They sat watching the paddocks together.
‘I still think I will wake up and see it brown,’ he said at last.
She was glad to talk about something else. ‘It was drought most of my life, though I didn’t know it till I came here.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘I suppose if the drought had come any earlier I wouldn’t have been born. Dad would never have got married.’
‘If there had been no drought you’d never have come here. You’re a gift to me from the drought. Like many things. The drought gave us much more than it took.’
She looked at him enquiringly.
‘If there had been no drought there’d have been no shearers’ strike, no union. If times had been better no one would have worried about tariffs between the states or kanakas coming in to take white men’s jobs. Without all of that we’d still be a collection of states, bumbling along side by side. The drought gave us Australia.’
He reached for her hand, and squeezed it briefly. His hand felt papery, but warm and comforting. ‘Maybe as you get older you see your gifts for what they are. You and Love and Drinkwater. The land gave me them all.’
It had been unfamiliar, at first, living without drought. This was a new land — one where rain came regularly, where grass grew and new trees sprouted. But the bones of the land she knew were still there under the lushness.
The older sheep grazed steadily, their noses down, as though each blade of grass was precious. Their lambs nosed out the best, most luscious tussocks, and played king of the castle on any rocks, no longer bound to spend all their energy finding food.
The roos bred faster than the sheep; the rabbits bred even faster — a sea of white tails raced away when Matilda took a lantern out at night. She read every farming magazine she could to discover a way of stopping them, and longed for Tommy’s ingenuity so she could trap them.
She hadn’t looked at the photo again. But she refused to envy his wife. If James had chosen South Africa, she had chosen to stay here, not run after Tommy’s bicycle and call, ‘Take me with you. I want to be with you.’
This was who she was.
The best way to trap rabbits, according to the Agricultural Weekly, was to make a V-shaped fence each side of the most distant waterhole or trough, where the rabbits would gather to drink at night. Pull a gate across the top of the V and you had them.
The new fencer was waiting for her in the kitchen, eating a slice of Mrs Murphy’s date loaf and drinking tea from a mug — no matter what Matilda said Mrs Murphy believed that china cups were strictly for those who had ‘drawing room’ tea. He stood up as Matilda came in.
‘Ma’am.’
She smiled. It was a nice change from ‘Mornin’ Boss’. He was a good-looking young man too, if you ignored the shaggy beard. She felt his eyes assessing her, and flushed slightly. The Drinkwater workers were used to her trousers now, but newcomers still found men’s clothes on a woman a shock.
‘Mr Gotobed says you’ve been working down the Mallee.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said again.
‘Mr Gotobed will show you where we’ve pegged out the fence line. Should be easy work till you come to the ridge — it’s shale there: crowbar work, I’m afraid.’
The young man gave a pleasant grin. ‘I don’t mind crowbar work, ma’am.’
‘Good. Everything all right in your quarters?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Never seen men’s quarters with a bathroom before.’
It had taken three days of arguing with Mr Drinkwater before he’d agreed to put that in, though Matilda suspected he’d held out for an extra day just for the pleasure of showing he was still boss too.
‘I’ll let you get on with it.’ She turned to go.
‘Ma’am?’
She looked back. ‘Yes?’
‘The men say there’s a dance in town this Friday night,’ he said slowly.
‘There usually is.’
‘Are you going?’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘No.’
‘You should go, miss.’ Matilda looked at Mrs Murphy in surprise. The older woman smiled at her from the stove where she was stirring the Irish stew for lunch. ‘Do you good to have a night out, miss.’
Matilda was silent. Mrs Murphy usually never offered an opinion — she kept them for her husband and sons when she went home at night. But Matilda knew what she was really saying. It was time to leave the ghosts behind.
I like my ghosts, she thought. James, Dad, Auntie Love, Mum, Aunt Ann … They’d approve of who I am now.
