A Waltz for Matilda

by Jackie French

  She opened the door, then trod softly down the hall. She needed to think about this, to talk about it.

  She needed Tommy.

  The shop was dark; the shed at the back too. City boy, sleeping in, she thought, looking at the grey line of almost dawn along the horizon. Back home she’d be stoking up the fire now. Or soon, anyhow, at the first kookaburra call.

  She walked around to his kitchen door and knocked, quietly at first, then more loudly.

  No response. She went around to his bedroom window, and rapped it sharply. ‘Tommy! It’s me! Wake up!’

  She listened. No sound within. Suddenly anxious, she ran down to the shed. His bicycle was gone. She ran back, tried to peer in the window, but it was too dark to see. She hurried around to the front, then saw the notice on the door. Closed till further notice. Leave all messages at Mr Doo’s to be passed on.

  She read it again, unbelieving. He couldn’t be gone. Not Tommy. Not without saying goodbye.

  There’s nothing for me here, he’d said. But he had his workshop, he had friends. He had …

  A repair shop, she thought. That bloke in the city had a factory making Tommy’s float valves, but Tommy was still repairing ploughs.

  Back in the city he could have a proper workshop, even electricity. He could meet with others like himself, and talk about inventions instead of sheep. Meet Hargreaves with his flying machine, all the others who were creating the wonders of today.

  Tommy stayed here for me.

  He had given up so much already to look after the girl who had rescued him at the factory. She couldn’t expect him to stay here now, and give up even more for her.

  Was she going to have to choose? Choose between living in a city with Tommy, and living with James, out here? She gazed at the horizon again, the flush of red burning across the sky. No, she couldn’t live in the city now. Nor had Tommy even asked her to go with him.

  And James …

  Suddenly she heard Aunt Ann, as clear as if she was standing around the corner. She’d been talking to one of her friends, a few months before she died. ‘It’s a woman’s secret, isn’t it?’ Aunt Ann had said. ‘We can live quite comfortably without men. But no man can survive without a woman to wash his clothes.’

  It wasn’t true. She knew men who lived without a wife, who never washed their clothes, for that matter. But the heart of it — yes, Aunt Ann was right.

  So she had a third choice too. To live alone, to farm alone. No, not alone. But without a husband at her side. No children to show how termites flew before the rain, how grass orchids spray up after fire, where the daisy tubers slept below the ground, waiting for rain, or for hands to dig them and roast them and wonder at their nuttiness, a gift of food from a dry land.

  She walked slowly back toward Mrs Lacey’s.

  She was getting way ahead of herself, she knew. She’d only really talked to James three times, and who knew where Tommy had gone?

  Perhaps he had just left for a few weeks, to talk to that patent lawyer about his inventions, to see if there were more he could sell.

  He’ll come back, she thought. Tommy has to come back. There was certainly no need to make a decision now.

  But it was good to understand that she had choices that few other women might have. She had the land. And just now she knew it was the most important thing that she had ever had.

  Chapter 42

  Deer Miss Mateelda,

  We is sheerin down the Barcoo, we will see yous wen we gets back, you need sumpin you ask fer Oconnor at the hotel, hes a good union man like yur pa. Heel do yous right.

  There was a cove here, he shor 400 sheep in a day but it were a long day so I rekkon he cheeted, youd niver do 400 in winter.

  I aint niver writted a letter before but Jonno, he writ reel good, he writ this for me, and Ginger Mack, he say he drop it in ter yous. Ill be seen you cum sheerin time.

  With respeks,

  Brian Gotobed

  Bluy sezs to sez hullo.

  Mrs Lacey handed the letter to her at breakfast — it was a scrap of brown paper, roughly folded like an envelope, and addressed Give to Miss Mateelda Moura. Strange to be served breakfast: lamb’s fry and fried tomatoes, and what Aunt Ann would have called a ‘knee-high stack of toast’.

  ‘One of the men gave it to me to give to you at the dance last night. He’s just got back from the Barcoo himself.’

