She put the cutting down. Later she would read it again and again, trying to tease out whatever details she could imagine. Now the skeleton of fact was enough.
James was dead. Her heart seemed to thud the word. Dead. Dead. Dead.
She wanted to howl like a dingo, run to the river and scream and scream. She wanted to claw her face so that the physical pain would stop the pain inside.
She couldn’t. She owed him more than that. But she couldn’t stop the tears that ran down her face.
She glanced over at the sofa. Mr Drinkwater lay with his eyes shut, breathing shallowly, a pale blue ring about his mouth. She took the letter, then sat on the floor beside him, her hand on his cold one. I should have washed, she thought vaguely. I would have scrubbed my hands if I’d known that I was coming here.
But his hands were as ingrained with dirt as hers.
She lifted up the letter and began to read. It was written in good black ink, with the rounded neat letters of an expensive fountain pen.
Dear Father,
I am sorry to send you such sad tidings. It was with shock that I opened this morning’s newspaper. I can only be glad that I was still at the breakfast table, and not at the bank.
I enclose the cutting for you, as I expect the newspapers will not reach you till the next week’s post. I wish I could have brought this dreadful news in person, but as you will understand my social and business positions mean that I can no longer allow myself to be associated in any way with the name of Drinkwater.
James’s actions have brought unspeakable shame on our family and will have extreme consequences both personally and professionally. I will not speak of the horror of James’s crime, only that we must all act as fast as is possible to disassociate ourselves from him.
Florence and I have discussed this, and we think it best if I immediately take her family’s name, and the name of the bank — Ellsmore.
It is unfortunate that the property, too, uses the Drinkwatername that has been so tarnished. Florence and I feel that it would be best if you came to us as soon as possible, so that we can bear this together. Drinkwater must be sold as quickly as it is practicable. I most strongly hope that you will take the Ellsmore name as well. After a suitable period you might buy a house near us and Aunt Ellen.
I am sorry to intrude on your grief with these details, but we have to be practical if any honour is to be salvaged from this debacle.
I have good friends in the leading business houses of this city, and I am sure that as long as we take steps at once to show we disassociate ourselves entirely from James, they will show sympathy and stand by us.
Florence and I will expect to see you on Thursday’s train, but if you decide to motor instead please inform us by telegram. Otherwise I will meet you at the station. This is hard for us, Father, but we can weather it. Florence sends her love and utmost sympathy, as do I.
Your affectionate son,
Bertram
Her hand shook too much to hold the letter; she laid it on the floor. She wanted to stamp on it, to dirty it with her boots. But it was Mr Drinkwater’s letter, not hers.
‘Tear it up.’ The voice was soft, but sure. It was as though he had read her thoughts.
‘Are you sure?’ She reached into her sleeve for her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. The handkerchief came away dust-stained. The girl with the grubby face, she thought. Oh, James.
‘Burn it. There are matches on the table.’
She found them by his pipe, struck one, then held the paper over the fireplace as it vanished in ash and smoke.
‘There. Gone.’
His eyes opened. ‘Tell me what you think.’
‘I think that Bertram is a cockroach. I’d like to turn him into ashes too.’
A ghost of a chuckle. ‘I am glad he isn’t here then. We are in enough trouble —’ He gasped: the pain was suddenly too much.
‘Don’t talk.’
‘Must talk. Do you … James …’
‘Do I think James was guilty? No! It says in the paper that he said he acted under orders. That’s enough for me.’
She saw his face relax. She had said the right thing.
And yet … the image came to her of James’s eyes, so wide and blue, as he said, ‘We didn’t really shoot them, you know.’ James, his confidence so great that he would think himself justified in any lie.
She sat for twenty minutes perhaps, as the old man breathed shallowly but steadily beside her. Mrs Murphy put her head in twice, but Matilda put her fingers to her lips.
At last he said, ‘Will you stay?’
‘Of course.’
