A Waltz for Matilda

by Jackie French

  Did this path lead to the buckets? Where had her father hidden things?

  Stop it, she told herself. You’ll be dreaming of buried treasure next. Which was impossible — her father’s entire wealth was four shillings and sevenpence ha’penny. If he’d had more than that they wouldn’t have needed to go waltzing Matilda to find work. He’d have bought rams and ewes and pipes …

  Suddenly the path ended in a small flat space about the size of a table. She peered up the cliff-face — it was too sheer to scramble up, even for a monkey. She glanced down. The house looked like a toy from here. She hadn’t realised how far up she’d climbed. The dog must have slipped away from her, further down.

  She turned to go back down. The path must have been an animal track, then. But why would an animal come all the way up here? There was no grass among the rocks.

  Suddenly she stopped. The dog had come up here — there was a dog print in the loose dirt at one edge of the track. And this was a path. Maybe … maybe her father had hidden things among these rocks or buried them …

  Buried a bucket? It didn’t make sense. If he was going to bury something it would be easier in the soft soil down below. But nonetheless she turned back and began to search, running her eyes along the rock, every inch of it, then back again.

  Nothing. Except … she stared up the cliff-face at a ledge like a step. She looked up. There was another ledge above it, just above eye-level.

  The higher ledge looked too small to hide a bucket, much less a dog. But she still put her foot on the step, then pulled herself up onto the second ledge.

  A breath of cool air washed over her. It was as though the cliff itself had exhaled.

  There was a gap here: the rock was grinning, the lips smooth from years of wind and rain. It was just big enough for a man to crawl into. Or a dog. And quite big enough for a girl.

  She hesitated. If the dog was in there it might bite her as she crept inside. Maybe it had puppies. A mother dog with puppies would bite no matter how carefully Matilda approached her.

  But she lay on her stomach, and pushed herself inside. ‘Here, girl, boy, whatever you are.’ She tried to make her voice as soothing as she could. ‘No need to bite me, dog.’

  The rock was cold under her stomach. Snakes. She hadn’t thought of snakes. Was one about to strike her, its fangs raised? ‘Go away,’ she said more loudly. ‘I’m a ferocious human. Scat!’

  She was almost inside now. She reached forward. Her fingers struck stone.

  A blank wall. All this way and nothing —

  She twisted her head. No, there was light coming from over there. She twisted again, and suddenly her hand met open space. She hauled herself in another foot, and there it was: an opening like a big round window, not even jagged. She sat up, thrust her legs through, then pushed herself to her feet.

  The cave was as big as the parlour at Drinkwater. Light speared in from holes in the cliff. The ground at her feet was littered with dried grass and twigs and tiny bones, bleached white. From birds’ nests above, she thought, remembering a sea eagle’s nest she and Mum had seen on the cliffs, in the last year of peace before Aunt Ann died.

  Still no dog. But there was the bucket … no, two buckets: a heavy wooden one, with polished sides and handle, and a battered tin one. Five lengths of metal piping — she supposed thieves might take them too; an old fruit box full of metal bits and pieces; and a hammer on top, shiny with what she supposed was dripping, to keep the rust away. A spade, an axe, a wood splitter, a garden fork, a shovel, a rake and an unfamiliar, long-handled tool with two prongs. They too were fat-covered, the shininess slightly dulled by dust. A wooden chest, with leather straps. She undid it carefully, watching out for spiders, then pulled open the lid.

  Her heart thumped with disappointment. What had she expected? Gold coins? Rubies and diamonds?

  It was a china dinner service: thin and cream, with a pattern of rosebuds around the rim. Dinner plates, bread and butter plates, soup bowls, dessert bowls, tea cups and saucers. Twelve of each, she thought, running her finger lightly up the sides of the stacked plates.

  When had her father bought them? Just before her mother arrived here, a gift of daintiness for his city wife?

  I’d even set the table nice for her, he had said. Or had he bought them afterward, when he still dreamed that if he filled the house with pretty things she might come back?

