A Waltz for Matilda (16 page)

At last the sobs died away.

‘You all right now, lassie?’

She nodded, reaching for her hanky. She blew her nose.

‘Good-oh.’ Mr Gotobed looked relieved. ‘Like we said to the old bast—’ He stopped and looked at her.

‘Biscuit.’

‘Er,
biscuit,
the union’ll look after your pa. None o’ that Friday stuff, neither. The funeral will be Saturday arvo, when those who has jobs are free to come. Whole town’ll turn out for your pa.’

She wiped her nose again. ‘Why?’

‘Your pa started the union in these parts. He were the one who invited O’Reilly to come, an’ all the other speakers we’ve had here too. We’d do the same for any union man. But your pa — he were the best.’

The others nodded. Mr Gotobed looked at the sack and the box on the table. ‘We brought you some other stuff too. Not much — no one has a brass farthing to rub together around here just now.’

‘Except for Drinkwater,’ put in Curry and Rice.

‘Except for the old, er, biscuit. But we’ll see you right, best as we can. When things is bad you got to stick together.’

‘Comrades got to stick together,’ said Bluey.

‘Thank you —’ she began.

‘Now, you want a lift in to town? Mrs Lacey offered to put you up. And the Fergusons —’

‘No. I want to stay here. This was my father’s place. He’d want me to stay here. It’s mine now.’

To her relief they seemed to have expected it. Bluey nodded. ‘Girl’s got a right to stay in her own home.’

‘Besides,’ she added, ‘I’m not alone.’ She gestured into the room beyond. The woman stirred, as though she had heard their voices, and rolled over, showing her face.

Mr Gotobed stared. ‘That’s old Auntie Love. Ain’t seen her around for a donkey’s age. What’s she doin’ here? What’s wrong with her?’

‘I found her. She’s had an apoplexy, a stroke, I think, but I don’t think it’s too bad. Whose auntie is she?’

‘Sampson’s, I reckon. He’s one o’ the natives that works for Drinkwater. But everyone used to call her Auntie. Sampson’s a good bloke, almost like a white man. Knows sheep too.’ The last sounded like it was one of the best compliments he could pay. Almost, she thought, as good as saying someone was a union man.

Suddenly she just wanted them to go. To leave her alone. She wanted silence and time to think. Time to make soup — if there were the right things in the sack.

Just … time.

The sun had long sunk behind the ridges. Curry and Rice looked out the door, then nudged his companions. ‘Better get back while there’s still light.’

And then, at last, they left.

Mr Gotobed had given her a dozen lamb chops. She kept four to cook tonight. The others could go in the meat safe by the spring, along with a hunk of cheese.

She looked at the things Mr Drinkwater had brought next.

More meat — a giant leg of mutton. The dog whined. It
crouched on the floor and gazed up at her longingly. She cut off the shank and put it out on the verandah. The dog chewed it hungrily while she unpacked the rest.

Bread — real bread, not damper, and fresh too; a heavy fruitcake; a jar of melon and ginger jam — not Mr Thrattle’s, she was glad to see, but home-made. A big sack of flour, another smaller sack of sugar. No vegetables or barley to make soup, but she could cut the grilled meat up fine for Auntie Love and dip thin slices of bread and butter in the tea.

The chest held clothes. There was a dress she supposed was Florence’s, white with a grass stain at the hem. Her lips curled. Of course Florence couldn’t be expected to wear a stained dress. But Aunt Ann had shown her how to get out grass stains with sugar.

A nightdress, far too big for her — it must be Mrs Ellsmore’s. Two handkerchiefs, edged with lace. Soap and a hairbrush. For the first time her heart softened. These weren’t just cast-offs. Mrs Ellsmore must have actually tried to work out what she might need. And the hairbrush was beautiful: ivory with an inlay of silver. This was a genuine gift to a girl who had lost her father.

She’d wash her hair properly tomorrow, and then brush it before she plaited it again.

But the chops first. Her mouth watered. It had been almost a year since she’d eaten meat, except at the factory in Tommy’s sandwiches.

Would Mr Drinkwater post Tommy’s letters? She bet he’d read them first, if he did. She’d better write another letter, in case Tommy never got her first two. A penny was precious, but somehow a letter would make Tommy feel closer.

She had to find a way to make some money. Was town near enough to get a job, but still live here? She suspected she had
come the long way round. She should have asked Mr Gotobed how long it took to get there. But probably the striking shearers or their wives and daughters had taken any jobs.

Maybe she could make money doing mending if anyone could afford to pay for it. Her sewing wasn’t good enough to do dressmaking, like Aunt Ann and Mum, despite all their attempts to make her stitches neat.

