His mouth tightened. Of course she knew the name that he had taken. But he nodded politely. ‘Miss O’Halloran. You know my wife, I think?’
‘We have never met properly. Good morning, Mrs Ellsmore.’
The woman inclined her head. ‘Our children, Cecil and Ellen. Say good morning to Miss O’Halloran, children. Mr Drinkwater’s grandchildren,’ she added carefully. She met Matilda’s eye, then looked warily at the dogs, sitting at Matilda’s feet and staring at the newcomers.
‘Good morning, Miss O’Halloran.’ The two children looked curious, and excited too.
She forced a smile. ‘Welcome. Don’t worry,’ she added to the children, as Dusty and Splodge — Hey You’s sons, she hoped, thinking fleetingly of the old dog buried under the oak tree — sniffed at the children’s neat, buttoned boots. ‘The dogs don’t bite. Well, only rabbits.’
Bertram stiffened. ‘I do not think my father’s grandchildren need you to welcome them to my home.’ He gestured to the chauffeur to take the car around the back and unload the luggage.
‘You’re staying? But please, use the front door,’ she said to the chauffeur. ‘We only use the back to bring in the meat now.’
The man looked from her to Bertram. ‘The back,’ said Bertram. The chauffeur nodded, and slipped into the driver’s seat to drive the car around the back.
‘Scratch cocky!’ yelled the cockatoo.
Bertram and Florence led their children up the verandah steps.
She could have followed them. This was her home now, after all. But the reunion between Mr Drinkwater and his son should be private. The first time he met his grandchildren too.
Her heart ached. By now she might have had children of her own, even the same age as these. Children to show the mysteries of the river in the cave, how black swans flew south after the rain. Children to read a bedtime story to, instead of reading about union meetings to a mob of shearers …
She turned, and went in the kitchen door. ‘There’ll be four more for lunch, Mrs Murphy. Mr Bertram and his wife and children and the chauffeur as well — I don’t know his name. I suppose he’ll eat in here.’
Mrs Murphy nodded. ‘I always keep the spare rooms made up, miss. I’ll ask a couple of the wives to give me a hand for a few days. I’d better take some water up to their rooms …’ She hesitated. ‘Do you know how long they will be staying, Miss Matilda?’
Matilda shook her head. ‘I’m sorry about the tongues for lunch. Can you manage?’
‘Plenty of cold lamb, and there’s lettuce hearts for a salad and orange slices and pickled cucumbers and beetroot. I’m doing a cauliflower cheese, and there’s rice shape with bottled plums for afters.’
‘Wonderful. You’re a gem, Mrs Murphy. I hope this won’t be too much work for you.’
‘Bless you, love, I don’t mind. Plenty to give me a hand if I need it.’ She looked at Matilda shrewdly. ‘Hope Mr Bertram isn’t going to make trouble, miss.’
No need to say what the trouble might be. Matilda nodded, and climbed the stairs to her room, to change into a dress … she sighed … and stays.
Lunch was stilted. Mr Drinkwater looked pale, his breath short as he sat at the head of the table, but his eyes were soft when he looked at his grandchildren, who were politely chewing their cold lamb. Florence had sat in Matilda’s usual place at the other end, as though as the wife of the only son it was her right. Matilda supposed it was.
‘How was the wool clip this year?’
Matilda opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Bertram was carefully addressing all questions about the farm to his father. There was no point forcing a quarrel now.
‘Excellent.’
Matilda noticed he gave no details. Mr Drinkwater’s mind was still sharp, but he had lost his memory for figures.
Bertram nodded. ‘The pastures are very green.’ He looked carefully down at his plate. ‘We will have to visit more often. The children need to learn about the place that will be theirs one day.’
Matilda drew her breath in sharply. So it was out — the real motive for coming here today. To make sure that an aging father still left his property to his son — or if not, to his grandchildren — instead of to the interloper, the girl with the grubby face.
Mr Drinkwater smiled at the girl and boy. ‘Do you want to be farmers?’