  So she’s read it, thought Matilda.

  Mrs Lacey looked at her with sharp blue eyes. ‘You enjoyed yourself last night with Mr James?’

  ‘Yes. Very much. He’s picking me up in half an hour,’ she added, aware that this too would be added to the town gossip. ‘We’re going out to lunch at Drinkwater. It’s his father’s birthday.’

  ‘That will be nice,’ said Mrs Lacey, wielding the teapot in triumph. Matilda could almost hear her telling Mrs Harrison at the grocer’s: ‘Lunch with his father then. She’ll have a ring on her finger by Christmas, mark my words.’

  No decisions, she thought. There is plenty of time to make decisions.

  It was strangely familiar, sitting in a motorcar, smelling the hot fuel scent, the chugging of the engine. But now James sat beside her, not Tommy. This car had a wheel instead of a steering lever, and a silver vase set in the dashboard, filled with a posy of rosebuds, only slightly wilted overnight.

  The land scurried past them; a mob of roos startled at the noise, and dusty sheep ran into yet more dust. Poor things, she thought. They have enough to cope with without us scaring them.

  She had made a pen wiper for Mr Drinkwater’s birthday, in the shape of a sheep. She hoped he didn’t think it childish, understood the joke. She patted her hair, suddenly nervous — stupid, she had been to Drinkwater dozens of times now, had eaten meals there, formal meals when Mrs Ellsmore was visiting, or casual lunches or morning tea with Mr Drinkwater and Mrs Murphy in the kitchen, when she’d happened to be there at mealtime.

  Not like this. She plucked at her gloves, made sure she hadn’t smudged them.

  James noticed. ‘You look beautiful. You know, when I saw you in the hotel dining room — you looked golden somehow. Not just the sunlight on your hair. You almost seemed to glow. Made every other woman fade away.’

  A golden man. She heard her mother’s words. Her mother had been seduced by a glimpse, a dream. But James knows who I am, she thought. She was beginning to think she knew him too.

  That was the trouble.

  Past the turn-off to Moura, the hills behind them now, down the slope then up the slight rise, and into the Drinkwater driveway. Distances are so small in a motorcar, she thought. Somehow the land seemed less real. All you smelled was leather and petrol. You couldn’t feel the air on your skin.

  The air shimmered above the homestead. The house looked almost unreal too, in its island of green rhododendrons, the tall Norfolk pines standing firm in the dust. The oak tree was bare, but the roof had been freshly painted for James’s return, a deep strong red, and the verandah washed back to white. Even the driveway was smooth, the ruts filled in before they got too large.

  James swung the car into the curve by the house, then turned off the engine. It muttered for a few seconds and died. She waited while he got out to open the door for her — she had to remind herself to wait, remembering Aunt Ann’s lessons all those years before, though those were for a lady getting out of a carriage, of course, not a car — then trod up the stairs in front of him.

  She smiled at herself, her fingernails scrubbed till they were clean, lace gloves, a new dress, made herself from the very latest pattern in the Ladies’ Own magazine, white organza flaring out in a single big ruffle below the knee.

  It felt right to be coming here like this; she was not a grubby child, ordered to stand and wait these days, but a young lady, an honoured guest in a house she knew.

  ‘Scratch cocky! Scratch cocky!’ The bird flapped its wings inside its cage.

  Matilda peered down at it. ‘Poor thing. It should be free.’


  ‘The other birds would peck it to death. It wouldn’t know how to be free now.’ James put his finger through the bars of the cage and scratched the bird’s head, then offered Matilda his arm. She took it, and the warmth of his body swept away her doubts. She only knew that she was here, with him.

  What would it be like to kiss him?

  They walked into the hall together. That felt right as well. He placed his hat on the stand as the smell of roast lamb floated down toward them. Potatoes, she thought, pumpkin … I hope Mrs Murphy has made her apple pie.

  ‘James?’ The drawing room door opened. Mr Drinkwater appeared, a pipe in his hand. He stared. ‘Matilda!’

