A Waltz for Matilda (28 page)

She heard the first call but didn’t take it in. It was only when the shout came again that she looked up.

There above her were the homestead, the cottages, the garden, the dairy and a stretch of dust filled with sheep, a thousand sheep at least, behind a ring of black. A firebreak, just as Mr Sampson had said that they would make.

Their mob of sheep was racing ahead. She looked at the animals blankly. There was no way she could make them change direction now.

There was no need. As she stood there swaying, two men on horseback rode down, yelling, cracking their whips. The sheep swerved up the hill, instinctively heading toward the larger mob, staggering over the ring of black to the others.

‘You all right?’

It was Mr Drinkwater. She blinked, unable to answer. He swung his arm down and helped her scramble up onto the horse’s back in front of him.

‘Tommy!’ she called, then saw the other rider — James — help him up. She felt the horse move below her, and Mr Drinkwater’s strong arm around her, as they cantered up the hill.

He reined the horse up in the garden. She slithered off
unsteadily. A woman ran over as man and horse vanished back toward the milling sheep. She felt herself shepherded across the gravel yard, through a scullery, then into a kitchen. She sat, and drank water, glass after glass, then stood again. ‘I have to go.’

The woman stared at her. ‘Leave it to the men.’

‘No! My friends are out there. I have to see if they’ve got here too.’

She was gone before the woman could protest again.

She found Tommy in the courtyard, shoving his way through the milling sheep, his hat gone, burned leaves in his hair, his eyes concerned as he examined her. Tommy. She felt like crying with gratitude. But it was as though her body couldn’t spare the moisture.

‘Matilda! Are you hurt?’ Impossible to hear with the bleat of sheep, the batter of the wind, but she guessed the words.

He hovered anxiously, holding his scarred wrist with his left hand, as though afraid it might inadvertently touch her. She shook her head, looking out past the homestead. Only the land behind them was unburned.

The flames had passed the treed land now, and were onto what should be bare ground, half a mile away perhaps. But they still looked like a wall, pushed by the wind.

Could dirt burn?

‘There’s water in the kitchen.’

‘One of the men gave me a drink.’

‘Are the others here yet?’ She had to yell, and even then the words were eaten by the wind.

He shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen them.’ He nodded over to the ring of men at the edge of the firebreak. The flames were travelling so fast the fire was nearly on them. ‘I’m going over there.’

She nodded to show she had understood, then began to follow him. They pushed their way through the sheep to the line of men standing at the edge of the firebreak.

Most held rakes, others green branches. A pile of more green branches lay on the ground.

She picked one up, then found Mr Drinkwater beside her. James stood on the other side of him, staring at Matilda as though he had never seen her before. She suddenly realised what she must look like: as black as Tommy, in men’s clothes and filthy at that. Even her hair was probably black. ‘Don’t tell me to go back to the house.’

Mr Drinkwater hardly looked at her, his eyes on the approaching flames. ‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘It’s nearly here.’ James’s eyes were on the flames again.

Matilda pulled at Mr Drinkwater’s arm. ‘Mr Sampson, Elsie, Auntie Love — I think they’re all still out there with your sheep. We separated so we could find as many as we could.’

Mr Drinkwater did look at her then. ‘In God’s name, girl, why?’

In God’s name, she thought, remembering the picture of Jesus and the lambs in Sunday school, so long ago. ‘Because they’re living creatures, not because they’re yours. Please — could you send men out to look for my friends?’

‘No.’

Anger flared with anguish. ‘Just because they’re natives!’

He bent close to her ear so she could hear above the roar of fire. ‘I would if I could, girl. We’ll look for them. But it’s
impossible now.’ He strode off, a branch in his hand, leaving James beside her.

James yelled above the wind, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the house?’

‘Yes.’

She stared at the approaching flames. Mr Drinkwater was right. There was no way anyone could search for others until the fire had passed. Beside her Tommy held his branch like a weapon, his eyes on the fire-front too. The end nearest the river was closest. How many minutes before it was on them? The flames circled more than half the homestead now.

She moved over to the other edge of the firebreak, staring out into the smoke, hoping to see figures running toward them. The men on either side glanced at her, then turned back to the flames. The leading edge of the fire hit, further down the line.

She looked that way. The men there seemed to be easily keeping the fire from crossing the firebreak as it ate the land between the homestead and the river.

Where were the Sampsons and Auntie Love?

‘No,’ yelled Tommy in her ear.

‘What?’

‘No, you can’t go and look for them. They could be anywhere.’

How did he know what she’d been thinking? Perhaps because he had thought the same. Now the tears did come. She felt the salt sting her smoke-reddened eyes. Waste of water.

Rain, she thought. If we could only call up rain.

Another gust of smoke swirled down again. She stared into it, wishing so hard for shapes to appear that when they did she didn’t recognise them at first. Sheep, 200 of them perhaps, panting too hard to bleat, and behind them the figures of Elsie
and Mr Sampson. She hadn’t known she was holding her breath. She let it out, then realised …

Auntie Love wasn’t with them.

Had the old woman collapsed? But Mr Sampson would have carried her! Was she still out shepherding the sheep? She wanted to run to them, to make sure they were unhurt, to ask about Auntie Love.

But there was no time now. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Drinkwater men helped them behind the firebreak, and pushed the new lots of sheep into the milling mob. And then the flames arrived in force.

