This Wish I Have
Page 5
And you mean nothing. Aunt Allie might have said the words, so plainly did they hang in the air between them in Mattie’s by now overwrought imagination. Aunt Allie’s ‘mother-figure’ had temporarily altered in her mind. Mattie despised herself for her ungenerous thoughts. She must be glad—glad for Lex. He didn’t need or love her. He never had. But he loved and needed Aunt Allie, and Mattie mustn’t mind. She musn’t mind, even though she had hoped beyond reason that she and Lex, marooned alone together in the world, might be on the brink of a new relationship, greater and more rewarding than the existing tenuous paternal tie—a relationship where real affection, even love, might once again have a place.
Now it was unlikely that such would ever happen.
But she must smile and be glad, and not let her desolation show through.
Mattie drew herself up, poised and beautiful and proud.
“I’m very, very happy for you,” she told Aunt Allie. “For both you and my father. I—I won’t try to prevent the new man from staying to help, just for eight weeks, not if it means my father’s health and your future happiness together are both at stake. Bless you both, Aunt Allie.”
She walked over and gave the other woman a quiet, sincere embrace. No one would ever know what an effort it cost her, that gesture, but she managed it somehow. Aunt Allie could not possibly suspect the unworthy turmoil that she had had to fight inside herself. Her hug was returned, warmly, before the nurse left her to go and see to her patient.
Mattie stumbled to the sink, feeling more bewildered and lonely than ever. For several wild moments she asked herself just what she was doing here at Twin Rivers at all, an unwelcome third, a poor last in the affections of the other two occupants of the homestead, but it was unthinkable that she should be anywhere else at the present time. She was Matilda Bennett of Twin Rivers, Lex’s only daughter, and she must stay as long as she was needed.
And when she was no longer needed? She would go away somewhere. Back to Sydney? She didn’t know. Back to her glamorous career? She didn’t know that, either. There was an emptiness about that modelling business that did nothing to assuage the ache in Mattie to be needed and loved for herself. Not for the beautiful, graceful lines of her body, or the photogenic planes of her lovely face, or the silken-wheat glisten of her marvellous hair. She was aware that her passing romantic attachments to Sydney’s most eligible and experienced playboys had taught her the worth of true sincerity. They had been shallow, superficial relationships, unworthy and hollow compared with Aunt Allie’s obsessive love of Mattie’s difficult and discouraging father. That love had blossomed early and its beauty had withstood the passage of years. Aunt Allie had been a generous and wholehearted friend of Mattie’s own mother—the woman Lex had chosen in her stead—and a staunch friend always to the children of his marriage. Her love had been a giving sort of love, receiving nothing in return. She had never married, and now her reward was that, on his part, Lex had turned to her and admitted his need of her.
No, Mattie couldn’t do or say anything that would dim Aunt Allie’s joy, and if she wanted the man Gib to stay, Mattie would have to agree.
She admitted now, to herself, more calmly, that he frightened her, not in the same way as Bryn had frightened her, but because he already had a queer power over her. She was strong-willed and independent, like Lex, and had been able to call the tune with most of Nick’s male friends and her admirers in the city. She had never met a man like this stranger Gib before. It wasn’t just his powerful build and overwhelming masculinity. It was a certain ruthlessness that she sensed in him, a decisiveness and confidence that had enabled him to make up his mind, in a mere matter of moments, that he would stop ‘waltzing Matilda’ temporarily and help Lex Bennett out of a fix. A man who would take on Twin Rivers so lightly must be very sure of himself indeed. Apart from Lex’s high standard of management, it was a property that called for a certain diversity of knowledge, from the working of the rich alluvial loam in the narrow river valley to the husbandry of sheep and cattle in the hills and plains beyond. Any man who could wander along the dusty tracks possessing little beyond the shabby clothes he wore and the meagre contents of his rolled swag, and thought himself fit to take that on, was a man to reckon with. And there had been something in those cool grey eyes, so crinkle-cornered and sage and intent that they seemed to see right through into Mattie’s innermost thoughts, that told one he didn’t just think he could take it on. He knew he could.