But it had been months since she had gone beyond the Drinkwater-Moura boundaries except for business. The men she had loved were gone, in their different ways both lost to her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend time with another man — not yet. But it was time to join the world again. Every one of her ghosts, she realised, would probably tell her: ‘Go and dance.’ What harm was there in going into town to dance?
‘All right. I will.’
The young man grinned again. ‘Grand. I’ll be waiting for you at five o’clock.’ He headed out the door.
Matilda glanced at Mrs Murphy. Had he misunderstood, thought that she had agreed to let him ‘take her to the dance’ instead of simply driving in together? No, impossible. She was the boss. He was just being kind.
Mrs Murphy smiled at her Irish stew.
She dressed carefully in a gown she hadn’t worn since Christmas: not an evening dress with a low neck, the sort she changed into these days for dinner with Mr Drinkwater, partly to give the old man pleasure and partly because despite her comfortable work clothes she also loved the feel and drape of silk, of satin and brocade. I’m my mother’s daughter too, she thought.
But ordinary townsfolk didn’t wear silk dinner dresses. Tonight’s frock was pale blue muslin, its bodice embroidered with darker blue flowers, with lace at the neck and in three tiers low on the skirt. A pretty dress, she thought as she secured her hair with the extra pins needed for dancing, but not one that called out, ‘Look at me! I’m the rich Miss O’Halloran of Drinkwater.’
She glanced down at her jewelled timepiece on its silver chain. Mr Drinkwater had given it to her for her last birthday. Five o’clock. She hurried down the stairs, then into the drawing room to kiss the old man’s bald spot. ‘I won’t be late.’
‘Be as late as you want,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m glad you’re going out, my dear.’
So he, too, thought she let her ghosts rule. She smiled, and walked out onto the verandah.
The buggy was waiting in front of the steps. The young man stood next to it. Matilda stared at him in dismay.
The shaggy beard was gone. His skin looked pale and slightly raw where he had shaved it too close. His hair was trimmed, and slicked down with hair oil. Even his suit looked new.
No, she thought. I can’t do this. Can’t give a man hope that I would be interested in someone like him. Not because he wasn’t rich, but because even in the short time she had known him she’d seen he simply didn’t have the strength, the dreams, the … the backbone of the men that she’d loved and had admired.
He smiled at her, and held out his hand to help her up into the buggy. If the two of them appeared at the dance like this the gossip would be all over the district by smoko tomorrow.
‘Hoy, Boss, wait for us!’
She sighed with relief — or would have if her stays had let her — as Mr Gotobed limped around the corner of the house, Curry and Rice clicking the wagon reins behind him.
‘Hey you, young Rogers. Buggy ain’t no use for a dance. How’s we all goin’ ter fit in?’ Mr Gotobed bowed low to Matilda. ‘Yer look as pretty as a peacock with two tails, Boss. Ma’am, yer carriage awaits yer.’
‘You’re a darling,’ said Matilda. She caught his eye. He had known exactly what was going on, and exactly how to save her too.
She smiled at the young man, safe now. ‘Come on. We don’t want to be late. You’re looking grand tonight,’ she added. ‘I’m sure every girl in the hall will wan
t to dance with you.’
‘I bags the first dance with you, Boss,’ said Mr Gotobed.
‘Of course,’ said Matilda.
Chapter 56
FEBRUARY 1910
To Mr Smith
Elder and Sons
Sydney
Dear Mr Smith,
Having read of the new electric shearing device invented by Mr Faulkner, I would be glad if you could let me know the specifications and cost of such a machine. If the price is reasonable I would like to order sufficient for 30 stands for Drinkwater.
Yours sincerely,
Miss M. O’Halloran
What would my father have thought of an electric shearing machine? she wondered, licking the envelope. What would he have thought of the coal strike, crippling transport across New South Wales and Victoria, stopping even steamships carrying wool? The miners wanted more money and safety underground. She wanted her wool to get to England …
So much had changed, she thought, running her eyes over the newspaper. Women lifesavers, women telegraph operators, wireless transmissions, old Queen Victoria dead and King Edward on the throne, cable trams and telephones, aeroplanes.