  She would never know. In a way it didn’t even matter. She just wished he could have known that his gift had at last been found, and would be loved.

  She closed the lid. She’d have to take the china down piece by piece, in case she dropped it. It could stay here for a while, anyway. There was no one to serve tea to …

  No, she thought. She’d take the whole set down to the house today. She’d eat from it, as her father had intended. She’d prop the plates on the dresser, where she could see them all.

  Something growled behind her. The dog. She turned, slowly, so as not to spook it.

  The animal lay on its stomach behind her. Now it was still she could see it was thinner than she had thought. No, not thin, just sort of stringy, like a pencil with the wood shaved off. Its eyes looked almost golden in the sharp lines of sunlight from the cliff holes above.

  A golden man, she thought, and golden hills. Now here was a golden dog.

  The dog gave a short yip. It stood, ran a few paces down the slope into the dimness, then stopped and stared at her.

  It wanted her to follow it.

  Did it want to take her to its puppies? But mother dogs didn’t like humans near their young. Matilda trod carefully down the slope. The rock was shiny, carved into a hundred tiny folds of stone. And then a cave opened out.

  It was so vast it took a moment to accept that it could be here at all. A cold dead drip ran down her face. She looked up and saw white points of rock spearing down toward her. But these were frozen to the ceiling, too far above to even see the roof.

  She had never known silence like this. It was so still …

  Or was it? Her eyes were becoming used to the dimness now. Something black slid in front of her in the darkness. It took a moment to realise it was water: a black river, here under the earth.

  She shivered. She might have fallen into it by accident. How deep was it?

  Did the spring come from here? Maybe, she thought, but there was a hundred, a thousand times more water than met the sunlight down below. There’s more water there, if you know where to look.

  She had forgotten the dog. It yipped again, a few feet away. And then words, so soft she hardly heard. Something she didn’t understand, then, ‘Help me.’

  Chapter 20

  The woman lay in a crumple of limbs near the wall. Even in the dim light it was obvious she was a native: the dark skin, so dark it was impossible to see her features clearly, the grey hair with a few remaining streaks of black.

  For a moment Matilda wondered if she was a wild native, shot by Mr Drinkwater and his boys. But surely no wild native would wear a dress, even if her feet were bare.

  What could have brought her up here? Was she hiding from the shooters?

  Matilda kneeled beside her. ‘What’s wrong? Can you move?’ The woman must have been trying to pull herself to daylight — Matilda could see drag marks along the rock — but now she clung to herself with cold. There was a smell, too, foul and stale: the woman’s bowels had emptied onto her dress.

  The sinker lay at the woman’s feet — tough feet, with calluses thicker than boot leather. The dog is hers, she thought. It’s brought her food. She felt his cold nose pressing on her arm. It whined, then gave another yap.

  ‘Can you move if I help carry you?’

  The woman nodded. Matilda felt relief that she understood English; fear that despite her offer she couldn’t lift an adult; revulsion too at the stench. But in a funny way the smell made it almost familiar. It was the same smell as Mum’s chamber pots, which she had after all cleaned so many times.

  She put an arm under
the woman’s shoulders. And now she saw what was wrong. One side of the woman sagged, unusable, her left arm, her leg, even her face looked lopsided.

  No, the old woman hadn’t been shot. She’d had a — what was it called? An apoplexy, a stroke, like one of Aunt Ann’s friends from the Women’s Temperance and Suffrage League. Some people died of a stroke, but others got better — well, sort of better, for Aunt Ann’s friend still needed a stick to walk and had only half a smile.

  The old woman was so light, as though her bones were hollow. She was no taller than Matilda. We can make it, she thought, as they moved slowly toward the light, the woman still shivering, but using one foot to help move her along.

  The dog pushed at Matilda’s knees, as though wanting to help. She was afraid she would trip over it. The light grew nearer and nearer still. And then, after an awkward crawl through the grin in the rock, they were there on the small ledge outside, the afternoon light flooding across them with all its warmth.