That was what she disliked most about him, she decided—that quiet self-assurance. She could have done with a little of it herself, and it seemed that he had more than his fair share. And she resented the fact that it had seemed to cast a spell on sensible Aunt Allie, too, and she herself had obeyed his few quiet commands like some mindless idiot with no will of her own, instead of as the mistress of Twin Rivers. Why, if he spoke like that to the station hands, they’d be running in circles to do his bidding in no time, and he’d do whatever he liked outside. And who was to say what that would be?
The subject of her thoughts came back through the swing-door at that moment, crossing over to lean casually on the dresser. In one hand he held what might have been a wallet. Mattie could see that it was some sort of pigskin folder with neat, brass-bound corners. He slipped it into his hip pocket, and turned her way.
“The fellow Bryn was waiting at the office as I passed. I told him I’ll pay him off myself in the morning on his way out. You can give me the cheque after I’ve seen your father. I reckon you’ve had enough tonight, Miss Bennett, and this way, there’ll be no necessity for you to see the man again.”
Gib’s voice was stern, and discouraged argument.
“Thank you,” Mattie found herself saying helplessly.
Actually, relief flowed through her at having the matter thus taken out of her hands. She had wondered how she could possibly face Bryn again after all she had said.
At the same time, she experienced a thrill of uneasiness at the sheer nerve of this man, and the manner in which he had imposed his will already. She longed to ask if Bryn had accepted his ultimatum without questions or suspicion, but somehow she didn’t dare. She didn’t want him to think she was interested in Bryn in any way at all. She wasn’t. But she was certainly curious to know what his reactions had been to this man.
“I’ll give you the cheque later,” she told him tonelessly. “I’ve one of my own all ready for him.”
Gib looked faintly surprised.
“One of your own? Is that wise?”
Mattie flushed.
“It won’t bounce, if that’s what you mean,” she assured him coldly.
“That’s not what I mean,” he replied evenly. “You’re very young, aren’t you, Miss Bennett? Do you never see the implications of your actions until the resulting chickens come home to roost? A dismissed man can sometimes turn vindictive, you know, and a cheque from the boss’s daughter could add weight to almost any story he chose to tell—especially under the circumstances. I suppose you’ve paid him more than he’s due, into the bargain?”
“What if I have?” Mattie retorted, stung.
The broad shoulders shrugged idly.
“Just more ammunition to fire back if he chooses, that’s all. Why did you do that?”
“Because I haven’t the foggiest idea how to make up his wretched wages from the wretched pay-book, that’s why,” Mattie snapped at him crossly, aware that she sounded as cantankerous as an overtired child, and unable to stop herself. “How am I expected to know what all those schedules mean, and which rates apply? I gave him more than enough—much more—so that he couldn’t go off saying the Bennetts owed him anything.”
“I see. Do you have your father’s power of attorney? Good. We’ll go to the office afterwards, and I’ll bring his books up to date and write a cheque on the station account, which you can sign on Lex Bennett’s behalf. But first, I’d like to see him. Will you show me to his room, or would you rather wait until Sister Marchant comes back?”
Already he had put her in the wrong, making her appear ingenuous and inept. She just hoped her father would show him the door, in spite of Aunt Allie. That would teach him a lesson, and Mattie would run and open that door herself and show him out, she thought spitefully.
Things didn’t happen that way at all, though.
True to his word, he was no more than ten minutes closeted alone with Lex. She and Aunt Allie clocked him on their watches as they waited anxiously outside.
When the door opened, he beckoned to Aunt Allie to come in for a moment. The gesture hadn’t included Mattie, so she stayed where she was, sitting on the low veranda-rail with the mosquito gauze at her back.
Presently he and Aunt Allie came out together. Aunt Allie’s face was wreathed in relieved smiles, but Gib’s stern features were set in unreadable lines.
Aunt Allie turned to Mattie.
