‘Ain’t much there.’
‘Reckon I’ll go, all the same.’
It felt strange riding down the main street.
Must be twice the size it was when I left, he thought. Maybe I should have stayed here, after all. Set up my own little store and settled down. I’d be rich by now. But knew he hadn’t wanted to settle down then any more than he did now.
Simmons’ Store had grown, too, stretching over the whole block between two side streets, only one of which Matthew remembered. He recalled walking down the alleyway beside the store and knocking on Catriona’s window, scared stiff he would wake her father. Now the alley way was twenty yards wide with a row of wooden houses with shaded verandas looking out on the street. He tethered his horse and went into the store.
Catriona, he thought. He had written to her only once in almost a year to tell her where he was and that he was well. He hoped the letter found her as it left him and he was hers faithfully Matthew Curtis.
A month later, less, he’d had a reply. He had held it for a while without opening it, turning it in his big hands. It was a blue envelope and he imagined her getting it from the store when her father wasn’t looking or perhaps she had paid for it. He was sure old moneybags Simmons would have had money off her for the envelope if he had known about it but perhaps he had not. He looked at her writing, all the letters joined and the capitals with loops. At last he opened it and was surprised how his fingers trembled.
Dear Matthew
Thank you for your letter.
I was very glad to hear that you are safe and settled at Glenmona and glad, too, that my Uncle was able to help you.
I took the liberty of showing your Letter to Mrs McLachlan when she was in the shop. She was pleased you were well and said to tell you she remembers you in her Prayers. She also said you were wrong to have hit Mr McLachlan the way you did and he has forbidden her to write to you which otherwise she would have done.
If you want to write to her you can do it through me and I will make sure she gets your news.
So there are two females waiting to hear from you, Matthew! I hope you will keep on telling us how you are. If you ever come this way I shall naturally be very pleased to see you.
With best wishes
Catriona Simmons
Matthew put the letter down on the table. He looked into the darkness beyond the candle flame, seeing not the shadows shifting on the rough wooden walls but a face staring at him from an open window, eyes unnaturally bright, a voice saying Go. Just go.
He sat for a long time, thinking of all the things he should not have done but had done since he last saw her, the things he should have done and had not, and at the end of it had felt very small and low-spirited with the letter on the table before him.
Now he looked around the shop as he went in. More people, perhaps, an even greater turmoil of goods heaped in apparent confusion on the counters, but in essence it was the same. He saw Catriona before she saw him. He studied her for a few minutes until she looked up as though feeling his eyes on her and he saw her face go white.
He strolled over to her. ‘Hello, Catriona.’
A tentative smile, not quite looking at him. ‘I hardly recognised you. You’ve grown.’
‘So have you.’ Eyes not only on her face.
She had always blushed easily.
She said, ‘What are you doing in Jim Jim?’
‘On my way to Melbourne with the Glenmona clip.’
‘Will you see your … Mrs McLachlan while you’re here?’
He hadn’t thought of it. ‘I suppose I should. I dunno about the old man, though. The way we parted, I’m not sure he’d exactly welcome me.’
‘She’ll be terribly hurt if you don’t.’
He thought about it. ‘You’re right. I’ll risk it. He’ll probably be out on the run so with a bit of luck I can sneak in and out without him seeing me.’
He smiled down at her. ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if you decided to go down to the old swimming pool about nine tonight, you never know, you might just get the chance to relive old times.’ He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘If you’d like?’
She looked at him, eyes cool. ‘I hear you do quite a lot of swimming.’
He had seen Janice a dozen times at least but had never thought that news of his exploits might have found its way back to Jim Jim. He changed the subject hastily.
‘I’ll go and see Ma,’ he said. ‘After it’s dark I’ll go up to the waterhole. I’d like to have a chance of a proper talk with you before we move on. If you can make it, that’ll be fine. If not, well, no blood spilt, eh?’
She smiled back, thoughts well guarded. ‘When you’re on the trail I expect a swim in clean water’s always welcome.’
‘Particularly with the right company.’
She did not respond to that.
‘See you later.’ He winked at her and strolled out of the store, taking his time about it.
Catriona watched Matthew out of the door and went back to sorting clothes.
So that was how Matthew had grown up. She remembered the night he had tapped on her window before leaving. He had looked unsure of himself, scared and alone. She had wanted him to stay, how she had wanted it, but the only way she had known of keeping him in town had been to invite him into her bedroom and she hadn’t been sure enough of him to risk that.
Now she was glad. In the old days he had looked at her when he had thought she wasn’t looking, unable to take his eyes off her and ashamed at the same time. There had been nothing like that in the way he had looked at her today. He had wanted her to see him looking.
She lifted a pile of work shirts that had arrived in the latest shipment. They were heavy, harsh with the smell of the dye in them. She lugged them down to the far end of the long trestle table and began to spread them out.
The boy she had known had been the real Matthew, she thought. Impulsive, determined, nobody’s fool, but essentially shy and decent. He had cared for her then, she knew.
