A Waltz for Matilda

by Jackie French

  ‘Prove it. Come to the dance with me tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ She flushed again. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t want to say that she hadn’t danced since she was ten years old, and Aunt Ann was playing piano in the parlour. ‘I can’t go to a dance in this dress. I’d have to arrange to stay the night in town too.’

  He laughed. ‘Not good enough. I have my father’s motorcar. I can drive you home, drive you back here, then have you back by midnight.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Or later. There’s no one to check when you get home, is there?’

  She bit her lip. What did he mean by that? Some of her novels had hinted at men having — what was the phrase? — designs on young women.

  This man took too much for granted. No, she would be a fool to risk her reputation — or worse — by riding in his car by herself at night.

  He was watching her expression. ‘Come to next Friday’s dance then. I’ll pick you up, all dressed and ready, then you can stay at Mrs Lacey’s boarding house.’

  Matilda began to nod, then realised what she’d be agreeing to. A dance. And with James Drinkwater.

  The whole district would be talking about them. Not that she cared if they talked about her generally. But she’d need to know James a lot better than she did now to want their names coupled.

  It’s that bally song, she thought. If the men hadn’t been singing it she’d have been more in control.

  ‘Not next Friday.’ She smiled, to make the refusal less pointed. ‘There’s a dance every Friday night, isn’t there?’

  ‘So you’ll come to one with me some Friday soon?’

  This was a man who didn’t give up. ‘Perhaps. When we know each other better.’

  She expected him to be angry at being crossed. But he looked at her seriously now. ‘Don’t we know each other? I know that you are courageous, resourceful and beautiful. And you know that I’m …’

  He raised an eyebrow, looking disconcertingly like his father. ‘Ah, there’s the trouble.’

  That was exactly the trouble. He knew to change the subject too.

  ‘I was admiring your stock on the way in. Even better than ours, I think.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s easier to selectively breed a small flock. Bad times mean stricter culling too. I make sure I cull the ones I don’t want to keep.’

  His grin was back. ‘You’re the first person I’ve heard taking sheep-breeding seriously since I came back to Australia. And the only girl anywhere.’

  ‘I go on too much about sheep.’

  ‘Never. Most landowners assume that they can keep doing the same old things, year after year. But they can’t. The land gets worn out if you don’t manage it properly.’

  She leaned forward eagerly. ‘That’s just what I’ve thought. We’ve been moving the water troughs at Moura to get the land grazed evenly, otherwise the sheep camp near the water and soon as there’s a sprinkle of rain it all comes up in thistles. I sometimes curse the man who brought thistles to Australia. We keep grubbing them up, but your father doesn’t do a thing about them. Every time the wind blows it brings thistle seeds from Drinkwater.’

  ‘You’ve told him that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He laughed. Said there was nothing he could do. But if the thistles are slashed before they set seed you can get rid of them.’

  ‘Trespassing thistles. I’ll have to see what I can do.’ He looked at her consideringly. ‘You know,’ he said abruptly, ‘I envy you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘You do it all yourself — yes, I know you have good help, but the breeding, the management is yours. I’m just inheriting what my father has achieved.’ He shrugged. ‘I used to resent it when I was younger.’ He met her eyes. ‘Made myself act like the king of the castle, because I knew I was only the prince.’

  ‘But you’ll make Drinkwater better still.’

  He grinned again. ‘Never fear. I’ll do that all right.’

  ‘Matilda! Mrs O’Connor said she saw you come in here.’ It was Tommy, wending his way through the tables. He stopped, staring at James.

  James rose and held out his hand. ‘You must be Thompson, who made my father’s motor.’

  Tommy shook the hand, pretending not to notice as James glanced a second too long at the purple, wizened fingers. He shoved his hand back into his pocket.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t at the shop,’ he said to Matilda. ‘Got stuck helping at the hall. Some of the blokes can’t even sign their names, much less read the questions.’

