James
She stared at the words, not quite believing they could say what she had read.
Which left one choice. But James himself had said that everyone had choices. Enlisting to fight the Boers was the choice he’d wanted to make. He had left without telling her, without asking what she thought, just as he had assumed that she would marry him.
She looked at the ring. What should she do now? You couldn’t write to a man about to go to war and say I don’t know if I want to marry you. It was impossible to hurt him like that.
Suddenly the true horror of it hit her. James, about to face the enemy, a Boer with a rifle hunting him down, like James perhaps had once hunted others here. James hurt, bleeding, calling out in agony, even killed …
She was angry it hurt so much, furious with him and with herself. ‘I love you!’ she shouted, not caring if Auntie heard her, down where she was milking the cow. She heard the echo from the cliffs. Love you … love you …
How dare he desert her like this? How dare he vanish, leaving so much pain?
Suddenly she heard the sound of the motorcar. Mr Drinkwater would know she had got a letter, perhaps had received one himself or heard from Bertram.
She looked over at the cow byre. There was no sign of Auntie Love. Matilda smiled, knowing it was deliberate, knowing this time how it was done.
The car drew up at the steps. Mr Drinkwater got out, looking frail as a sheet of paperbark. He stepped slowly up to the verandah. ‘You’ve heard from James?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bertram wrote to me. Tell me it isn’t true.’
He looked so vulnerable her anger vanished. ‘Come inside,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll show you the letter.’
Her ring flashed in the light from the doorway as she handed him the piece of paper, trying not to see the eagerness with which he took it, then busied herself with tea leaves and the pot.
He had read it and re-read it by the time she poured tea for both of them, and sat opposite him. His eyes were closed in pain. The tin roof creaked above her, as the sun came out from behind a cloud. He was an old man who had lost his son, lost him forever, perhaps. They had both lost him, for a while at least.
Funny — she had thought that if she married James she would never be like Mrs Heenan, waiting, waiting. Now she was waiting for something far more worrying than a shearer on a bender.
I can cope with waiting, she thought. But I can’t stand the thought of James being hurt.
‘Thank you,’ Mr Drinkwater said at last.
‘What for?’
‘For letting me read your letter. For not accusing me —’ He broke off.
‘There’s not much point now.’
‘No.’ He stared at the ring on her finger. ‘Will you …?’ It must be hard to have to ask. She said gently, ‘I’ll show you any other letters. Of course.’
‘Matilda … this makes no difference to how I feel.’
‘I know.’
He drained his tea and stood up, then hesitated and put out his hand. She took it. It was almost as though they were sealing a deal about some sheep.
‘James will be all right,’ she said. She didn’t know if she was comforting him or herself.
Christmas came. No word from Tommy, not even a card. She had sent one to his mother’s house, saying Merry Christmas with love from Matilda. But there had been no reply. Mr Gotobed and his mates were away. No visit even from the Sampsons — perhaps they thought she would spend Christmas at Drinkwater. The whole district seemed to know that James had enlisted and that he and Matilda were engaged. It was her fault, she knew, for wearing his ring. At least no one outside the family seemed to know about the quarrel with his father.
Matilda killed a young rooster, and Auntie Love stuffed it. It was tough, not quite young enough or maybe cooked too fast. They ate it with roast potatoes and pumpkin, the first of the beans and young corn. The only other sign of celebration was the pot of ginger from Mr Doo and Patricia.
A note arrived on Boxing Day, delivered by one of the stockmen, asking her to dinner at Drinkwater on New Year’s Eve.
Was the old man lonely? There had been no more letters yet. She supposed James was still at sea.
She scribbled a note in return: Yes, I would like to come, no need to send the car — she would ride over, ride back by moonlight. She could cope with dinner, she thought, but not with staying the night, nor with being in the motorcar without James.
It was hard to leave Auntie behind. Auntie was used to being alone, but she was like a shadow these days, as though if the sun moved you might find she wasn’t there.
It was even harder sitting in the Drinkwater drawing room, neither she nor her host talking about what was most on their minds.
They ate roast duck and Mrs Murphy’s lemon shape. They spoke of the weather, the price of wool, the defeat of the Labor government in Queensland, after governing the state for less than a week. They were on opposite sides politically, but comfortably so, in this at least. Sheep — and James — meant more to them both than politicians.
It wasn’t till she was leaving that she said what she’d been wondering how to say the whole evening. ‘We need to dag the sheep next week. Would you prefer not to have my stock in your shed now?’
He looked startled. ‘Why would you think —’ He stopped, his mouth twisted. ‘The sheep are still welcome here. You are welcome.’
‘Then why would it be so very bad to have me as a daughter-in-law?’
She had expected anger again. It didn’t come. He simply said, ‘My dear, you do not understand.’
‘You’re right. I don’t. Why … why haven’t you threatened me, like James? You could make my life much harder, and you know it.’
‘Because it wouldn’t work.’ He hesitated, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. He smelled of cigars and the whisky he had been drinking. ‘Happy new year, my dear. Happy new century. May it bring rain and a new nation and happiness for us all.’
And bring James home, she thought. She kissed him back, then went out to where one of the men was holding her horse.