  Why did he look so puzzled? No, astonished. What was wrong? She turned to James. He was smiling. ‘A surprise for you, Father. Happy birthday!’

  Mr Drinkwater lowered his pipe. ‘Yes. A surprise.’ He looked from Matilda to James. ‘What is this about?’

  She felt as though she was three years old, and someone had burst her blue balloon. ‘I … I’ve come for lunch. I thought you expected me. Happy birthday,’ she added lamely.

  ‘Thank you. Of course, you are always welcome.’

  Why is his voice so wary then? she thought.

  He turned to James. ‘I thought you went to the dance in town.’

  ‘I did.’ James seemed puzzled too. ‘I took Miss O’Halloran there.’

  The old man flushed with anger. ‘And how did Gibber’s Creek like that, eh?’

  ‘They were fascinated,’ said James evenly.

  ‘I imagine they gossip about everything a Drinkwater does — or Miss O’Halloran. Did anyone say anything?’

  James frowned. ‘Not to our faces. Father, it’s only small-town gossip. You might as well ask the sun not to rise. What on earth is the matter?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ The voice was clipped.

  ‘Because I am not a child, to tell my father everything I do. Because I assumed any guest of mine would be welcome in my home. Because I wanted to surprise you on your birthday.’

  ‘You’ve done that all right.’ His voice was grim now.

  ‘Father … I don’t understand. You are upsetting Miss O’Halloran.’

  ‘Miss O’Halloran has to realise that —’ He stopped, as though searching for the words. ‘Much as I value her as a neighbour, I will not have her attending dances with my son.’

  ‘What!’ James stared. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘This is my house! I will say what I like!’

  Matilda looked from one to the other in distress, the faces so alike in their anger.

  What was happening here?

  ‘I … I had better go. James, would you mind driving me home?’ She couldn’t walk to Moura in this dress. Well, she could, but it would take hours and ruin the dress. It was two days’ work, and more than she should have spent of her savings …

  ‘I will drive you back when we’ve had lunch.’

  ‘Really. There’s no need. Please. I’d prefer to go now.’

  ‘Not until we get this clear. Father, this is the girl I intend to marry. Is she welcome in my home or isn’t she?’

  Matilda gazed at him, startled. ‘James.’

  He put his arm around her waist, which was protective but embarrassing too.

  ‘James, I haven’t … we haven’t —’

  Mr Drinkwater’s voice cut through hers. ‘You will marry no one without my permission.’

  ‘I will be damned! I will marry who I like —’

  ‘Please.’ Matilda moved away from James’s arm, toward the door. ‘James, I … I don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to.’ He put his arm around her shoulders this time. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’ He looked back at his father. ‘And when I get back we will have this out.’

  They were silent till they reached the end of the driveway. James’s face was white about the lips; his knuckles too were white on the wheel. He is furious, she thought, too furious even to speak.

  She felt … she didn’t know what she felt. Humiliated. Betrayed. Disappointed — the lunch she had so looked forward to snatched from her. Angry too. James had no right to spring talk of marriage on her — and even less right to assume she would agree.

  Or did he? He had been courting her, obviously and publicly. Why should he think that any girl would accept his attentions, then turn him down? He was rich and he was handsome. She had made it clear she felt a bond between them.

  She shook her head, realising it was Mr Drinkwater’s reaction that hurt the most. Did he think she wasn’t good enough for his son?

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You said … you said you intended to marry me.’

  His face softened a little. ‘I do. And I will.’

  ‘You might have asked me before telling your father.’

  She waited for his anger to explode again. It didn’t.

  He looked at her ruefully. ‘I’ll go down on bended knee to you, I promise. I’m sorry. It was just Father wanting to be in control.’

  She nodded, trying to smile. He still seemed to expect that her answer would be yes. But for some reason she couldn’t melt like a heroine in a novel from the library; couldn’t say, ‘I love you, James. I want to marry you.’ She needed to get home, get out of her stays and this dress, to walk up the hills, perhaps, look at the land and try to think. She couldn’t think now, in the car so close to James.