  Matilda gestured to a seat. ‘Sit down. Do you want some tea?’

  James stood up. ‘Take mine. I need to pick up my father.’ He gave his grin again. ‘And show him that I won’t scratch his precious motor on the way home so he’ll let me drive it again. It’s a good machine,’ he added to Tommy. ‘I drove one out country from Cape Town, but yours rides smoother. More power too.’

  ‘It’s the petrol engine,’ said Matilda wisely. ‘Instead of diesel or kerosene.’

  His grin grew wider. ‘Is that it? You know everything, Miss O’Halloran. Good day, then. I’ll look forward to our dance.’ He bowed. ‘It was good to meet you, Mr Thompson.’

  Matilda watched him stride across the dining room and out into the sunlight, then became aware that Tommy was staring at her now.

  ‘What’s all that “petrol engine” stuff? You don’t know a petrol engine from a galah.’

  ‘I do so. I’ve listened to you talk about them long enough. Like a ham sandwich?’

  ‘No, I don’t want a bally ham sandwich!’

  ‘Tommy!’

  He scowled at her. ‘What does he mean, “I’ll look forward to our dance”?’

  ‘He asked me to one of the dances at the Town Hall, that’s all.’

  ‘And you accepted! What the flaming hell were you thinking?’

  ‘You watch your language with me, Tommy Thompson. Why shouldn’t I go to a dance with him?’

  Suddenly the day had been too much for her. The breathlessness of stays, the friends who were so much part of this land and couldn’t vote today, the song and all its memories. How dare they take her life and make a song of it? How dare they take her father’s memory and make it theirs? How dare Tommy tell her what to do?

  She clenched her fists. ‘Why shouldn’t I go with anyone I like? It’s not like you’ve ever asked me to a dance.’

  ‘I don’t dance! And anyway, you’re too young.’

  ‘Even children go to the dances here!’

  ‘Not with a man taking them, they don’t. You’re too young for all that.’

  ‘I am not! I’m seventeen.’

  ‘Seventeen is still too young. You can’t make proper choices about, well, men and stuff at seventeen.’

  ‘Says the old man of twenty.’ She flushed. ‘It’s a dance, that’s all. And I’ve been running my own farm for nearly five years — don’t you dare say I’m too young to make my own decisions.’

  ‘Not on your own you haven’t. You’ve had Mr Sampson and me.’

  There was enough truth in it to make her angrier. ‘I’d have managed. And I’ll dance with whoever I like.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool. He only wants one thing, and you’re too green to see it.’

  She glared at him. What had got into him? ‘You know nothing about it. He suggested I spend the night at Mrs Lacey’s. I can’t see Mrs Lacey allowing any funny business.’

  She could see the truth of that hit him, and see that it was making him even more angry too.

  ‘Don’t go.’ He was furious, but there was something else there too, something that she didn’t understand.

  Impossible to tell him that she hadn’t even agreed to go yet. ‘Why? Give me one good reason.’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to!’

  ‘That isn’t good enough.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He stood up.

  Suddenly Matilda was aware of the s
ilence in the dining room, the stares through the door from the bar.

  Tommy looked down at her with an expression she had never seen before. ‘Sounds like I’ve been wasting the last four years. Sticking in this dump just to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘I don’t need keeping an eye on!’

  ‘You need it,’ he said bitterly. ‘You just don’t want it.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to come to Gibber’s Creek,’ she said uncertainly. ‘You wanted to come —’

  ‘Have you any idea what’s happening outside the back of beyond? There’s people making motion pictures out there. Radios sending messages across the world. Blokes flying aeroplanes, while I’m stuck here repairing blinkin’ stump jump ploughs and making float valves.’

  She stared up at him. ‘I didn’t know … I didn’t think —’

  ‘No, you didn’t, did you? An’ you’re still going to that dance with that toffy-nosed git?’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to take me, are you?’

  He glowered at her, then shoved himself away from the table. ‘I hope you enjoy it then.’ He strode out the door.