Chapter 48
SEPTEMBER 1900
My darling Matilda,
Well, I am still alive and in good heart. You may have read that we held onto Elands River. I tell you it was a rum do: by the end of the first day half the horses and cattle were dead — saw thirty of the poor blighters killed with just one shell — and we thought we were for it too. You’ve never seen so many men dig in so fast.
After four days old de la Rey, the Boer commander, sent us word he’d let us Australians through with safe conduct if we’d surrender. Lieut. Colonel Horse sent back: ‘If you want the supplies we are guarding, you had better come and get them.’ He is a good egg, and no mistake, a white man through and through.
We kept expecting the Brits to come and relieve us. But they marched them up the hill and marched them down again, as the nursery song goes — neither hide nor hair of them did we see.
De la Rey offered us terms again. We sent back: ‘If de la Rey wants our camp, why does he not come and take it? We will bepleased to meet him and his men, and promise them a great reception at the end of a toasting fork. Australians will never surrender. Australia forever!’
Finally I gather Kitchener himself heard that we were still holding out, and at last brought 10,000 troops to our assistance. I tell you, it is good to be in Pretoria again, to see real food and have a bath and see women again, but none of the nurses can hold a candle to you, Matilda my darling.
I have made good friends here. You would like them — well, most of them, perhaps! I have to show you this country one day. Till then, I am your ever loving,
James
Matilda put the letter carefully back into its envelope. She’d take it up to Drinkwater this afternoon, to show it to the old man.
She guessed that he too checked the newspaper casualty lists, looking for James’s name. The letters from him were good, but they took so long to get
here, weeks and even months sometimes after they had been written. The casualty lists were sent by telegram, and were the only real news they had, apart from the scanty war reports in the papers.
Slowly she had been accepting that they really would be married, when the war was over. Perhaps, she thought, it was easier to love James wholeheartedly when he wasn’t here. It was a future that just made sense. They would run the two properties together. Whatever her doubts about James, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to bear seeing him married to another woman, another woman ruling Drinkwater.
‘Matilda.’
She looked up, startled. Auntie Love hardly ever used her name. Hey You sat at her feet, panting from the heat. He was grey about the muzzle now, an old dog with an old woman.
‘Auntie, are you all right?’
Auntie Love had been silent the past few weeks, as though she had forgotten all her language. Matilda wondered if she’d had yet another apoplexy, for her hands were clumsy too.
‘Go and lie down,’ said Matilda gently. ‘I’ll make you some tea and toast. I won’t burn it this time, I promise.’
Auntie Love shook her head. She held out her hand, and Matilda took it. The fingers felt like sparrow bones. Auntie Love began to walk, each step as slow as honey dripping into the bucket, her breath shallow.
She should be in bed, thought Matilda, or at least resting out on the verandah. But even now there was something that made it impossible to argue with Auntie Love.
Down the steps they went, then up the slope toward the cave. Hey You padded silently at her feet. They were walking so slowly it seemed a dream, the air shimmering heat around them. Nothing moved, except an eagle, high up above the cliffs, riding on the wind.
Step, step, step … Auntie Love was even slower now, but she didn’t stop to catch her breath. It was as though she knew just how slowly she must walk to keep going.
Up the path … Matilda looked back. The house sat like a doll’s house, its iron roof glaring in the sun. Her father’s wooden slats had weathered to the same colour as the rocks.
At last they reached the cave. Here, finally, Auntie Love paused, looking down at the valley. Hey You lay down in the shade of a rock, as though he had been told to stay. Auntie Love let go of Matilda’s hand, and bent down, into the darkness.
Matilda followed. Once again, inside, her eyes quickly got used to the dimness. She waited to see what Auntie would do. Was there something hidden here, something else her father had left that she hadn’t found? Or did Auntie want to see the stream maybe?
But to her surprise Auntie Love moved over to the wall, the one where streams of light glowed through holes from outside. She bent toward the lowest one, and crawled inside.
Matilda watched her feet vanish. What if there was a snake in there or … She took a breath, and crawled after her.
The passageway was less than a yard — a wiggle on her stomach and she was through. She stood, light glowing around her, and caught her breath.
She was in a small chamber, a few yards wide, high and bright as though the walls themselves shone light.
It was impossible, like a small sun beneath the earth. And then she saw that the light came from more holes higher up in the cave wall. The real sun must be at just the right angle in the sky, this hour, this day, she thought, to shine down here, to turn the tiny cave to gold.
She didn’t think it was coincidence.
She gazed around. The floor was mud, even now when the world outside was dry. Water must seep through the rock. Behind her, and on either side, the walls were hard as glass and pale, as though the rock had melted or water turned solid. But the wall in front …
There were handprints. Hundreds of hands, thousands perhaps, some almost hidden behind the white layers of rock, others fresher, as though they had been left yesterday, but when she stretched out a finger the image didn’t smudge; it was smooth and rock-hard as well.
As she watched, Auntie Love bent down, and pressed her hand into the mud, and then against the wall. When she took her hand away another print was left, fresh and unfaded.
She nodded at Matilda.
‘You want me to do it too?’