She put her chin up. (‘Chin up,’ Aunt Ann used to say, when she’d sighed over her copy book or her sums.) Her father would want her to be happy, not sad. Proud of him and proud of Moura too.

Meanwhile there were chops and fruitcake.

Auntie Love had wakened before Matilda, and must have somehow made her own way out to the dunny. Matilda found the old woman sitting half sprawled in a chair on the verandah, the dog at her feet. Inside the fire had been freshened with a new bit of wood, and the water in the pot at the edge of the hearth was just off the boil. Auntie Love was used to kitchens, it seemed, despite her bare feet.

Matilda approached her shyly. This looked a different woman from the shapeless bundle she had washed and cleaned and dressed.

‘Hello. How are you?’

Auntie Love nodded, almost regally. She waved a hand to the other chair.

Matilda sat. ‘It is all right if I call you Auntie Love?’ she asked hesitantly.

Auntie Love nodded.

‘My name is Matilda O’Halloran.’

Auntie Love nodded again, as though she already knew. Or maybe, thought Matilda, she couldn’t speak much, just like Aunt Ann’s friend had lost most of her words, as well as not being able to use half her mouth. ‘Are you sure you should be out of bed?’

Auntie Love stared at her, her face twitching. Matilda realised the old woman was trying to smile.

‘Not sleep inside. Sleep here,’ she said at last. The words were indistinct, and a touch of spittle ran down her chin. She lifted her right hand — the left one lay still in her lap, as though she had placed it there — and used the hem of her nightdress (Mum’s nightdress) to wipe it away.

There was no way to argue with the certainty in those brown eyes. ‘Would you like some breakfast? I could make toast and jam. Chops.’

The dog looked up at the word ‘chops’. It had shared her bread last night, then her two chop bones too. The bones sat, well gnawed, between its paws.

Auntie Love seemed to consider the chops, to realise perhaps that she couldn’t chew them. At last she mumbled, ‘Toast.’

It was almost an order. Matilda nodded, and went to cut the bread.

The man arrived while they were on their second cup of tea, Matilda holding the cup — china, today, with its border of pink rosebuds — to Auntie Love’s lips. The old woman had eaten two slices of toast, sodden in tea, then waved her refusal of a third.

The dog heard the horse before they did. It sat up, but didn’t give its yipping bark. Matilda stood as the rider dismounted and came up the steps.

He was a native, but not a wild one, she saw in relief. Except for his dark skin he looked like all the other stockmen she had seen, from his boots to his sweat-stained hat. He was about her father’s age. He tipped his hat to Matilda, then bent down to Auntie Love. ‘What you doin’ here, Auntie, eh? You all right?’

Auntie Love gave him a blunt nod. The man stood and took his hat off politely. ‘Good day, miss. I’m Sampson,’ he said.

‘Pleased to meet you —’ She hesitated. Did you call natives ‘mister’? But this man had a job, and wore proper clothes. ‘— Mr Sampson,’ she added.

He looked at her consideringly. Very like his aunt, she thought, the same stare, the same wrinkled eyes and hair, though his had no sign of grey.

‘Thanks for looking after Auntie. How did she get here?’

‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t want to tell a stranger about the cave. ‘Why wasn’t anyone looking for her?’ She felt a spurt of anger that an old woman could wander so far without anyone sending out a search party. But then they were natives.

‘She doesn’t live with me,’ he said shortly. ‘Auntie don’t like houses much these days.’

Matilda stared at Auntie Love. ‘You mean she’s … she’s wild?’

She thought she saw a flare of anger, well controlled. ‘I mean she don’t like houses.’

She bit her lip, unsure of how much she should say. ‘A few days ago I heard Mr Drinkwater’s son say he and his father and brother had been hunting wild natives. He said they’d shot one …’

He went still, waiting for her to say more.

‘Could … could Auntie Love have been there?’

He didn’t move. At last he said, ‘She ain’t been shot, has she?’

Matilda shook her head. ‘I think it’s what’s called an apoplexy, stroke. But she’s better today than she was yesterday when I found her. I think she needs a doctor though.’

‘Doctor won’t come, eh? Not to her.’ His voice was matter-of-fact. He turned to the old woman again. ‘Hey, Auntie … did they shoot at you?’

The woman looked from him to Matilda, then back again.

‘Shot Galbumayn.’

‘Who’s Galbumayn?’ Matilda whispered.

He didn’t look at her. ‘Not a name. You don’t name the dead. Means younger brother. They didn’t hurt you, Auntie?’

‘Found him.’ The effort of talking seemed too much for her.

Matilda could almost see it: the old woman, hearing the shots, running, stumbling. The man and boys on horseback already gone, perhaps, the body lying in the sand.