  Chapter 39

  The leaves hung limp and heavy between the ridges. Matilda leaned on her hoe and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

  Ladies didn’t perspire — they ‘glowed’ — but just now she wasn’t feeling like a lady, not in trousers and boots and a man’s shirt, with Dad’s old hat on her head and dirt under her fingernails. But it was important to keep the weeds down in the corn. It had been nearly a year since there had been any rain, even the smallest shower. The grass had shrunk from the hot soil; now the earth lay so hard-baked it was cracked.

  But here at least with the shelter of the cliffs she could grow corn to help keep the sheep alive, with the water from beneath the earth trickling through Tommy’s pipes.

  Tommy! Every time the wind blew she thought it would be Tommy, riding out on his bicycle to make up. There hadn’t been a week without him appearing before.

  Impossible that he wouldn’t come. Impossible for him not to apologise! Why shouldn’t she go to a dance — just one dance — with whoever she wanted? It wasn’t as though he had ever asked her.

  She had begun to realise why he might have been so upset about her proposed outing. Why hadn’t she realised that he might be jealous? Because he had only acted toward her like a brother? She had thought he only felt protective of her. Had he been waiting till she was older, just taking it for granted they’d marry one day?

  Her anger flared again. She didn’t belong to anyone. If Tommy wanted her like … like that, he’d have to court her. Tommy had never even said that she looked pretty! Going on about her skinny arms!

  She bashed at the weeds with her hoe till another thought struck her.

  Was he too ashamed of his scars ever to touch her? Was he afraid that she — that any woman — might be repulsed?

  But that was silly. The scars had mostly faded, and anyway, when you looked at Tommy you saw his intelligence, his kindness, not his scars.

  It had never occurred to her either that he stayed in Gibber’s Creek only for her. Had he really given up so much to stay in her life? She had assumed that because it suited him so well to come here after his accident, he was happy to remain here forever. He’d never mentioned anything about wanting to go back to the city.

  Ridiculous to think she needed him to watch over her. She was seventeen! Yelling at her just because she was going to one dance with another man …

  She stared down the track again, willing him to appear between the cliffs. At times like this she longed for another human voice. It had been weeks since she had seen Auntie Love.

  She looked at her hands, their calluses and ingrained dirt. She needed some young man to tell her she was beautiful.

  And Tommy …

  Tommy was her friend. It was impossible to imagine a life without him. She’d have followed to make up after the quarrel if she hadn’t been so upset by that song. And when he came to apologise, she’d say …

  What?

  She took a breath, and picked up her hoe. She’d work out what she would say when he turned up.

  Chapter 40

  JUNE 1899

  He arrived just as she was carrying the milk bucket up to the house. I need a dog to warn me, she thought, as she saw his horse tied to her verandah post, saw him sitting comfortably on Auntie Love’s chair.

  ‘James!’

  He stood up, and lifted his hat. ‘I hope you don’t mind my making myself at home.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She flushed, aware that her trousers were stained, her boots cracked and the ribbons on one of her plaits untied. She probably had dirt on her face again too.

  ‘I knocked, but no one answered. Dad said you have a native housekeeper.’

  She lugged the bucket up the steps. He took it from her automatically. ‘Auntie Love isn’t a housekeeper. She’s a — a friend.’ She met his eyes in challenge. ‘I don’t suppose you’d ever have a native as a friend.’

  ‘Of course I do. Old Napoleon used to be like an uncle to me.’

  ‘Napoleon?’

  ‘I think Dad gave him his name. Napoleon still draws his rations, too, even if he hasn’t done a day’s work for ten years.’ James smiled in memory. ‘He showed me and Bertram how to make a bark canoe down on the river. Bertram kept overbalancing in it. Looked like a drowned rat.’

  ‘But you still went shooting natives?’

  He had known she was going to ask this too. ‘I protect what is mine.’