The girl — Ellen — looked up. ‘I want to be an engine driver.’
‘Nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘Girls don’t drive engines.’
‘Cecil?’ asked Mr Drinkwater.
The boy hesitated, glancing at his father. ‘Yes, please, sir.’
‘You don’t sound convinced,’ said Mr Drinkwater dryly.
The boy looked from his grandfather to his father, then back again. ‘I want to fly an aeroplane.’
Mr Drinkwater laughed, clearly delighted. ‘I doubt you get your sense of adventure from your father.’ He put his crumpled napkin back on the table. ‘There will be enough money for you to buy your own train engine if you like, my dear, and for you to have your aeroplanes. Now if you don’t mind, I will lie down a while. We will meet again before dinner.’
Bertram looked annoyed. ‘You may leave the table,’ he said to the children. ‘Mrs Murphy will give you your pudding in the kitchen.’
Mr Drinkwater watched the children leave the room, then stood up. Bertram stood too.
‘Then you intend to leave the farm to the children?’
Of course he will leave his land to his grandchildren, thought Matilda, trying to ignore the stab to her heart. But don’t press him now, you slug. Let him think you’ve come because you love him — love the land — not just for money.
Mr Drinkwater looked at his son kindly. ‘I hope their inheritance will be enough to establish them however they would like. But I’m afraid there is no farm to leave them.’
‘No farm? Father, really —’
‘I sold Drinkwater to Miss O’Halloran last year. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He took his cane and walked from the room.
Matilda sat in shock for a second. She glanced at Bertram. His mouth hung open like a fish. Florence too looked stunned.
Matilda stood too. ‘I need to check down at the sheds.’
She didn’t, but it was an excuse to go, to let Bertram and Florence absorb the news in private. She also had to speak to Mr Drinkwater if he wanted her to keep up this pretence. She heard Bertram’s voice rise in protest as she shut the door.
She wasn’t going anywhere, though, until she had changed. How did women manage to even breathe? she thought crossly, trying to open the hooks. A knock sounded on her bedroom door. She grabbed her dressing gown and pulled the belt tight, and opened it.
It was Mr Drinkwater. She held the door open further and he limped in then lowered himself into the armless chair by the dressing table. ‘You looked very nice at luncheon.’
She grinned. ‘I wasn’t going to appear before your family in trousers. Not at the table, anyway.’
‘You are my family,’ he said.
Tears stung suddenly. ‘I’m glad.’ She bit her lip. ‘Thank you for what you said to Bertram. It’ll stop him countermanding my orders while he’s here. But I do understand that Drinkwater will go to your family. I’ve always known.’
‘As I said, you are my family.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’
He smiled. ‘I think by now Drinkwater is as much yours as mine. I got the land by squatting here, clearing the trees, making it my own. You’ve made it yours too.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s time we made it legal. I could leave it to you in my will, but Bertram would contest it, and might well win. It is best to sell it to you now. Don’t worry — the price won’t be anything you can’t afford. You’ve more than earned part of this place already. I’ll send Murphy into town to tell the lawyer to draw up the papers. We’ll have it settled by the end of the week.’ He looked at her sardonically. ‘I expect I shall survive till then.’
It was almost impossible to speak. Impossible even to c
omprehend it yet. ‘You … you old biscuit. You’ll live to be 150.’
He stood, then stepped over to kiss her cheek. ‘I think parts of me will have worn out before then. But thank you for putting up with Bertram and Florence, my dear. He is a fool. He always was. But he is still my son. And the children.’ His face softened. ‘They are darlings, aren’t they? And they shall certainly have enough to buy their engines and their aeroplanes, or whatever else they want that their father thinks they shouldn’t have.’
‘There is no way I can ever thank you,’ said Matilda softly. ‘And our partnership stays. Half of all profit for each of us.’
‘Of course. Where would you be without my guidance? I should miss our arguments, as well.’
He met her eyes. ‘You know, even today, if James was alive, I would be against your marriage. But long before he died you were closer to me than I could have imagined any daughter being.’