‘Not just tonight. I need … the property needs —’
She wouldn’t humiliate him by making him say he needed help. ‘I’ll be here.’
She waited till the doctor bustled in, his bag in his hand, then slipped outside to ask Mrs Murphy to get one of the men to drive her to Moura, to fetch her things — she didn’t want a stockman rummaging in her underwear — and to ask Mr Sampson to come in the morning.
Some time later there would be time to cry properly, to walk this land that James would never see again, to shriek and scream her loss. Not now. Too many people needed her now. So did the farm that James had loved. The honesty of that love, at least, she had never doubted.
She poured herself a cup of dark brown tea from the pot Mrs Murphy kept always warm on the side of the kitchen fire, then went back to hear the doctor’s verdict.
Chapter 51
MARCH 1902
Dear Mrs Ellsmore,
Thank you for your kind enquiry about Mr Drinkwater. He is improving daily, and able to sit up for long periods now, but I do not think he is strong enough yet to hear that Bertram will not speak to him unless he changes his name. It will only make him angry. Please, if you can, convince Bertram not to be so stubborn, and to see how much his father grieves. Nor will Mr Drinkwater ever sell his property to a stranger.
He and I remain proud of James, who fought bravely for the Empire that he believed in so much. We will acknowledge him with pride.
Thank you for your good wishes, and the kindness you have shown me in the past. I do understand how your first loyalty must be with your daughter now.
Yours sincerely,
Matilda O’Halloran
Mr Drinkwater peered at Matilda from his pillows. ‘I’m going to live. For a while at any rate.’
Matilda sat on the chair beside his bed. ‘That’s what the doctor says. If you stay quiet there is no reason you shouldn’t manage for years yet.’
He gave the ghost of a snort. ‘Why not just say I’m mostly dead?’
‘Your son is dead. You are alive. Be grateful for it.’
He stared out the window. ‘James’s death is my fault.’
She buried her face in her hands, not because she was crying, but because she couldn’t cry. The unshed tears were almost impossible to bear. When at last she spoke her voice was muffled. ‘You didn’t kill him.’
‘No need to spare a sick old man.’
She looked up, her face hard and white. ‘I’m not sparing you because you’re sick. You killed my father, as surely as if you shot him. I don’t know how many others have died so you could get your way. But James — no, you didn’t kill him.’
‘If I hadn’t forbidden your marriage —’
‘Then James would have stayed, for a while. He was happy to be back and looking forward to working Drinkwater. But he loved challenge. Can you really see him staying here, working the land you’ve already tamed, while his friends were fighting over there?’
She took a deep breath. ‘If you had been different — if you had really needed him, he might have stayed. If I had been different, a sweet girl like Florence perhaps, he’d have stayed to look after me.’
He gave one of his snorts, stronger this time. ‘If you were a simpering miss he’d never have wanted you.’
‘No. James died …’ Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘
James died for the same reason my father died. Because there wasn’t justice to protect him. At least this time our government protested what the English did to James. Maybe one day there’ll be new laws …’
She stopped again, gazed outside at the giant oak tree by the window, just starting to turn flame red. ‘You know,’ she went on, ‘it’s easy to think of the … the big side of this. Justice, equality. It’s easier to talk of justice and new laws than to think of James.’
There was silence from the bed. At last he said, ‘Perhaps that is why your father was so passionate about his union and federation. He could fight for one big cause, instead of face the hundred small ones.’
She looked at him surprised. ‘You sound as though you liked him, even at the end.’
‘What? Of course I liked him, girl. Knew him all his life.’
‘But I thought you hated each other.’
‘Hate? No, never that. We argued enough, though. Anger eating us both, at the end, till we both did things we shouldn’t have.’ He shut his eyes. ‘I grieved for him, girl. More than you can ever know.’
His voice was growing weaker. She stood. ‘I’m sorry. You need quiet.’
‘No. I need to talk. I am glad that you forgive me, even if I can’t forgive myself. Matilda, I can’t run the place like this.’
