A Waltz for Matilda (23 page)

She grinned, the strength coming back to her, and buttered a
hunk of damper, and put it on the floor for the dog. Hey You gulped it, sniffed for crumbs, then lay down next to Auntie, his nose across her feet. Suddenly his ears pricked up again. He gave a growl, then raced out the door again.

The swaggies were coming back! Matilda glanced at Auntie Love, then picked up the axe. This time it would be in her hands, not theirs. She saw Auntie reach for the wood splitter as she ran outside.

Something was climbing through the cliffs … two thin wheels, spinning almost too fast to see, Hey You running beside them, barking. A young man in a broad-brimmed hat, crouching over the handlebars.

A bicycle, she thought, though much smaller and faster than any she had seen before.

The young man saw her. He lifted up a hand, scarred red and almost claw like.

It was Tommy.

She ran down to meet him, her face breaking into a vast smile as he skidded the bicycle to a stop. Taller than when she’d seen him last, his wrists and ankles poking out of his trousers and shirt, the scar on his face flushed red from the sun, his left hand — she tried not to stare — almost a skeleton’s hand.

‘What do you think of her?’ His feet raised two small clouds of dust. He stood astride the machine proudly.

‘Er … it’s very nice.’ Trust Tommy! The last time she’d seen him he’d been in a hospital bed, and the first thing he said was about a machine.

‘Nice! It’s a Remington sports,’ he said reproachfully. ‘It’s a free wheeler, got pneumatic tyres and a curved front fork and the new stirrup brakes. Think I need to work on those though … I got an idea to —’

‘Tommy!’ She wanted to hug him or at least stop him talking about bicycles. ‘What are you doing here? How is your arm?’

He held it up, answering the second question first. ‘Ugly, ain’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Liar. But it works all right, most of the time. It’s getting stronger too. Don’t think my face’ll get any better but.’ He took his hat off, turning the scarred side of his face to the sun. ‘Pretty horrible, I know.’

The scar reached from the corner of his mouth almost to his eye. It was plum red, red like jam, she thought, and forced herself not to shudder. But the worst was the way it pulled his mouth out of shape, making it look like he was sneering.

‘It’s not so bad,’ she lied.

He grinned at her, putting his hat back on. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind.’

He did. She could see that he did. ‘I’m glad to see you.’ More than glad, she thought. Impossible to say how glad. ‘But how did you get here?’

‘Train, of course.’

She punched his arm — his good arm, just in case. ‘Not that sort of how, you coot.’

‘You asked me to visit.’

‘Yes but …’ She watched as he gazed around at the cliffs, the garden and the sheep. She smiled, proud of it all, waiting for his delight.

He looked back at her, his face suddenly serious. ‘I came to save you,’ he said.

‘Save me from what?’ How could he have known about the swaggies? she thought.

He flushed, a different red from the scar. ‘From this place, of course. I read your letters.’

All the lingering thoughts of the swaggies vanished. ‘What’s wrong with this place?’ she said hotly.

He shrugged. ‘It ain’t as bad as I thought,’ he admitted.

‘It’s beautiful!’

‘Well, yes.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s pretty. The house looks nice enough. And I like your garden. But you shouldn’t be here like this.’

‘Why not?’

He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘You ain’t got no one to tell you, except me. But it just ain’t proper. My mum says so too,’ he added, as though that clinched it.

‘What isn’t proper? Look, come out of the sun. You’ll melt.’

‘I’m all right.’ But he followed her up the steps and sat on one of the verandah chairs. She saw him trace its shape with his
hands, and felt a burst of angry pride at her father’s handiwork. Tommy of all people should appreciate what her father had built, what she had already achieved here.

‘Come on,’ she demanded. ‘What isn’t proper?’

This time he met her gaze. ‘A white girl living with blacks. That’s what ain’t proper. Look at you,’ he added.

She had forgotten he had never seen her in trousers before. She stared at him, so dear, so impossibly stupid. ‘That’s who you’re saving me from? Auntie Love? Mr Sampson?’ She would have laughed if she hadn’t been angry.

‘You can’t go round calling natives “auntie”,’ he said earnestly. ‘It ain’t done.’

‘Who doesn’t do it?’

‘Everyone! People will get the wrong idea! Look, Mum told me I should come here. It ain’t just me —’

‘Stop using your mum as an excuse.’

‘I ain’t. But you can’t stay here.’

She glared at him. ‘You expect me to go back to the city? Leave my farm?’

‘Not if you don’t want. Look,’ he said eagerly. ‘I got a job already. Called in to the Chinese bloke you wrote about. Well, I had to, hadn’t I, to see how to get here? He’s all right for a Chinaman. Offered me a quid for every machine I repair, more maybe, if it takes a lot of time. I got a room at the boarding house too. They got a spare room for you, as well. The landlady says you can do the scullery work in return for your board.’