He let himself out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Matilda sat, her stays still half untied. It was a while before she realised she was crying.
Chapter 57
AUGUST 1913
Dear Matilda,
I do hope you will join us for luncheon on Saturday, to celebrate the engagement of our son George to Miss Helen Underhill, of Melbourne. There will be tennis afterward, if you would care to play.
Your sincere friend,
Patricia Doo
So George was engaged. Matilda put the thick cream invitation down on the verandah table. She hoped his fiancée was a nice girl. A strong girl too, who could cope with the problems her mixed marriage would bring. But money eased problems. She smiled at the formal wording of the note — one of Patricia’s children must have written it — and at the pleasure it would be to see her and her husband, to play tennis on their new court, to wear her tennis dress, with its daring ruffled skirt inches above her ankles.
There was a tennis court next to the church now too, so the churchgoers could play after services each Sunday, the men and women taking it in turns to use the parish hall to change out of their Sunday-best clothes.
Strange to remember the days when there had been a service only once every two months, when town and church had been impossibly far away for most of the district. Now there were a fair few cars, and many bicycles, and more horses than ever before now there was grass to feed them. Almost everyone had some form of transport. The desperate isolation that so many women and their children had faced was gradually ending, for most at least.
She had been dreaming of the past last night; she felt bleary today. She and Tommy had climbed the path to the cave together. She was twelve again, and he fifteen. He had been flying a kite, a giant white one that soared above the valley, which then turned into a giant white eagle that had flown off toward the river.
Nonsense, like all dreams. Tommy was long ago now. Yet her father, Auntie Love, Aunt Ann and her mother were still with her and the world they had given her all around. They were dead, and Tommy was alive. Why was it so strange that she still sometimes felt his presence too?
‘Hello, cocky!’ The cockatoo waddled toward her, back and forth on his perch. She reached in to scratch his head, then stopped, and reached for the door latch instead.
She opened the cage door, and waited.
The cockatoo stared at her, then at the open door, then back at her.
He is waiting for me to shut it again, to put in more seed or water, she thought. ‘Come on, boy. Or girl, whichever you are.’ She put her hand into the cage, next to the perch, to encourage it.
The cockatoo bit her wrist. A speck of blood appeared, but she kept her hand still. At last he stepped onto her hand, clutching her index finger with his claws. Slowly, very slowly, she drew him out, then rested her elbow on the arm of the chair. The bird didn’t hesitate now. It stepped over onto the chair, then jumped down onto the floor, flapping its wings as it walked over to the edge of the verandah.
‘He’ll never fly.’
She’d thought he was inside, asleep on the sofa. She stood up — slowly, so she didn’t startle the bird — and helped him sit down in his chair. ‘He might.’
‘He’s been in that cage for forty years.’ Mr Drinkwater waved a hand irritably. ‘No, I don’t need a rug over my legs. I’m not an invalid.’
Of course he was. And of course she couldn’t tell him so. They watched the bird flap its wings again, using them to glide down to the ground.
‘See?’ said Mr Drinkwater.
‘I’ll leave the cage door open. He can come back if he likes.’ She reached in and found a handful of seed, then threw it out onto the grass.
‘The dogs’ll get him —’ he began, just as Dusty galloped around the side of the house. The dog gave a startled woof, then bounded toward the bird.
‘Scratch cocky!’
Suddenly the bird was airborne, with a vast fluttering of wings. It made it to the lower branches of the Chinese tallow-wood tree, the new green leaves just showing. It glared down at the dog. ‘Scratch cocky!’ it yelled malevolently.
Matilda laughed. ‘I bet in a month or two it’ll fly off with the next mob of cockatoos that passes.’
‘You mean the ones that come to steal our apples? More likely it’ll teach the lot of them to hang around for a handout.’ Mr Drinkwater peered at her over the reading glasses he had begun to wear. ‘You’re planning to put out seed for it, aren’t you?’
‘And water,’ said Matilda cheerfully. ‘It’s worked for you for forty years, entertaining your visitors. We owe it a pension.’