So much was still the same too — Mr Canning the Central Australian surveyor defending his chaining of the natives he used to establish his route across the country; the New South Wales government’s new law threatening twelve months’ prison for anyone who threatened ‘essential services’ with a strike; children still slaved in factories, some for no wages at all.
It was Wednesday, mail day, and, as well as the latest papers, old Jack had brought the post from town, which included a letter from Mrs Hindmarsh, a box of vegetable seeds and a dozen new apple trees that Matilda had ordered from Green’s catalogue for the Drinkwater garden, a copy of The Bulletin, along with the sacks and tins and boxes of groceries for the rations that were part of the men’s wages.
Matilda had hauled old Bluey out of his bunk — he’d lie there all day drinking rum for his arthritis if no one pushed him out into the sunlight — and given him the trees to plant and promised to read him the new union monthly after work. Then she had checked the stores were safely locked in the farm shop, and the seeds in their rat-proof box for spring planting, and given Mr Drinkwater the newspapers.
Now she sat at the table in the drawing room, while he lay on the sofa. He was no weaker these days, but no stronger either. He had begun to greet her at breakfast every morning with, ‘Another morning and I’m still alive.’
He had withdrawn even further from the world, not even questioning her decisions for the farm and most times not even showing curiosity. She missed their discussions, his insights. But he still enjoyed the papers every week, the brief window on the world.
Now he peered at her over his broadsheet. ‘Says here that there’s another entry for the 5,000-pound competition to build an all-Australian flying machine.’
Matilda looked up from the account book. ‘What’s his name?’
‘John Duigan.’
‘Oh.’ She had thought it might be Tommy. There had been no other mention of him in the newspapers. ‘Inventor and businessman’ could have meant anything. It’s an exciting time for men like Tommy, she thought, the world of horses and steam giving way to machines and electricity, humans taking to the sky as well as the sea and land. ‘Any other news?’
‘A concert in town. Excerpts from a thrilling performance in Madam Butterfly.’ He looked at her over his glasses. ‘Are you going?’
She smiled. ‘No. The only butterflies I’m interested in are the ones laying caterpillar eggs on my feed turnips.’
‘There are other reasons to go to a concert,’ he said mildly.
‘I know. But none that concern me.’
‘My dear, there is more to life than turnips. Or looking after an old biscuit like me.’
She put down the account book and smiled. ‘I’ve grown fond of the old biscuit.’
‘But still … I wouldn’t expect you to move out if you married,’ he said suddenly. ‘In fact, the opposite.’
‘You want me to marry a good farm manager for you? Sorry, Mr Sampson is already married.’
‘I would quite like a child about the place,’ he said softly.
She walked across and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry. But no one has asked me lately.’
‘You terrify them,’ said Mr Drinkwater dryly. ‘There is a rumour that when that nice land surveyor took you to the Mayor’s Gala you fixed the engine when his motor broke down.’
‘Someone had to. He didn’t know a carburettor from a radiator. Who told you that?’
‘Mrs Murphy, who got it from her sister Sarah.’
‘Has Mrs Murphy told you anything else?’
‘Just that one of the new hands has been complaining about you appearing in the shearing shed while they’re dagging the sheep.’
‘It’s my shed — sorry, your shed. I’ll appear when I want to.’
‘No women allowed.’
‘I’m not a woman. I’m the boss.’
‘That,’ he said softly, ‘is what I’m afraid of.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled at him ruefully. ‘I can put on a skirt again. But I just can’t see myself ever giving control of the place to a man.’
‘That is evident.’
She said nothing, looking out the window. She could see the shearing shed from here, and beyond the garden the pale green winter grass and the darker patch of the experimental turnip crop. She wouldn’t plant them next year; the sheep weren’t really fond of turnips.