He’s been spoilt, she said to herself, going back to the end of the table for another armful of the harsh-smelling shirts. He’s found someone easy and has forgotten not everyone’s like that. If I go up to the waterhole with him, he’ll think I’m the same as the other one, whoever she is. But if I don’t go he’ll think I don’t care any more and I don’t want that either. It’ll be dark by eight. I’ll go then.
Matthew rode down the rutted trail towards Montrose. He thought how strange it was to be heading this way after so long, not because it was unfamiliar but because it was hard to believe he’d been away at all. At Glenmona he never thought of his childhood. Now it grew up around him as familiar as the features on the road that he passed.
He reined in at the top of the final rise, looking down through the trees, the random patterns of sunlight, at the homestead. The river still ran the colour of chocolate down the middle of the valley, the hills still raised green heads against a sky of dusty blue, the shabby buildings still stood on the knoll. Nothing had changed. Yet, looking closer, he thought there had been change, after all. The huts looked tired, as though they had slumped lower to the ground. The undergrowth had grown thicker about them. It was a year since he had been here and he had changed a lot in that time. Now he had a premonition that in some ways there had been greater change here. It was with a sense of unease that he rode down through the trees towards his childhood.
The buildings were quiet and seemingly deserted as he rode up to them. The workshop was empty. So was the chapel. He walked over to the house, nerves biting him.
The door was open.
‘Anybody home?’
Silence.
He went inside.
Nobody.
He went out again. The sound of clucking came from the other side of the house. Around the corner Lorna was standing with a bowl in the crook of her arm, feeding corn to half a dozen chooks.
He said, ‘Hi, Ma.’
She looked up at the s
ound of his voice and he saw her knuckles suddenly whiten against the rim of the bowl. If it had not been for that he would have thought she felt nothing; but over the years, he knew well, she had learnt to hide her feelings until now she was incapable of doing anything else.
‘Well,’ she said. She did not smile.
She looked tired, her hair all grey now, the lines more deeply engraved on her face. He tried to remember if she had looked this old before he left but could not.
He went forward and put his arms around her. She accepted the embrace but did not return it.
‘How are you keeping?’ he asked.
‘We are well,’ she said.
His eyes went around the buildings. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s awa’ up the valley. Ye needna worry.’
‘I’m not worried, exactly. Only …’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Ye’re well settled, now?’
He smiled wryly. ‘I’m seventeen years old, Ma. Bit too soon to settle down, wouldn’t you say?’
Her faded eyes watched him. ‘I sometimes wonder if ye ever will.’
‘Have to see, won’t we?’
They walked towards the house. ‘Ye’ll take a cup of tea?’
It was extraordinary. Their parting, a year before, had been one of the hardest things in his life. He would bet it had been for her, too, yet now they were talking together—not even talking, exchanging pleasantries—like two strangers meeting by chance in the street. I am no longer part of her life. I have become a stranger.
They took the tea and sat outside the door where they could see out over the valley.
‘How are things going?’ Matthew asked.
‘No’ what he wanted oot o’ life but we manage.’
‘The main thing, I suppose.’
‘Aye, that it is.’ She drank her tea placidly.
‘Do you ever regret coming to Australia?’ he asked. Regret marrying Andrew McLachlan was what he meant but could not say.
‘Mr McLachlan wanted to come here.’ She looked at him, surprised by his question. ‘Where else would I have gone?’
‘Your life’s been so hard …’
‘Life has its ups and doons for us all, I dare say.’
He put down his empty cup, heard himself say, ‘Tell me about Stuart.’
‘No.’
He stared at her. He had thought she would want to unburden herself.
‘He was born, he lived a wee while, he died. As your ain parents died. There’s nothing else to say. It’s no’ a time I like to think aboot.’
He felt a fool for having raised the subject and tried to pass it off with a joke. ‘So you had to put up with me instead.’
‘We nearly didna have ye, either. But ye were always a bonny fighter.’
‘Bet you regretted that sometimes.’ Thinking of the fight that had led to his leaving.
‘There’s no’ a day goes by I dinna bless the Lord for ye,’ she said simply.
He stared at her. Her words shamed him. She showed so little and felt so much. It made him angry. She’s good, really good. And life kicks her in the teeth. Married to that man. Her only child dead. Both of them caught up in the depression of the thirties. No dreams left. She pins her hopes on me and I go too. He felt shabby with guilt, yet what else could he have done? We are all what we are. All, ultimately, alone.
‘I wish things had worked out differently for you,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll thank ye to keep your wishes to yourself,’ she told him tartly. ‘Do ye hear me complaining? Things are fine as they are. One thing I do not need is pity, Matt my wee bairn, and dinna forget it.’
Which put him in his place, and no mistake.
He had a second cup of tea, they talked about this and that, but there was no feeling of ease between them.
Eventually he stood. She walked stiffly with him to the door and he wondered how old she was. She had told him she was twenty-one when he was born. That made her thirty-eight. Not even forty and an old woman. For a moment he hated the country that had done this to her.
‘I’ll write,’ he offered.
‘When ye can.’
She had not even asked why he was in the district, where he was going. Strangers.
