A Waltz for Matilda

by Jackie French

  Matilda walked over to the door as Mr Drinkwater tied his horse’s reins to the rail of the verandah. Behind her Auntie Love got to her feet and shuffled into the bedroom as Mr Drinkwater climbed the steps.

  ‘May I come in?’

  She considered saying no but she doubted he would go away without saying what he wanted. All she’d achieve would be a conversation in the doorway. She stood back politely (Aunt Ann was whispering to her again). ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  He seemed startled. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  She took one of the pretty cups from the dresser, poured out tea and added hot water from the pot, then — reluctantly — passed him the plate of pikelets. Still standing up, he took the cup and a pikelet, and bit. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He looked around. ‘You seem to be managing.’

  She smiled, suddenly proud of it all. ‘Yes.’

  He looked around again, then saw Auntie Love’s abandoned cup. He met her eyes sharply. ‘People are saying that you have a native woman living with you.’

  Matilda looked at him warily, suddenly afraid that it might be against the law. She wasn’t going to let anyone take Auntie Love to a reservation. She said cautiously, ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Who is she?’ The voice was abrupt.

  If he hadn’t sounded so demanding she might have told him. ‘It’s not your business.’

  ‘Everything that happens here is my business.’ He sounded as though it was so obvious she almost laughed.

  ‘This is my land.’ A thrill still went through her at the words. She said them again, just for the pleasure of it. ‘This is my land. I can ask anyone I want to stay here.’

  ‘You are a child who has no idea of what she is getting into.’

  She met his eyes defiantly. He gave a brief nod. ‘Very well then. Not a complete child. Mature enough, I hope, to take the advice of a neighbour who is concerned about you.’

  She was wary now. ‘What advice?’

  ‘Don’t go listening to gossip from natives.’

  ‘They haven’t told me any gossip —’ She stopped, aware of what she had revealed.

  ‘So there is a native woman here. I heard she was ill too.’ She could see the exasperation in his eyes, and something she didn’t understand too.

  ‘If she’s ill she needs help. A doctor.’

  Was it a trick? Would a white doctor help a native woman? She didn’t have enough money to pay a doctor to come all the way out here. Auntie Love was getting better, wasn’t she?

  For a moment she wanted to do what this man asked: hand the whole problem over to him. But what if the only way to get Auntie Love to a doctor was to take her to a reservation?

  No, she thought. She shut her mouth tight, in case any more confessions escaped, and sat down on one of the chairs. It was rude to sit down in front of a grown-up; rude to cross her arms like this too. But somehow she had the feeling that Aunt Ann was patting her shoulder and saying, ‘Good girl.’

  He looked at her without expression, then stared around the room again. If you start hunting through my house, thought Matilda, I’m going to kick you.

  Instead he sat on the chair next to her. At last he said, ‘I’ll give you fifty pounds for this place.’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘A hundred.’

  She had no idea how much the land was worth, and the house. Was he trying to cheat her?

  He looked at her expression. ‘Two hundred then.’

  So he had been trying to cheat her when he offered fifty. ‘No. No matter how much you offer. This land is mine.’

  Hey You ran to the door again, but this time he didn’t bark. Mr Drinkwater got to his feet. ‘What is Sampson doing riding up this way?’ He stepped out on the verandah, waiting, as the other man tethered his horse, then stood, embarrassed.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Sampson. Got business here?’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  ‘May I ask exactly what that might be?’

  Matilda brushed past him. ‘Mr Sampson was a friend of my father’s. He’s come to visit me.’

  ‘He wasn’t that close a friend,’ said Mr Drinkwater slowly. ‘Your father had better friends than him. His union mates, for one.’

  Matilda saw Mr Sampson stiffen. Mr Drinkwater turned to Matilda. ‘Answer me, girl! Who is the woman staying with you? I demand to see her. Now!’

  Why did it matter? she thought. But the very fact that he wanted to know so much made her want to hide the truth. ‘I want you to leave —’ she began, then stopped, as Auntie Love shuffled out behind them.