  ‘I thought your father liked me,’ she said instead.

  ‘He does. He talks of you often. Used to write to me, telling me about you standing up with all the others at the sheep sale. He admires you.’

  ‘Then what was wrong?’

  ‘He was probably angry because I didn’t tell him beforehand, ask his permission. Maybe he feels I’m trying to take over too much, too soon. He’s been boss of his own place for so long.’ He took a deep breath, then reached over from the steering wheel to pat her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll work it out. It’s all bluster and blather with Father, then his temper’s over and the sun comes out.’

  Like his son, she thought. She had a sudden image of Mr Drinkwater, with grandchildren at his knee. Why shouldn’t those children be hers?

  ‘Matilda. Darling Matilda.’

  She didn’t feel like anyone’s darling, just then. He smiled at her. She forced herself to smile back.

  This has to be right, she thought. The two of us, wanting the same things. She was strong enough to cope with James Drinkwater and his father.

  The motorcar swept between the cliffs. He stopped by the house, then held her hand after he helped her out. She watched him as he leaned forward, kissed her cheek and then her lips. He tasted of peppermint. His lips were warm.

  It was the first such kiss she had ever had. Once she worked out where to put her nose she wanted it to last forever.

  He stood back and touched her cheek. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I think I have always loved you. A woman who can stand by my side, face fire or drought.’

  The words could have come from one of her novels. As if he could always have loved her. He’d been dreadful at first. But how like James, she thought, to know exactly the sweetest thing to say. ‘I … I love you too.’ It’s true, she thought. She loved his strength, the way he’d stretched out under the tree, the way he laughed with her, the way he made her feel, kissing her and saying she was beautiful.

  But it wasn’t the whole truth. She loved him, but not quite all of him. Why could she be so honest with others, and not with him? Was loving most of him enough for marriage?

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. It will all be sorted out then.’ He bent, and kissed her again.

  It worked better this time.

  She watched the car as it vanished in the dust between the cliffs, till the sound of the engine was lost behind the ridge.

  Only then did she pick up the carpetbag holding her dancing dress, her dancing slippers and the pen wiper in its small ignored parcel, and walk ins
ide.

  Chapter 43

  Dear Mrs Thompson,

  I hope you are well, and your family too.

  I hope you don’t mind my writing to you, but I don’t know Tommy’s address or if he is staying with you. Would you mind very much giving him this note? I would like to tell him how sorry I am about our quarrel, and how grateful I am for everything he has done for me.

  I hope I do not put you to any trouble. With many thanks,

  Yours sincerely,

  Matilda O’Halloran

  An engine growled up the driveway. James!

  She had expected him all morning. She’d been awake half the night, trying to work things out.

  She would tell him she needed time, she had decided. He had offered to go down on bended knee … well then, he could go down on bended knee at Christmas. By Christmas they would know each other better — or she would at least know her own mind. By Christmas Mr Drinkwater would be used to the idea.

  She glanced at her hair in the mirror, then lifted her skirts — no working trousers and boots today — and slipped outside as the motorcar pulled to a stop.

  It was Mr Drinkwater. He looked older than yesterday, his eyes lost in his wrinkles. ‘Where is my son?’

  Where’s that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag? She thrust the song away. ‘James?’

  ‘Don’t play silly with me, missy.’

  ‘I wasn’t. James isn’t here.’

  ‘Of course he’s here.’

  ‘He isn’t!’ She waved her hand. ‘Look around if you don’t trust me. There’s only one horse in the yards. Do you think I’ve hidden his horse too?’ Suddenly she realised why he was here. ‘You mean James isn’t at home?’

  He scowled at her. ‘His bed hasn’t been slept in. No sign of his horse. And he’s packed his things.’

  She said slowly, ‘You thought he had come here to me?’ The insult stung — that he thought she would let a man stay overnight. ‘You … you old …’

  ‘Old biscuit? Where else would he go?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I will. He’ll let me know.’