Another nod. Matilda felt the damp clay clutch her hand; she pulled it free of stickiness, then held it against the wall. The rock felt strangely warm — from the sunlight, she supposed.
She glanced at Auntie Love, wondering if there was anything else. But the old woman just turned and bent down, her breath coming in shallow pants, to push herself through the crevice.
It was strange being outside again. As though she had been hours in the cave, not minutes. The valley below looked brighter, clearer than she had ever seen it, the shine of tree trunks, the depth of shadows in the cliff.
My eyes are used to darkness, she thought, and knew that was the true answer, but not the whole truth. Hey You got to his feet, still panting, and pressed against Auntie Love’s thin legs.
Auntie Love stared at the world again too. Suddenly she turned to Matilda. ‘Rain coming,’ said Auntie Love.
Matilda glanced up at the sky automatically. ‘The ants aren’t swarming,’ she said. ‘No flying termites either. And the kookaburras aren’t calling the right way for rain.’
‘Not rain now.’ Auntie Love shook her head, as though trying to find the words she needed, then held up her hand, three fingers extended. ‘After three cold time, rain will come. Good rain. Dry will go.’
Matilda tried to understand. Did Auntie Love mean the drought would end in three winters’ time? But the drought was never going to end. All she had ever known was drought. Impossible that the world could be green again, the dry rocky creeks covered with water.
Impossible for anyone to know that far ahead. She looked at Auntie Love, surveying the world, fragile but serene. No, not impossible for Auntie Love.
Auntie Love took her hand. Slowly, slowly they walked down the path, Matilda watchful with each step, in case the old lady slipped. Her breathing was shallow and even louder than Hey You’s. Her hand felt almost like it wasn’t there.
Matilda had expected to head for the house. But instead Auntie Love walked down the track between the cliffs. Were they going to the Sampsons’ house?
Suddenly she turned the other way. She kept on walking, around the ridge and down the hills, toward the flat plain on the other side, away from the river, away from Drinkwater and Moura.
Is this where Auntie went sometimes? wondered Matilda.
‘Auntie … you have to come back to the house. Let me look after you.’
The old woman looked at her. She lifted her hand and stroked Matilda’s cheek. She smiled, suddenly younger, her teeth strong and white. Then she put her hand down and she was old again, a hollowed gum tree with only a few green leaves, already turning brown.
‘You stay,’ said Auntie Love, to Matilda, not to the dog. ‘Not come now. You stay.’ She took another step, then looked back to make sure Matilda had obeyed.
She wanted to cry, ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me all alone.’
So many had left her: Mum, Aunt Ann, her father, Tommy, James so far away.
She couldn’t speak. Auntie Love had so little strength. Just enough, perhaps, for what she was doing now.
The sun was high above them. The world was shadowless. The air shimmered between the trees. The land was dappled with leaves and bark, the thin shape of Auntie Love stepping slowly away, her dog at her heels. Matilda watched. And between one blink and the next, the old lady was gone.
She could run after her. But she wouldn’t. Auntie Love had given her so much. She couldn’t disobey her now.
So she waited, sitting down, her back against a tree, watching the ants trickle out from the roots then clamber back, taking tiny seeds into their nest. She waited till the shadows grew longer than the trees.
Something moved behind her. It was Hey You. The old dog climbed onto her lap and lay there, whining softly. Matilda hugged him, her tears wet against his fur. Finally she stood, and w
alked back toward the house. This time the dog followed her.
Chapter 49
JANUARY 1901
Dear Matilda,
Well, we are a new nation indeed! My sister and I were in the crowd at the park to see Lord Hopetoun read the declaration from Her Majesty. We left here still in the dark, and I am glad we did, for I have NEVER seen crowds like this.
According to the paper there were troops of many nations, and a choir of 15,000 children — we were close enough to hear them sing, it was the sweetest sound that I have ever heard.
We were close enough to even hear some of the speeches, though the wind blew many of the words away. ‘One people, one flag, one destiny.’ Oh, my dear, I DID hear that, and as you can imagine the tears flowed. I was glad I had taken a second pocket handkerchief. I had my umbrella too — SO useful to keep a place in a crowd, especially if men have been IMBIBING. However I did not need it, for not only was the crowd well behaved but the sun shone the whole day through, as though it knew it was shining for our hopes and dreams.
Later we watched the procession move through the streets, led by a band of shearers. My dear, I thought of you of course, and of your father. It was so RIGHT that the shearers led today, for indeed our country has followed where they have led. After came brass bands and our brave troops marching. We waved our handkerchiefs and sang with the crowd ‘Soldiers of the Queen’ and I thought of your gallant James too.
This evening the committee will have a small celebration supper at our house. I have baked a Victoria sponge, and my sister her Empire cake, with ingredients from every state of our fair land. I DO wish you could have joined us, my dear. I wish that your dear aunt could have seen this day.
Your faithful friend,
Alice Thrush
She hadn’t gone to town for the Federation celebrations. She couldn’t, not alone.
Alone. She had never been so alone. She worked with Mr Sampson, but had never been close to his family — they were silent when she was near, unsure of her language perhaps, as she was even more ignorant of theirs.
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