  Chapter 25

  Her dress was gone. Matilda dropped her gaze, then lifted it again, unable to look away. It was the first time she had ever seen a naked woman — a naked anyone. She had never even seen herself in the mirror without clothes.

  Did all old women look like this when they were naked or only native ones?

  Though Auntie Love wasn’t quite naked. A string of red-brown beads hung round her waist. Even more extraordinarily, she wore a ring on her left hand — a gold one, set with a small red stone. Matilda had never seen it before. Auntie must have carried it under her clothes.

  She expected the men to say something, anything, about a naked woman on her verandah. But both were silent. Mr Drinkwater’s hands clenched into fists, so tight the knuckles were white. He and Auntie Love stared at each other, neither saying a word.

  Mr Drinkwater spoke first. ‘Why are you here?’

  Auntie shrugged. The shrug could have meant anything, thought Matilda, from ‘I don’t know’ to ‘I do not want to say’.

  Mr Drinkwater tore his gaze away. ‘Take her away from here,’ he said to Mr Sampson.

  ‘How, Boss?’

  ‘I don’t care. Just get her off this land —’

  ‘This is my land,’ said Matilda clearly.

  Mr Drinkwater turned on her. ‘You have no idea who this woman is.’

  ‘She is my friend.’

  ‘Friend! She’s ten times your age.’

  ‘One hundred and twenty?’

  He snorted. She had never heard a man snort before. ‘Six times then. She doesn’t belong here.’

  Matilda glanced back at Auntie Love. She had no idea what was happening, why the woman had so suddenly decided to look like a wild native. Why she stood there without speaking, why Mr Drinkwater had looked like his world had shattered as he stared at her.

  ‘I think you need to go,’ she said to Mr Drinkwater.

  Mr Drinkwater pointed at Mr Sampson. ‘Bring her to Drinkwater. Now.’

  ‘No, Boss,’ said Mr Sampson.

  Mr Drinkwater’s face flushed red under his white eyebrows. ‘You will do what I tell you.’

  ‘No, Boss.’

  Mr Drinkwater moved toward Auntie Love. Matilda stepped between them, pushing Auntie Love back toward the door. ‘If you touch her,’ she said, ‘I’ll …’

  She darted into the house and grabbed the frying pan, and came back out, holding it over her head. The last pikelet fell on the floor. She was dimly aware of Hey You gulping it down, then sitting at her feet, looking up for more, the love of pikelets more important than the surrounding tension.

  Mr Drinkwater unclenched his fists. He stared down at Matilda with her frying pan, then at the woman behind her, unmoving in the doorway. Then he turned again to Mr Sampson. ‘You’re fired. I want you off Drinkwater tomorrow morning.’

  ‘But Boss —’

  ‘You can leave your horse too.’

  For a second a look of anguish shone in Mr Sampson’s eyes. ‘I broke that horse.’

  ‘I don’t care who broke it. It’s mine. If you’re not gone by tomorrow I’m calling the troopers.’

  Mr Drinkwater lifted his hat to Matilda. ‘You’re making a mistake having that woman here. Good day.’

  She watched him climb up onto his horse, and ride back between the cliffs.

  After a moment Auntie Love limped back through the doo
rway. Matilda followed, and put the frying pan down. Mr Sampson brought up the rear, sinking down onto a chair.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. ‘Why was he so upset?’ (And why was there a naked woman standing in her house? But she couldn’t say that.)

  Neither Auntie Love nor Mr Sampson replied. Auntie limped back into the bedroom and closed the door, Matilda hoped to get dressed again.

  She didn’t understand what had happened. She didn’t know why it had happened either. Only one thing was clear: Mr Sampson had lost his job, his home and his horse.

  He stood up, nodded to her and turned to go.

  ‘No, please: wait.’

  He turned.

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Like he said. I got to go.’

  ‘Where? Can you get a job on one of the other properties?’

  He seemed reluctant to talk. ‘Other bosses won’t hire me now. The boys should be right, but.’

  ‘Your sons? You think he’s fired them too?’

  ‘Maybe. Best they go, now, eh? Best they go.’

  It isn’t fair for one man to have so much power, she thought. Not to take one man’s life, and then another’s house and job and horse.