“Everything’s going to be fine, dear,” she said. “Your father actually knows now about Bryn leaving. Gib told him, so we don’t have to conceal it from him. He says we’re to put Gib in one of the spare bedrooms, and give him his meals at the house. And he says”—she hesitated over the words, for the first time looking uncertainly away from the girl before her—“he says we’re to co-operate with Gib in every way, and carry out any instructions he may give to the letter.”
Mattie’s body was rigid with control, and her face felt taut. Her eyes burned with incredulity in its pallor.
“May I go in and see my father, please, Aunt Allie?” she asked quietly.
“I’m sorry, Mattie.” The nurse sounded genuinely regretful. “He says he’ll see you in the morning. He’s a little tired, but a good deal happier about things, it seems.”
Mattie couldn’t restrain a forlorn little sigh, so soft and slight that it escaped Aunt Allie. She hoped Gib hadn’t heard it either, but something in his eyes made her almost certain that he had. It was an elusive softening in their frosty greyness, and a relaxing of the firm set of his mouth.
But all he said was,
“Come to the office and we’ll settle up that little matter, please, Miss Bennett. It will save me having to bother you with it in the morning.”
Mattie followed his own long steps, her small heels tapping on the wooden veranda.
In her tiredness and misery she stumbled, and a hand came up to grasp her arm firmly. Mattie tried to shrug it away, but it tightened in the darkness and remained there until they reached the office. Only when he had flicked the light on and ushered her in did Gib let go her arm.
His eyes were like narrow chips of ice as he studied her flustered face.
“Relax,” he told her suavely. “I don’t intend to begin by letting Lex Bennett’s daughter break her neck in the dark, but I can assure you that’s as far as it goes. Unlike Bryn, I’m immune to the allure of youthful sophisticates, and in any case”—he paused only to flick open the paybook at the page marked ‘Bryn, J. E.’—“One Matilda is enough for any man, and I have mine already.”
CHAPTER FOUR
MATTIE had got up early ever since she came back to Twin Rivers.
At first, her silent grief over Nick had given her only fitful snatches of sleep, and it had been a relief to leave the bed where she had tossed and turned so often during the night, and busy herself lighting the range and doing other pre-breakfast chores, although the sight of her father’s lined face and the heavy sighs with which he punctuated the eating of his breakfast did little to alleviate her own sense of bereavement.
Then, when Lex became ill, there were the nurses’ needs to attend to.
Now the habit was as ingrained as it had been in her childhood, and Mattie sometimes found herself wondering if those long, sleepy Sydney mornings had been a dream, after all, not to mention the madcap parties that went on until all hours in the city’s fabulous nightspots.
Dawn at Twin Rivers was worth getting up for, especially in the heat of late summer. For one thing it was the only time at which one could feel comfortably cool, because the air at dawn was as yet only warm, and the faint breeze off the hills fanned through the valley. At the height of summer the whole place shimmered with a slaying heat that descended in an enervating pall over the iron-roofed buildings that clustered there like a small, roasted village once the sun was higher in the sky. The gauzed verandas kept the mosquitoes out at night, but they also prevented the night air from circulating very much, and one was apt to wake up feeling clammy and listless. That was why everyone, from Diamond and Harry, the aboriginal stockmen, to the station-hands, jackaroos and the homestead’s own occupants—started the day with a shower.
Diamond’s and Harry’s wasn’t so much a shower as an ablution, which they took in the shallow pool at the estuary creek, the ‘Twin’ river, where it ran into the main one. It was a favourite water-hole for the lubras and picannins too, and looked something like an open-air laundry, with pieces of fencing wire strung between the gum-trees, disporting colourful cottons and pallid khakis and now and then a few rabbit skins stretched on wire loops as well. There was always plenty of shouting and laughing from that direction in the mornings.