  She could see when he realised it was the wrong answer. And what did Napoleon think? she thought. Had James ever even wondered? James held up the metal milk pail. ‘Should I put this inside?’

  ‘Please. On the edge of the stove. I’ll scoop off the cream tonight.’

  She watched him look around the house. It had changed since he had seen it last, a few days after the fire. There was glass in the windows now, and curtains, and a rug by the horsehair sofa. She had cushions, and two of her sketches roughly framed on the walls, as well as a painting Miss Thrush had given her two Christmases ago, the china in her dresser, and a vase of dried everlastings on the table. It was comfortable, but a far cry from Drinkwater.

  To her surprise, though, he ran his fingers over one of the chairs. ‘Someone who knew wood made this.’

  ‘My father.’

  He nodded. ‘He was the best manager Dad ever had.’

  ‘My father managed Drinkwater?’

  ‘Gave it up to work this place when I was, oh, ten maybe. You didn’t know?’

  She shook her head. ‘I thought he was a shearer.’ Did your father tell you the whole truth? Mr Drinkwater had asked. But their time together had been too short. She hadn’t realised that the Drinkwater boys might have known him.

  He looked at her with sudden sympathy. ‘Your father went back to shearing when the drought grew bad.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Clever. Proud.’ He grinned. ‘Wouldn’t call me or Bertram “Master” like the other men. Bertram threw a tantrum but your dad told him to grow up. Only stockman I knew who was always reading. Argued with Dad all the time too. Not just about the union. Wanted him to improve the stock, things like that. Good thing too. Dad needs a kick up the … er, a good argument. He gets stuck in his ways. Look, I wondered if you’d like to come for a ride.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay and watch the cream rise. Of course with me.’

  It had been weeks since she had simply taken a day off, her and the horse and the land. Suddenly, somehow, James was no longer threatening.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  She changed into the divided skirt his aunt had given her, brushed her hair and put it up properly, secured her best straw hat over the top. She liked it that he went out onto the verandah when she changed, so as not even to hear the intimate rustlings.

  He stood up as she came out. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Thank
you.’ I could get used to compliments, she thought. Once they were mounted she let his horse lead the way, out of the valley and past the cliffs, then out onto the back of Drinkwater land, far from the river. Even though it was close she had never been here.

  The trees hadn’t been ringbarked; nor had the sheep grazed here for years — it was too far from water. She looked up into the branches, half expecting to see koalas. But of course this land too would have been shot over, even if it looked untouched.

  Is this where Auntie Love comes? she wondered suddenly. Was this why she had never seen her, not even her bare footprints, when she was rounding up the sheep?

  What would James do if they came upon the old woman now?

  Stupid to be worried, she told herself, her eyes fixed nonetheless on the rifle by his saddle. All stockmen carried rifles, even Mr Sampson. But she found herself calling: ‘James?’

  He reined in, and cantered back to her. ‘Like a break? There’s fruitcake in the saddlebag. Mrs Murphy makes a good one. A flask of tea too.’

  ‘Cake! You were so sure I’d come with you?’

  ‘No such thing. The cake was consolation if you didn’t.’

  They sat under the thin shade of one of the white-trunked trees. He was right. The cake was good. He held out another piece to her. She took it, then flushed when she saw him look at her hands.

  ‘Grubby nails,’ she said. ‘And calluses.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘I love your hands. Most women I meet have hands that have never done anything. Yours have made a farm.’

  Matilda’s blush grew hotter. She hunted for another subject. ‘Look — there’s a beehive over there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In that tree. You can see them going in and out.’

  ‘You are extraordinary. Did you know that?’

  She bit into the cake, grateful he didn’t expect a reply. Mrs Murphy must have added dates to make it so dark, she thought. There were lumps of crystallised pineapple, too, and big crystallised cherries.

  ‘Gosh, it’s good to be home.’ James stretched, and put his hands behind his head. He looks beautiful too, thought Matilda. Only women were supposed to be beautiful, but that was exactly what James was.