She didn’t bother to deny it. ‘Your foreman?’
‘Farrell? He does what he’s told. If you don’t tell him he won’t do anything.’ He added abruptly, ‘I want you to stay.’
‘What?’
‘Look at me. I have given more than sixty years to this land,’ he said fiercely. ‘Now help me keep it until I die.’
She said slowly, ‘You want me to act as your … your foreman?’
‘No. I can hire foremen. As my partner.’
‘A partner?’ She sat down again. ‘What sort of partner?’
‘The same as you and Sampson. You carry out my orders. We share the profit.’
‘That’s not what happens with Mr Sampson,’ she said dryly. ‘He runs Moura as much as I do. We have different skills, that’s all.’ She looked at him for a few moments. ‘I can run this place, but it would have to be my way.’
‘Why did I suspect you would say that? We will argue it out, then, when your way isn’t mine.’
‘That is going to be a lot of arguments.’
He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I look forward to them.’
She looked at him consideringly, trying to see how it could work. Sharing the running of the place with a husband was one thing. Running it as a woman was another. ‘The men won’t like it.’
‘Make them accept it. Move your things here, today. The place has been leaderless too long.’
‘Stay here?’
‘Yes. You can run Moura from here, but you can’t run this place from Moura.’
He was right. The sheds were here; the men.
She knew she should ask for time to think it over. But suddenly it seemed right, as though she had known this would happen from the first moment she had seen the place. ‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t do this alone. I need Mr Sampson as foreman, equal to Mr Farrell.’
‘Sampson? You can’t put a native over white men.’
‘Mr Sampson,’ said Matilda.
He gave a silent laugh. ‘It’s up to you. But you won’t get Farrell sharing his job with a native.’
She stood. ‘We’ll see.’
The men stood in the courtyard behind the kitchen. Mr Farrell’s hat was pulled down low over his eyes, and his arms were folded; the six white stockmen and the eight dark-skinned ones were standing to one side. All were staring at her and at Mr Sampson, their faces watchful, their legs far apart in that instinctive male challenge. Two of them chewed tobacco, as though to say they didn’t think enough of her to spit it out.
She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘You have probably guessed why I am here. I’m sorry Mr Drinkwater isn’t well enough to tell you himself. He has asked me to run the property as his partner.’
Mr Farrell raised the brim of his hat a little. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, miss. We’ll do all right.’
Anger sparked at his tone, but she tried not to show it. ‘I know we will do all right. But there will be changes. I may do things differently from the way they’ve been done in the past.’
‘What sort of things?’ Mr Farrell’s tone had more resentment than interest.
‘Lucerne down on the flat by the river, to begin with. We can use windmills to get the water up to irrigate it.’
‘Spending the boss’s money already, are ya?’
‘Mr Farrell, are you prepared to work for me or not?’
‘No. An’ I’m not takin’ orders from no native, neither.’ He gestured at the cluster of men. ‘An’ they won’t, neither.’
‘They can speak for themselves. Well? Who is staying, and who is going?’
Mr Farrell looked at her with fury. ‘No one is talkin’ about goin’. But I ain’t doin’ nothin’ without the boss’s say-so.’
‘I am the boss. So do you stay or go?’ She could never let them know how nervous she was really feeling.
‘Go,’ said Mr Farrell. ‘Me an’ all the boys. You go tell the boss that, and see if he still wants you to give orders then.’
She knew she could use her anger as a weapon, as she had when the swaggies tried to steal her things, so many years ago now. ‘You’re sacked. Mr Sampson, you’re foreman of Drinkwater as well as Moura now. Farrell, pack your things and be gone by lunchtime. You can take your horse,’ she added.
She put her hands behind her back so they wouldn’t see them tremble, and looked around at the stunned faces. ‘Anyone else who doesn’t like it is to be off Drinkwater land by sundown. And Moura. Anyone here tomorrow will be working for me.’