They walked across to where Matthew had tethered his horse and Andrew McLachlan came out of the workshop.
Matthew stopped, on guard at once.
‘I saw the horse,’ Andrew said. ‘My horse.’
‘You gave it to me.’
‘To use at Montrose. No’ to tak’ awa’ wi’ ye. Ye stole it as ye stole my rifle an’ the food from my house.’
‘Nobody stole anything,’ Lorna said. ‘I gave it to him. Ye want to blame someone, blame me.’
She might not have spoken. Andrew’s eyes stared at Matthew with a passion not altogether sane. His face was pale, harsh and barren. ‘Ye took them, knowing they were no’ hers to give. By my book that mak’s ye a thief.’
‘You had your value from me, all the years I slaved here.’
The fervent eyes gleamed. ‘What else should a son do?’
‘I was never your son.’
‘I brought ye up as my ain.’
‘Well, I wasn’t. I’m not.’
He tried to brush Andrew aside, to put his boot into the stirrup, but Andrew seized the bridle and backed away from him. ‘The horse is mine.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Matthew could feel his anger rising. ‘I’m not looking for trouble but I’ll tell you now, I’m not walking out of here.’
Still Andrew held the bridle. There was nothing for it. Matthew went up to him and took the bridle out of his hands as gently as he could. Even then Andrew tried to stop him so he gave him a push, only a little one, and he took a step backwards and caught his heels on something and sat down heavily on the ground.
Matthew climbed into the saddle and looked down at them, the woman standing a little to one side, the man sitting on the dusty ground with his hat beside him and his white face glaring in the sun.
‘It seems whenever we meet we fight,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to avoid it but I reckon it wasn’t to be.’
He tipped his hat, wheeled the horse and rode off up the slope and through the trees.
Now she will have more trouble, he thought. It would have been better if I had never come.
At eight o’clock Catriona went to her room. She put one or two things in a bag and went back into the shop.
Her father looked at her.
‘I’m going out for a while,’ she said. ‘Can you manage all right for an hour?’
He nodded but said nothing. Over the past twelve months he had learned not to interfere with Catriona’s private life. He knew she walked up by the creek, he thought she possibly even went for a swim, but he said nothing. She was a good girl and growing up so fast. She needed a mother. He was no substitute. He had brought her up as well as he could, had given her security and all the affection he was capable of giving. She would be a wealthy woman one day. He knew it was not enough but it was the best he could do.
Catriona went out into the street, closing the shop door behind her. She slipped around the side of the building and across the paddock at the back. She had walked it a dozen times since the dance at the shearers’ hall but this was the first time she had done so with such a sense of excitement and apprehension. Would he come? And what would happen if he did?
She smelt the freshness of the creek before she saw it in the darkness but she knew the whole area by heart and followed the bank without difficulty until she came to the waterhole. There was no one there but she was early and had expected nothing else. She sat down on the grass to wait.
Dusk had fallen before Matthew reached Jim Jim. Lights shone from the houses, the shops. There were three or four ale houses where a year ago there had been only one. Shadows flared across the dusty road as he rode past and he heard the sound of singing and raised voices. Simmons’ store was still open. He looked through the windows as he passed, the hooves of
his mount muffled in the dust of the road. In the lamplight Matthew saw one or two shoppers inside. Bugs circled and batted against the glass, dazzled by the light.
Catriona, he thought. What do I do about her?
He did not think she would go to the waterhole. Her reaction had been like Lorna’s. He had expected them to be surprised. Pleased, too, or so he had hoped. Instead they had treated him as casually as though he dropped in to see them every week.
She won’t be there, he thought. A right fool I’ll look, sitting around half the night for someone who doesn’t turn up.
He put his heels into his horse’s ribs. The lights of the town faded behind him as he cantered back to the drovers’ camp.
It was late. After waiting for an hour she said to herself, ‘I’m not going to wait for him all night. I shall go now.’
Instead she took off her shoes and stockings and paddled her feet in the cool water, feeling the suck and run of the current about her toes. She walked slowly up and down the shallows, senses alert to see him as soon as he arrived. If he arrived.
After another hour she finally accepted that he was not coming after all.
She got on to the bank, dried her feet meticulously with the towel she took from the bag she had brought with her. All the time her ears were alert, waiting for the hint of a footfall on the grass, thinking of all the thousand things that might have delayed him, knowing she was fooling herself as she had fooled herself all evening. No one came.
She pulled on her stockings and fastened them, pushed her feet into her shoes. She stood and looked about her for the last time. Above the trees, the clotted black leaves, the sky was full of stars. The creek sang its song between its banks. She walked slowly across the paddock towards home.
SEVENTEEN
Days and seasons came and went. The demands of the flocks formed their own rhythm—lambing, tail docking, ear marking, castration, mustering, washing, shearing … Hard work but Matthew had done it all his life and did it well. Even Cusack found little to criticise. Cusack was a bastard. Dorian had warned him of that at the beginning. ‘Meanest man God ever put breath in,’ he had said and so he was. But after the first few weeks he left him alone, mostly, so his meanness really didn’t matter.
The Burning Land Page 20