They were shorter than they had appeared before. Knee high perhaps. Just the dirt to burn, she thought, then saw the sheep droppings were flaring too: tiny red nuggets on the dirt. She lashed at them with her branch, saw the red turn into black. All along the line the men were flailing at the flames as well.

Fire was almost all around them now, the vagrant gusts pushing the beaters this way and that. Burning embers flew above their heads. She hoped that there were enough men stationed to put out any fires around the house. But this was Drinkwater. Of course there were.

Tommy thrashed his branch on the ground next to her. She was dimly aware of James, his body strong, his face alive and concentrated, working steadily beside her. Where was Bertram? Sheltering closer to the house? She didn’t care.

Small flames burned around her feet. The firebreak hadn’t stopped the fire, but it made it easier to fight. She stamped on the red tongues with her boots, watched the flames die, then beat down again with her wattle branch. Incredibly it was hardly singed, still able to easily extinguish the tongues of fire.

Then all at once there were no more flames around her. She looked up, met James’s eyes. Despite his exhaustion he grinned at her, as though defeating the flames had been a triumph. A couple of the men let out a cheer.

She had no breath for cheering. No strength, no will. The land all around them was burning now. And Auntie Love was out there …

It was her fault. If Auntie Love was dead it was all her fault …

Mr Drinkwater strode across the ashy ground. ‘Which way was the old lady going? I’ll take a couple of men out now. James, can you take charge here?’

The young man nodded. ‘I’ll get the men to rake a path down to the river. Sooner we can get the animals to water the better.’ He vanished into the smoke.

Matilda tried to visualise which way Auntie Love might have gone. She shook her head. ‘She was with the Sampsons when I last saw her. They might know …’ She broke off.

Something moved in the smoke. Black animals, screaming in pain and fear, burst through into the relatively clear air of the homestead. Behind them a burned tree walked across the dead ground.

Matilda rubbed her eyes, making them sting more. Then her vision cleared. It was no tree. A blanket — a wet blanket — and at its base, a pair of boots.

When had Auntie put on boots?

She ran forward, but Mr Drinkwater was there before her. He scooped the old woman up, despite his age, pushed the blanket from her face, carried her up to the verandah. Matilda ran after him, and kneeled beside him as he laid the old woman down.

‘Auntie Love!’

The old woman blinked at her, then sat up. Her breathing was
laboured and her hands shook till she laid them in her lap, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Matilda hugged her — gently, in case she was burned somewhere after all.

‘I was so worried.’ She looked up at Mr Drinkwater. ‘Please, could you take her inside? She needs to be looked after.’

‘No.’

She almost hit him with her fists. ‘You … you biscuit! She saved your sheep!’

‘Matilda …’ For the first time he sounded helpless. ‘She won’t go inside. Will you?’

The old woman didn’t look at him, but she shook her head.

Mr Drinkwater stood. ‘I’ll get Mrs Murphy to bring out wet towels. Water.’

‘I — I don’t understand.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’ He strode quickly into the house.

Auntie Love gestured to Matilda to help her up. Matilda hesitated, then put her shoulder under the native’s arm and helped her rise. The old woman made a movement toward the far end of the garden.

‘You need to have a drink —’ She stopped. There was no denying Auntie Love now.

They stumbled together through the smoky garden — more smoky now than when the flames were close, as though the fire was reluctant to give up its hold. Past the swing, rocking slightly in the wind, over the grass, past the shrubs, wilted now, their flowers gone. A small fenced space stood behind the dairy, with shapes among the milling sheep. Matilda blinked; the shapes shimmered and turned into gravestones.

A cemetery … for people who worked here, she supposed. In fifty years many must have died. Their families too, perhaps.

Auntie Love forced her forward. Down, to the far edge, where a small stone was fenced in its own tiny plot. Auntie Love let herself drop onto the ground. The sheep bleated, indignant now, and edged away. Matilda kneeled beside her and peered at the tiny stone.
Dorothy Love
and then a single date.
3 September 1848.
No other words.

‘Who was she?’

Her voice was too hoarse to yell, and the wind was still a roar. But there was really no need to ask. Matilda took Auntie Love’s hand in hers and sat there, by the small grave of the old woman’s daughter.

She didn’t know how long they sat there. The smoke eddied and thinned. The wind dropped to a breeze. She shut her eyes, letting herself doze.

The rumbling woke her. She scrambled to her feet, thinking it was the fire again. Auntie Love saw her look. She pointed down toward the river.

A brown wall crashed and smashed its way across the gums, drowning the shining silver river. Tree trunks, a dead cow, the froth on the water the colour of old milk.

‘What … how …?’

‘There must have been a storm way upriver. Maybe days ago.’ Mr Drinkwater was beside them again. His face too was black, with a white streak where he had wiped away the sweat. He crouched down, and handed a jug of water to Auntie Love. He watched the old woman drink it, then held out a damp towel and began to wipe her face.

The old woman stopped drinking. She put up a hand to push
the towel away. It was the briefest of touches, but Mr Drinkwater jerked away like her hands were flames.

He stood up, then spoke again to Matilda. ‘The lightning might have started the fire, for all I know. We’re getting the water now.’

She could feel the ground shake now, buffeted by the force of water. ‘It … it won’t reach up here, will it?’

He glanced down at the surging water. ‘No. We’re higher than the worst flood. But it’ll flood the river flats, thank goodness.’

She looked at him questioningly.

He grinned, his teeth white in his smoky face. ‘It’ll go down quick as it’s come, I think. But you know what it’ll leave behind?’

She shook her head.

‘Grass,’ said Auntie Love.