  Mr Sampson looked away, speaking almost to himself. ‘My dad built my house. Cut the wood. Put a new roof on myself. Sold possum skins to buy the iron.’

  ‘Then it’s your house?’

  Mr Sampson looked back at her, his face still impassive. ‘House is on his land.’

  She spoke without thinking. ‘Move the house then!’

  A few months ago she had lived in a world where houses just — were. You rented or if you were lucky bought them, you lived or died in them. Not now. ‘You and your boys — take the wood and the iron.’

  Auntie Love appeared in the doorway, her old dress hanging on her thin frame. She looked at Matilda without speaking.

  Suddenly she laughed. It was the first time Matilda had heard her laugh like that. And then Mr Sampson was laughing too. It seemed such a natural sound, so much a part of who they were. It was as though ropes had fallen off them.

  ‘Move the house!’ chanted Auntie Love.

  ‘Move the house!’ Mr Sampson slapped his hat against his side and laughed again. ‘There’s a spot other side of Dhirrayn.’

  ‘Dhirrayn?’

  He gestured to the cliffs and the hill above. ‘Dhirrayn.’

  ‘But that’s —’ She stopped. That was Moura land. Her land.

  But where else are Mr Sampson and his wife to go? she thought. All land was owned by someone. Wasn’t it?

  Mr Sampson seemed not to have even realised he should have asked her first. ‘Boys and I can take the place apart after dark. Boss won’t know what’s hit him, eh? Get the boys to drive the sheep over now, afore it gets dark.’

  ‘Sheep?’

  ‘Poddies. Elsie’s been feedin’ them.’

  ‘They’d be your sheep but on my land,’ she said slowly.

  The laughter stopped. He stared at her. Auntie Love stared too. She was aware that there was so much unsaid, so much she didn’t understand.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she added quickly.

  But the words had been spoken. The laughter had vanished. Mr Sampson said at last, ‘You get half of what the poddies bring. Half for the wool, half of the meat. That’s the way the boss does it.’ He paused and added, ‘I’d be workin’ for you, eh?’

  It wasn’t quite a question or a statement. She wished she knew what her father would have said, even Aunt Ann. ‘I’d have to give you rations? I … I haven’t got enough money.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t need rations. Plenty roos, other tucker.’

  It wasn’t right. But she didn’t know what right was. She thought of the crowded hall of unionists. Did any of them know, either? Or were they also trying to work out something that might be truly fair?

  ‘How about everything we make we share?’ she said slowly. ‘Not just from your poddies. Always, whatever we make from sheep on Moura. Half for you. Half for me.’

  It still didn’t seem fair. They were his sheep and his skill. But it was her land. That had to count for something.

  To her surprise he smiled again, as if she had got something right. He nodded, then headed out the door and down the steps, as though there was nothing more to say.

  Chapter 26

  Dear Miss O’Halloran,

  I recently heard from my nephews that you are still at your father’s house, and that one of Drinkwater’s former stockmen is working for you. I gather that my half-brother is not impressed. My nephews too appear to feel that you have transgressed by being female, young and somehow escaping their father’s control. Their tales certainly enlivened the last weekend they spent with me. I wish you every success with your endeavour.

  You mentioned an ‘Aunt Ann’ and my brother says he believes your mother’s maiden name was ‘Hills’. It only occurred to me when I returned here that it is possible that you may be related to a late acquaintance of mine from the Women’s Temperance and Suffrage League, Miss Ann Hills. She and I first met when we worked together gathering signatures for the petition to give women the vote their husbands have enjoyed for decades.

  She several times mentioned her niece, Matilda O’Halloran, who lived with her, and although it is not an uncommon nameI suspect the determination such as you and Miss Hills have both displayed is rare.

  If you are Miss Hills’s niece, please accept my apologies for not realising the connection earlier. Please, now, accept my deepest condolences on her death, as well as once again for your father’s and, I suspect, your mother’s too. It is indeed a lot to bear for someone so young. Miss Hills’s death was a loss to many, and not least to the cause for which we women of all classes and backgrounds are working.