Washing was a somewhat more serious business down at the station-hands’ quarters. They were mostly typical Australian bushmen who lived out here—lean, tough and taciturn, seldom saying two words if one would do. They were prepared to be generous with their pay, their baccy and their beer, but speech itself was considered to be a waste of energy unless it was absolutely necessary. There was a row of cement-floored showers down at the huts, but the most that emanated therefrom was an occasional bout of jaunty whistling from one of the junior jackeroos. By the time he was a senior, and ready to leave the property, it was ten to one he would have caught the outback habit of laconic brevity of speech, even though his actual word-power would be richly embellished by an impressive number of withering and expressive epithets. These were brought out sparingly at times when one simply had to open one’s mouth. At any event, whatever went on in the men’s wash-house, they emerged each day with less dust on their bodies, but more stubble on their chins, and smelling very strongly of pink carbolic soap. They shaved, on average, once a week, and the effort of that usually rendered them wordless for the whole of that particular day.
If Mattie looked down towards the huts, she could see Charlie Doherty moving about near the cook-house. His figure was easily distinguished by his white chef’s cap which had come with him, in the beginning, on his very first day at Twin Rivers. He had a striped apron, too, and a way with pastry, and he called Mattie ‘Madam’. She often wondered where Charlie had learned to make his wonderful pastry, and why he did not call her Mattie like the rest of the men did, but Australian country people respected each other’s privacy about such things, and her curiosity had had to remain unsatisfied. The men didn’t tease Charlie because he called her “Madam” in such an unbushmanlike way. They respected him too much, for he was their acknowledged superior in other ways. He didn’t smoke, but he could swill down a pint quicker than most, and Jo Roper over at Tineroo swore he had the ‘guts of an ox’ when it came to knocking back the hard stuff. On occasions he had drunk a bottle of whisky in an evening without going under the table, or losing his manners, or even wanting to sing, and there was another thing, too, that made them hand it to Charlie. He had lost his index finger in a woolshed brawl, but he could pick a crow off a tree at an incredible distance, and only use his middle finger on the trigger of the rifle. Not many blokes could do that, they would say, scratching their heads in uneasy admiration. These abilities made them more tolerant of Charlie’s politeness.
Today dawned much as usual. The pink flush of young sunlight turned the gums and ironbarks on the ridges to sage and silver, and caught the parched splendour of rocky slopes. The stalwart knots of pines met the blue of the skyline in a contrast that was at once crude and beautiful. The only other summer green left in that wild sweep of lands
cape belonged to the little square plots of lucerne in the valley itself. The rest of the river land was bare and stubbly, awaiting the rain that would enable the tractors to get on with the ploughing.
The machinery had to be ready and awaiting that opportunity, or otherwise one could be too late in sowing, and miss out on the season.
Mattie, until she pondered that possibility, had almost forgotten that the homestead now housed another occupant. Still slightly drowsy with sleep, she was reminded of Gib anew, and when she reached the bathroom, with its tiled shower-closet, she was aware that someone had already been there before her. There were little tepid droplets clinging to the splash-curtain, and the faint, refreshing aroma of pine in the air.
Mattie showered quickly, and put on a blue cotton overall before she went to the kitchen.
Dawn’s stillness hung over the atmosphere, so that every sound was magnified and sharp. She recognized shrieks from Nellie down at the water-hole, and Lucy’s high-pitched giggle nearer at hand. Charlie’s pans clinked and clanked outside the cook-house, where he would be setting the long trestle-table with tin mugs and plates for the men. Percy Somers, the first-year jackeroo, was whistling ‘The Pride of Erin’ with monotonous gusto in the saddling paddock. Mattie had long since come to the conclusion that either it was the only tune Percy knew, or else it had some peculiar and inescapable emotional significance with which he chose to torture himself.
She smiled a little. Percy was nineteen, a gay and irrepressible young blade with a ready smile and rather juvenile sense of fun. She couldn’t imagine him nursing a broken heart, somehow.
Mattie entered the kitchen, and eyed her old enemy, the range, which waited, black and baleful, at the farthermost end of the room. Then she remembered that Gib had said not to light it until he had seen it.