A Waltz for Matilda (31 page)

‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘He wasn’t one for lying. He told the truth. Told it too loud, too often, maybe. But not lying isn’t the same as telling all of the truth.’

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘How could he tell me all the truth? There wasn’t time before —’

‘Before I hounded him to his death? That is what you’re not saying, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

He handed her the fruit punch. The water must have been recently hauled up from the well, for the glass felt cold against her fingers.

‘Matilda.’ She wondered if he’d noticed he used her Christian name. ‘I want you to know how deeply … how every day I regret your father’s death and my part in it.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so? Why did you try to get rid of me?’

‘Because I thought it best you leave.’

‘You offered me fifty pounds,’ she said bitterly.

‘I wouldn’t have lost track of you. I’d have helped you in some other way.’

‘As a housemaid?’

He laughed, and gestured to her to sit down. ‘I admit you are not housemaid material. I admire what you have done, my dear. Yes, I know you’ve had Sampson’s help. But to do what you have done — in a drought like this …’

He lifted his glass to her. More spirituous liquor, thought Matilda. ‘You are an amazing young woman.’

‘I will agree with that.’ Mrs Ellsmore came through the door, and smiled at them. ‘You look beautiful, my dear. Doesn’t she, Cecil?’

‘Very,’ he agreed, standing politely as his half-sister came in.

Matilda stood too. ‘Thank you so much for the clothes,’ she said awkwardly.

‘It was a pleasure.’

She took the glass of fruit punch from Mr Drinkwater. ‘I gather my brother has a present for you too.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘A sheep. A male one. Extremely smelly, I assure you. He expected me to admire it this morning.’

Matilda turned to Mr Drinkwater. ‘You’re giving me a jumbuck?’

Mr Drinkwater looked at his sister indulgently. He likes it that she doesn’t know anything about sheep, thought Matilda. But he likes me because I do.

Mr Drinkwater took a sip of his whisky. ‘Yes, a ram. And a damned — er, dashed good beast. I’ve had twenty brought from the United States. Bigger boned than ours, a good creamy wool but a fine texture — much finer than we have at present.’

‘But I thought we were too hot here for fine wool.’

‘I don’t believe so.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been reading up on it?’

She flushed. ‘Yes.’

‘Good for you. Our summers are hot, but our winters are cold. I know the general view is that you can’t raise fine wool in the dust and dry, but I think breeding is more important than most people imagine.’

‘But if you’re wrong we might lose more lambs …’ She frowned. ‘Why not try half and half for a couple of years? See what the lambing percentages are?’

‘Exactly what I planned to do.’

‘If you are going to talk sheep all evening,’ said Mrs Ellsmore, ‘I will take my dinner in the kitchen.’

‘I hope Miss O’Halloran will come back to talk about sheep another time then. What should we talk about now? Votes for women?’

‘Why not?’ said Mrs Ellsmore. She smiled at Matilda. Matilda grinned back, and drained her fruit punch. Suddenly she no longer felt awkward.

This was good.

SEPTEMBER 1897

Matilda stared at the figures in her exercise book and chewed the end of her pencil. It was so hard to work out exactly how much money she and Mr Sampson really made.

Forty pounds paid for bags of oats last March to see the horses, cows, sheep and the hens through the dry winter — Mr Sampson and the boys had cut down more kurrajong branches for feed (Mr Drinkwater had told her the real name of the old woman trees), but the sheep lost condition on scrub tucker, and lambing ewes needed something more.

Ten pounds, eight shillings and sixpence profit from the eggs and butter she sold to Mrs Lacey for her boarding house.

There was still the cheque to come in on the crutchings, the dirty wool trimmed from the sheep’s rear ends in between shearing. Mr Gotobed had simply baled the crutchings up for her before, but Mr Drinkwater had suggested if she cut away the smelly dags and trimmed off the burrs she’d get twice as much or even more.

It had been smelly work, and the burrs left tiny prickles in her hands, but she hoped the new price would be worth it.

They’d used the Drinkwater shed to shear the Moura sheep this year, leaving hers as a hay shed. Mr Drinkwater even allowed her to add her wool with the Drinkwater bales, so she
no longer had to sell ‘mixed bales’ of good long belly wool mixed with short fibres from the legs. Mixed bales always fetched a lower price.

Better still, Drinkwater wool was shipped to England and sold at auction there, something Matilda could never have afforded, even though the wool sold in England fetched almost twice as much per bale as that sold in Australia. The next cheque should be good. They could buy more pipes, fencing wire, perhaps put in a crop of wheat …

She put her pencil down and stared out the window. Chooks were pecking under the fruit trees: the lemons she’d planted in her first month here were bearing now, and the apples, medlars and pears too. Only the persimmon tree still sulked as though it was waiting for the rain that never came. Sheep rested in the shade under the trees; the sky was as clear and cloudless as her blue skirt hanging on the clothesline. All flourishing. All …

Lonely. She pushed back her chair and headed out to the verandah, admitting it once again.

It had been two days since she had seen anyone at all. Even Auntie Love had headed back out bush a few days ago, taking Hey You with her.

The first time Auntie Love went bush Matilda had worried about her, so frail and so tiny. But two days later Auntie Love was back, with a present of goanna eggs to bake on the fire. A few weeks later she vanished again. Now she was gone for weeks at a time, coming back for a few days to check that all was well and doze on the verandah, then one morning her bed would not have been slept in and her chair would be empty.

Matilda had only asked once where the old woman was going. Auntie Love had answered, but as it was all in what Matilda thought of as ‘native language’, she was none the wiser.

Were there still ‘wild’ natives out there? Did Auntie Love stay with them? Or was she living alone, remembering her places and her people?

Matilda hoped that she wore clothes. As far as she knew James and Bertram were still away, and there had been no more shooting parties. But Auntie Love still ran the risk of being taken to a reservation if she no longer appeared to work for a white household. Yet Mr Sampson didn’t seem to be worried when Matilda told him Auntie Love had gone. ‘Auntie goes when she wants, eh?’ he’d said. ‘She’ll be right.’

Even Mr Sampson and his boys spent less time around her house now that the sheep had water further away from the valley and could range beyond the cliffs.

Matilda hesitated on the verandah. Where to now? She could call on Mrs Sampson, but Elsie’s conversation was limited mostly to yes and no. She understood English, Matilda was sure, but seemed unsure about speaking it to Matilda. Once again she wished she knew another language, could talk properly to Auntie Love and the Sampsons or the Doos.

She could find an excuse to ride over to Drinkwater, perhaps to talk about when the next wool cheque was due, maybe, or even go into town, to call at the cobbler and order a new pair of riding boots. It was good to be able to buy something new, even if it was only a pair of boots. Or she could —

A shadow flickered in the heat shimmer in the gap between the trees, too fast to be a sheep. Tommy, on his bicycle.

She strode down to meet him, her heart lifting. ‘How did you know I needed a visitor? I didn’t expect you till Sunday. Come in, I’ll put the kettle on and make some scones.’

He grinned, skidded off the bicycle and began to wheel it next to her. ‘No thanks. Your last scones were too salty even for the dog.’

‘I just used salt instead of sugar. I made some yesterday and they were fine.’

‘I’ll give them one more go then.’ His grin grew wider, with its strange twist at the edge from his scar. ‘Got some news.’

‘What? Errk!’ She reached up and grabbed a flying ant that had crawled onto her neck. ‘Ooglies. It’s going to rain tomorrow. Don’t think there’ll be much though — the other ants aren’t worried. They scuttle like mad before a real storm. Come on — what’s the news?’

He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a letter. It was limp with sweat, and the ink had run slightly so she had to squint at the words.