  I hope you will excuse the presumption of the accompanying parcel. It contains some of my late husband’s garments that your workman may find useful, and others perhaps for yourself as well. Please also accept my assurances, too, that if you ever decide that the bush life is not for you — as it certainly is not for me — that I and your aunt’s friends will make sure you have both comfort and security.

  Yours, most sincerely,

  Mrs George Ellsmore

  Matilda put the letter down, and stared out the window. The sheep were grazing below the spring, and an eagle soared high above her valley.

  So the remote, fashionable woman and her daughter at the railway siding had been part of the lost world of Aunt Ann and their cottage. It seemed so impossible, but it made sense too. The Women’s Temperance and Suffrage League brought together so many women — capable, determined women like Mrs Ellsmore and Aunt Ann. She smiled, imagining Mr Drinkwater trying to boss his half-sister.

  Would things have been different if she had gone to Mrs Ellsmore that first day, instead of to Mr Gotobed and his friends? If she had said, ‘Excuse me, I am Matilda O’Halloran, can you help me please?’ Would Mrs Ellsmore have convinced Mr Drinkwater not to try to trap her father with the poddy sheep?

  There was no way to know. But it was strangely good to know that somehow Aunt Ann was still helping to take care of her, even now. If she had known her aunt’s friends might help her she would never have left the city. But leave Moura now? She shook her head.

  Why hadn’t Mum let Aunt Ann’s friends know how bad things were? Pride, she supposed, not wanting anyone to know the bailiffs had taken their furniture, even Aunt Ann’s gold locket.

  Mr Gotobed had brought the letter and the big parcel out that morning, on his way to do some work at Drinkwater. It had been sent to the pub ‘to be collected’. Mrs Ellsmore might be Temperance, like Aunt Ann and Mum, but she knew that the hotel was the one sure place to find Mr Gotobed or someone from the union who knew her. Matilda supposed that Mrs Ellsmore too doubted that Mr Drinkwater would pass on the mail to Moura.

  She worked at the knot around the brown paper. It would be easier to cut it, but string was precious. Auntie Love made st
ring from bark and what Matilda suspected was her own hair, but it wasn’t as strong as proper string, though it was good for tying her hair back.

  She opened the brown paper and stared. She wouldn’t need to use string for her plaits now. A cluster of hair ribbons, white and yellow and pale green. A new white dress — she fingered the lace on it wistfully. She had worn the other white dress only once, when Mr Gotobed and his mates had arrived to take her in to the opening of the Workers’ Institute in town, with its library and reading room.

  By the time she’d got home the dress had dust stains on the hem and perspiration stains under the arms. The stains had vanished by the time she’d boiled the dress in the cooking pot, then dried it on a clothesline of plaited string stretched between the trees, using the pegs her father must have carved years ago. Now the dress was too crumpled to wear, and she had no iron.

  She lifted the new dress, folded it carefully in the brown paper again and put it in the chest in her room, wrapped in a blanket to keep away the dust that seeped into every crevice, and then looked at the other garments. Six pairs of flannel trousers, a tweed jacket, six collarless shirts, a pair of boots.

  She hoped the boots fitted Mr Sampson. The shirts and trousers looked like they might be a bit too big, but nothing that a belt or braces couldn’t fix, or a bit of needlework.

  She lifted up a pair of flannels thoughtfully. A few hours’ sewing would make them fit her too. It was so much easier wearing trousers, and there was no one who minded to see her. She could always run and change if Hey You warned of visitors, although she suspected that neither Mr Doo nor Mr Gotobed and his mates would worry.

  Mr Drinkwater probably would. She grinned at the thought of shocking Mr Drinkwater. But he hadn’t ridden by again, not even when Mr Sampson’s house had vanished in the night, and his mob of poddies too. There had been more sheep than she’d expected, eighteen of them, not just this year’s poddies but some older ones, as well.

  Mr Sampson’s house was finished now, though she gathered it was smaller than it had been, for there was a pile of corrugated iron left over. Perhaps neither he nor Elsie needed more than a single room now their boys were working on other properties.