If James had lived, would she have sat here sewing while he gave orders to the men?
‘That new man down in the shed says sharp-tongued women need a man’s belt to keep them in line.’
She grinned. ‘Did he now? Mrs Murphy tell you that too?’
He nodded. ‘Got it from her husband, who got it from Mr Gotobed. Where are you going?’
Her grin grew wider. ‘To see Mrs Murphy.’
Mrs Murphy was rolling pastry at the big wood table. Matilda had bought a new stove for her last year, a double-sided one like the model Tommy had invented, though this was more than twice the size of the one in her old house.
‘Mrs Murphy?’
‘Yes, Miss Matilda?’
‘I don’t suppose you have any sheep tongues?’
Mrs Murphy looked surprised. ‘I do indeed, miss. I was going to cook them in a nice white sauce for lunch. Got them all chopped, soaking in vinegar.’
‘Cold lamb and salad will be fine.’ Matilda swept the tongues out of the meat safe and into a bowl, then marched down the back steps and out toward the shearing shed. The dogs got to their feet, and followed her.
The shed quietened at the sound of her boots on the steps. ‘Ducks on the pond,’ yelled someone, the classic call if a woman invaded the shed.
‘Quack,’ shouted Matilda loudly. She strode inside. The men straightened, gazing at her, shears in their hands, sheep poised between their knees, the classer staring at her from the bins, the tar boy almost dropping his bucket in surprise.
‘You. Come here.’
The man let go of his sheep, his mouth dropping open. He walked toward her.
‘Heard you don’t think much of a woman with a sharp tongue.’
‘I … er …’ stuttered the man.
‘I’ve got a present for you,’ said Matilda sweetly. She upended the bowl on the man’s head. The squishier bits of tongue cascaded off his head and onto his shirt. He gave a yell as the vinegar stung his eyes and the grazes on his arms. ‘Extra vinegar, just to make it sharp for you.’
She gazed around. ‘Anyone else want a serving?’
No one answered. The men were silent as she strode out. She was halfway down the ramp when she heard Mr Gotobed’s voice raised in song. ‘Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda …’
From anyone else it would have been an insult. From him it was a compliment — and a way of decreasing the embarrassment for a man bested by a woman. The othe
r voices joined in.
‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me …’
Suddenly she began to laugh. She was still laughing when she heard the motorcar.
The car was almost at the house when Matilda emerged from the garden — a shiny, big green one. Her first thought was that it was Tommy — he always loved green. Why shouldn’t he bring his wife back to the place he’d lived for years? Take her to meet an old friend too … She broke into a run as the dogs began to bark.
The chauffeur was just closing the back door. A woman already stood beside the car, wearing a tight, pale cream skirt with an even tighter long blue jacket and a wisp of a hat with feathers. Two children stood either side of her, perhaps eight and ten years old, the girl dressed identically to her mother (Poor child. How could you jump — or even walk — in a skirt like that? thought Matilda.) and the boy in a blue and white sailor suit, with a straw hat.
A man got out of the other passenger’s seat. Even from behind she could see that he wasn’t Tommy, but he was familiar too. He was tall, in a dark suit and a top hat; his back was to her as she rounded the house.
Matilda stopped, her breath frozen. James!
Thoughts tumbled through her head. His body was never shipped home; no one trustworthy had even seen it. Had it been a mistake all along? He had left the army, married in South Africa, been too embarrassed to let her know?
Even as she thought it she dismissed it. James would never have lacked the courage to tell her, or his father, that he had married someone else. Then the man turned and she saw that it was Bertram.
He looked older, and his mouth was firmer than it had been when she’d seen him last. This was a man used to being in control. He lifted his hat politely. ‘Good morning, Miss O’Halloran.’
‘Good morning, Mr … Ellsmore, isn’t it?’
A Waltz for Matilda Page 35