  It took less time than she had thought to get the old woman back to the house — she seemed to move better all the time, as though the heat revived her.

  The steps up to the verandah were a struggle, but once inside the woman helped support herself, grasping the table and chair tops as they passed, till finally they reached Dad’s bedroom. Matilda left her on the floor while she pulled the sheepskin mattress back over the bed, then hesitated. It would be easier to wash the woman on the floor.

  To her relief the woman made no objection when she brought the pot of water from the spring and washed her all over with a wet rag, just as Old Mother Basket had shown her how to wash Mum.

  It was strange washing black skin instead of white, but once again the familiar chore was almost a comfort. The woman accepted it, almost as though it was her due, unlike Mum’s embarrassed protests.

  At last she fitted one of Mum’s nightdresses over her, with the pin-tucks Mum had placed so carefully in the cotton, and lifted the woman onto the bed, with a rolled-up blanket for a pillow, and another over her. Her shivering had almost passed now, but her skin still felt cold, especially after the chill of the spring water. Tea, thought Matilda. And a fire to make the tea. The matches were in the swag, the tinder still where she had left it, two nights ago. Thank goodness for the heap of firewood.

  She had forgotten the dog. It lay on the verandah as she went out for more wood, its tongue lolling, as though it knew it was not allowed indoors, but had chosen the best place to view the valley. Nothing could come up the track without it seeing. Once more she felt comforted. A dog and someone to look after …

  As soon as the pot boiled she went to look at the woman again. But she was asleep, a deep snoring sleep. Matilda touched the woman’s hand lightly. It felt warmer, and the shivering had stopped. The woman didn’t stir as she pulled the blanket up to her neck and tucked it in.

  Sleep was good, wasn’t it? But the woman would need food when she woke up. Soup maybe. There was nothing left to make soup with though, and another day — or was it two? — before Mr Doo would come again.

  Matilda hesitated, unwilling to leave the woman alone. But she needed the buckets — she couldn’t keep using the one pot for cooking, washing and carrying water — and the axe would be good for chopping kindling too.

  In the end she climbed to the cave again, taking two trips to bring back the tools and bucket, and then several more for the china. Maybe it was silly to bring it. But if there was only tea and damper to eat then at least she could serve the tea in china cups, slice the damper thinly and put it on a pretty plate.

  The dog accompanied her. He will need feeding too, she thought with a touch of desperation. Three of them to feed now. Dogs needed meat. How was she going to find meat here?

  She washed the cups at the spring and put a damper by the coals to bake, with the pot of hot water ready to bring to the boil for tea. Still the woman slept. The shadows were growing outside. She’d need to light the lamps soon …

  The dog gave another high-pitched yip, more a howl than a bark, and then another. She ran out to the verandah.

  A wagon was coming through the gap in the cliffs. For a moment she couldn’t see who the driver was, and then he lifted his head.

  It was Mr Drinkwater. And soon she could make out in the back of the wagon her sheep, lying on its side with its legs tied together, gazing up indignantly.

  The dog glanced at her, as though asking if she needed him to keep yipping or maybe bite the horses’ heels. She put her hand on his head to calm him — the first time she had touched him — and felt him settle down.

  She stayed where she was as Mr Drinkwater took down the back of the cart, undid the poddy’s legs, and then slid a length of wood up so he could push the sheep down. It landed in a heap of ungainly wool, muttered a baa under its breath, then immediately began to munch at the grass.

  ‘Could you put the sheep in the pen? Please,’ she added, feeling Aunt Ann, stern at her shoulder.

  ‘It won’t roam far. Not a poddy. It’ll stay near water too.’

  ‘Baa,’ said the sheep. It saw Matilda and began to trot up the steps toward her.

  The dog growled.

  ‘Baa,’ said the sheep reproachfully. It headed back down to the grass.

  I will not cry, thought Matilda. ‘Where is my father?’

