Page 8