She turned her back on them, slowly, deliberately, her heart thudding like a horse’s hooves, and strode away.
She was eating lunch in Mr Drinkwater’s room when Mrs Murphy tapped on the door. ‘Miss Matilda? Sampson wants to see you in the kitchen.’
‘Mr Sampson.’
Mrs Murphy looked at her for a second, then nodded. ‘Mr Sampson.’
‘Tell him to come up here. Mrs Murphy … is your husband staying? I’d be sorry to lose him. And you.’
The big woman gave a small smile. ‘Murphy will do what I tell him. We’ve got our house nice here now. I ain’t leaving it. So he ain’t either.’
‘I … thank you, Mrs Murphy. Please tell him I’m glad. And ask Mr Sampson to come up.’
She looked back to see Mr Drinkwater smiling. It was the first real smile he had given since he had heard of James’s death. ‘You’re enjoying this,’ she accused.
‘Life hasn’t been this interesting since your father called me a pock-faced old, er … biscuit and tried to get every man on the place to strike.’
‘My father was right.’
‘And you’re his daughter.’ He nodded as the door opened. ‘Sampson.’
‘Mr Sampson,’ said Matilda.
The old man looked at Mr Sampson assessingly, then nodded. ‘Mr Sampson.’
‘Mr Drinkwater.’ Not ‘Boss’, Matilda noticed. ‘Sorry you’re crook.’
‘Well?’ asked Matilda. ‘How many are staying?’
‘Farrell, Grahams, Fat Harry and young Spud have left. The rest,’ he shrugged, ‘they’re staying. For now.’
‘Can we manage?’
‘For now.’ He hesitated, glanced at Mr Drinkwater, then back at her. He pulled a letter out of his pocket. ‘This came for you. Peter brought it up from Moura.’
A once-white envelope, creased and stained. Her hand shook as she took it.
The handwriting was James’s.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll be down in a minute. Mrs Murphy will give you a cup of tea. We’ll go through what needs to be done then.’
He nodded, and then shut the door behind him.
Ja
mes. She held the letter against her cheek, forgetting where she was and who was with her. She opened it carefully, trying not to tear the paper, then remembered the old man in the bed. Another shock might kill him.
He was staring at her, his knuckles white as they gripped his sheet.
She longed to run with it, to read it herself first in private, over and over till every word was hers. Instead she forced herself to take the old man’s hand and kiss his cheek before she began to read it out loud.
Chapter 52
Matilda my darling,
I am giving this to a mate who will see that it gets posted. The powers that be have forbidden my lawyer to pass on any personal messages from me to the outside world.
By the time this reaches you I imagine you and Father will already have heard of my death. They take me to the firing squad tomorrow. I am more sorry than I can say that you will probably have to hear of it before I can tell you what really happened. I know however that I can trust you and Father not to believe the worst.
The two Boers I shot were scoundrels, rotters of the worst order. They shot a friend of mine, the best mate there ever was, but worse than that: when we found his body it was obvious that he had been tortured, in the worst and most hideous ways. Both Boers I shot were dressed in British uniform, the better to trick our people into coming close.
I acted at that time, and at all times, on the direct orders ofGeneral Kitchener to shoot any Boer found in British uniform. The British wish to have those orders forgotten now, to appease the Boer authorities and make peace. I and every right-thinking man of the Empire would refuse any peace with those curs.
Please tell Father that I doubt I will have a chance to write more than this one letter. Tell him I am sorry for the quarrel between us, and the way it has turned out, but tell him I could never feel any regret for my choice of wife. Tell him that I died with honour, an Australian to my heart and bone. Once I would have said ‘an Englishman’ but I hold the English officers in no honour now.
My darling, give my love to Father and to Drinkwater, and most of all to you. When they take me out tomorrow I will ask them not to blindfold me. Instead I will be seeing you, among the trees of Drinkwater.
A Waltz for Matilda Page 32