  ‘One of the men is taking him to the funeral parlour in town.’ He held up a hand. ‘It’s the best thing to do, child.’

  He was right, though she didn’t want to admit it. ‘My name’s Matilda O’Halloran,’ she said instead.

  ‘Very well, Miss O’Halloran. May I come in?’

  ‘Why?’ Aunt Ann would have been cross at her rudeness. But she’d have been pleased that Matilda stood her ground.

  He nodded toward the cart. ‘I’ve brought you some things.’

  Part of her wanted to refuse anything from him; part of her wanted to yell that there was no way he could ever give back what he had taken. Instead she just said awkwardly, ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  He nodded, and lifted a sack over one shoulder, with a wooden box under the other arm. They looked heavy, but he seemed not to notice, despite his age. He climbed up the stairs and passed her, into the house, then put both sack and box on the table.

  She followed, looking at them curiously.

  ‘Food,’ he said. ‘A parcel of clothes too, from my sister. But child —’

  ‘I told you my name.’

  His lips twitched, as though he was trying not to smile. ‘My dear Miss O’Halloran, you can’t stay here by yourself. How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’ The lie came easily again.

  ‘Really?’ he said quietly. ‘I remember your father building this place, just before he was wed. Not much more than twelve years ago, I’d say.’

  She shrugged, unwilling to admit anything to this man, no matter what he’d brought her.

  ‘Come back to Drinkwater,’ he said suddenly. ‘This is no place for a girl, especially not one from the city.’

  She had expected him to offer her a rail fare back to town. But Drinkwater … for a moment she imagined herself there, dressed in white, on the swing.

  ‘There is always space for another housemaid.’

  ‘Housemaid!’ She stared at him. ‘You killed my father, and now you expect me to scrub for you?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘You’ll be paid.’

  ‘As though money makes it any different! You old … old biscuit!’

  His lips twitched again. She wanted to throw something at him, but the only things nearby were the china cups, which were too precious, and the pot, which was too heavy. She wondered if the dog would obey if she yelled, ‘Bite him.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you think it an insult.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m only thinking of what’s best for you. I can’t let you stay here alone.’

  ‘I’m not alone.’

  ‘A dog is scarcely enough.’

  She gestured into the room beyond the
m. ‘I’m not alone,’ she said again.

  He looked startled, then stepped to the door and glanced in at the grey head on the makeshift pillow. From this angle and with the blanket up it was impossible to see the figure in the nightdress.

  ‘Who is she?’ He sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘None of your business.’ She was glad that the woman’s face and hands weren’t visible, or her illness.

  ‘Everything that happens in this district is my business.’

  ‘Not here. This is my house. My land. The man who murdered my father is not welcome here.’

  ‘It wasn’t murder.’ He met her stony stare. ‘Very well. You can stay here. For the moment. I’ll call again in a few days, in case you change your mind.’

  For when you change your mind. She could hear the words even though he hadn’t said them.

  ‘As for your father … the funeral will be on Friday, in three days’ time. I will pay all the expenses.’

  She opened her mouth to say, ‘No.’ But four shillings and sevenpence ha’penny wouldn’t pay for a funeral, not even for a coffin. She knew that all too well. But the man who had killed her father shouldn’t pay for his funeral. She didn’t want even his money to touch her father now.

  ‘No need.’

  For a second she thought she had said the words. Then she saw the man at the door.

  It was the grey-bearded man from the wagon, Mr Gotobed, who had taken her to town. Bluey and Curry and Rice stood behind him. Do they always travel as a threesome? she thought irrelevantly.

  Mr Drinkwater turned. ‘Gotobed,’ he said. ‘What business is this of yours?’

  ‘Union business. The union will bury its own.’

  ‘Man’s got a right to look after his comrades,’ said Bluey.

  ‘News travels fast,’ said Mr Drinkwater.

  ‘Fast enough. You’ve no call to be here, Drinkwater.’

  The relaxed, almost comical men of the railway siding and cart had vanished. These men looked like rocks, unmoving on her verandah.