Suddenly he laughed too. ‘Go on!’ he yelled to the bird. ‘Fly! Who knows what you’ll find over the hills? A fortune, a wife and baby birds —’ He stopped.
‘I expect an apple orchard’s a fortune to a mob of cockatoos,’ said Matilda. ‘Or a paddock of ripe corn. Hopefully not ours.’
‘I was wondering if we should put lucerne in down on the river paddocks.’ Mr Drinkwater still looked at the bird. ‘It’s doing well higher up. They say lucerne roots are deep enough to survive when river flats get flooded.’
‘It’s an idea.’ It had been hard watching their corn wash away last flood, and so much of their best soil too. Floods were part of their lives now. ‘Let’s give it a go. I have a feeling we’re in for another deluge, and soon.’
She watched as the bird flapped its way up to a higher branch. We never really know the future, she thought. One day the door is closed, and then it’s open. But at least thanks to Auntie Love she had some feeling for what the land might bring next.
She smiled at the man beside her. He was smiling too, watching the bird, remembering … what? she wondered. How he had flown from the safe world of his father’s house in Sydney? All that he had found and done? His wives, his children …
She clicked her fingers to tell the dog to come up onto the verandah, then stood up. ‘Will I tell Mrs Murphy we’ll have lunch out here? That way we can see where it flies next.’
Chapter 58
SEPTEMBER 1914
Dear Grandpapa,
I hope you are well.
Thank you for the money for the aeroplane ride! It was the most wonderful birthday present ever. Mama didn’t want me to go up in the plane at first, but I said it was your present, so she had to let me. The plane bumped forever over the grass, so I thought it would never get up into the air, then suddenly it wasn’t bumping and we were flying! I wish you could have seen us. All the cows looked like tiny toys and so did the house. The pilot said I have an ‘excellent stomach’. I wasn’t scared at all, even when we looped the loop, which he says he hardly ever does with passengers in case they get sick.
Cecil has decided he does not want to fly aeroplanes now. He did not know they went so high up. He says he is going to explore the Amazon instead, if you will send him a ticket for the boat, and fight a boa constrictor. If he wins, he will send you its head.
It was a good birthday. Mama gave me a new dress with yellowribbons, and Papa gave me a new book for ske
tches. It has a kangaroo-leather cover and is very fine. Cecil gave me a box of chocolates, which I do not think is fair, as he will eat half of them and Mama will object if I do not share, but I will try to keep them hidden from him.
They were all good presents but I like yours best. Do you think I could have flying lessons for my next birthday? It will have to be another pilot though, because he is going to fight the Huns in Flanders with aeroplanes.
Please give my kind regards to Miss O’Halloran, and thank her for organising the plane ride for me. Mama would never have done it.
Your loving granddaughter,
Ellen
Mr Drinkwater’s bedroom smelled of bay rum for his hair and the bitter brown medicine in the bottle by the bed. Matilda thought the old man was asleep at first, but he opened his eyes as she walked toward the bed.
She bent down as he whispered to her, ‘The old biscuit is crumbling.’
‘Shh.’ She smoothed his pillow. ‘No need to talk.’
She sat on the chair next to his bed — polished wood, a cushioned back and seat, so different from the chairs her father had made. But they were made with love, she thought. And then: maybe, somewhere, this chair was too. His skin felt like cool parchment when she took his hand.
‘Left the place to you in my will,’ he whispered.
‘Thank you.’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek. No point reminding him that she already owned the place, that he had transferred it to her four years before. In his mind the land was his, and always would be.
‘You’ll look after it. You won’t leave? Love left me. Did I tell you Love left me?’
‘I won’t leave you. I’ll be here, by your bed.’
His breathing grew shallower. She thought he was asleep or unconscious, when one bright blue eye opened. ‘Sing to me. So I know you’re here. Not that song,’ he added.
‘What song?’
‘The one about the swagman.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said gently.
So he too had made the connection between the song and those tragic, confused moments at the billabong all those years before.
A Waltz for Matilda Page 36