If one more person suggested she work as a maid she was going to — she tried to think of the worst crime in Aunt Ann’s view of the world — to spit.

‘You don’t have to sell this place either. The bloke next door, Mr Drinkwater, he’ll run it for you.’

Suddenly she felt cold, despite the heat. ‘How do you know he’ll run the farm for me?’

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘He wrote to me.’

She felt hot now, not cold. Spitting wasn’t enough. She wanted to throw Mr Drinkwater down in the dunny pit. She wanted to shake Tommy … She looked at him again, staring at her so anxiously.

Sweet Tommy, who had brought her sandwiches and looked after her, who had come all this way to save her, even if she didn’t need saving.

Her anger grew again, but not at Tommy. This wasn’t Tommy’s fault.

‘The bloody old … old biscuit!’ she swore.

He blinked, then began to laugh. ‘I never heard you swear before.’

She blushed. ‘The men out here all say “bloody”.’

‘Not when you can hear it, I bet.’

‘Well, not when they think I can hear it.’ It felt so good to talk to him, she realised, even if it was a wasted journey.

He regarded her steadily. ‘I still got money saved from when I worked at the factory. I was saving for a workshop of my own. You can use it to pay your land tax.’

‘My what?’

‘You don’t know about land tax?’ Tommy nodded. ‘Thought you mightn’t. You got to pay it every year to the government.’

She sat still, staring. ‘Did Mr Drinkwater tell you about that?’ Her father would have known about land tax, she thought. But Mr Sampson had never run a farm, nor had Auntie Love.

‘That’s one o’ the reasons he wrote to me. He said he’d pay the tax for you, in place of rent.’

And get my farm for nothing, she thought. But Tommy was still speaking. ‘Don’t you worry about the tax though. I got enough money to pay it for you. It’s all going to be fine, you’ll see.’

He stopped as Auntie Love stepped out of the house.

She must have been listening, thought Matilda. Because for the first time the old woman wore Mum’s big white apron — startlingly white over her dark skin. She wore Mum’s best dress too — long enough to disguise her bare feet, for Matilda was sure that even now Auntie Love wouldn’t put on shoes. Her right hand balanced the painted tin tray with two fresh china cups and saucers, the teapot, the sugar bowl and a plate of damper, thinly sliced and spread with honey.

‘Tea, Miss Matilda?’ she said.

Matilda had never heard her speak like that. It was almost Mrs Ellsmore’s voice, with her sharp-edged accent. She wondered how much effort the old woman was making not to drag her left foot or mumble. And she didn’t even seem to glance at Tommy’s scars.

She’s doing this for me, she thought. It’s not … respectable … to have a black woman as a friend. But it’s all right to have one as a servant.

Tears stung her eyes. She stood, and took the tray and put it down on the table. She wasn’t going to pretend. Not with Tommy. Not with anyone. She still wasn’t sure why Auntie Love had decided this was her home, but she knew that she was glad.

‘Auntie Love, I’d like you to meet Tommy,’ she said gently. ‘Sit down, Auntie, and I’ll get another cup. Try the honey,’ she added to Tommy. ‘It’s wonderful. It’s bush honey. Auntie Love showed me how to find it. She’s showing me all sorts of things.’

Tommy stared at her, then back at Auntie Love, sitting
impassively on the chair beside him, spreading her skirts. Auntie Love handed him his cup of tea, using her good hand. He took it in his own good hand, dazed.

Auntie Love passed him the sugar bowl.

Tommy still hadn’t spoken when Matilda came back with another cup. She poured the tea for Auntie Love, and placed it on the table where she could take it with her right hand.

Hey You stood up again, looking down toward the cliffs. But this time he didn’t bark.

A few seconds later Mr Sampson appeared, walking with his easy stride, with what looked like a quarter of a dead roo over his shoulder. He had given up his boots since he had left Drinkwater — Matilda supposed he was keeping them for going to town. He was bare-chested today too to keep the roo blood off his shirt, but he wore his tattered hat.

He glanced at the bicycle leaning against the horse rail, then at the three seated on the verandah. He lifted his hat politely to Matilda and Auntie Love, then crossed behind the vegetable garden to the meat safe above the spring.

‘That’s Mr Sampson,’ said Matilda.

Tommy nodded. He looked thoughtful, as though he had expected a naked man with a spear. Despite the bare chest and feet Mr Sampson looked like the stockman he was.

Matilda passed him more damper. He bit into it as Mr Sampson appeared again, freshly washed. He lifted once more his hat to Matilda, then stood by the steps, silent, examining Tommy from hat to boots, not lingering on his scars, but looking at him like he might inspect a horse or ram, to tell its temper.

‘Mr Sampson, this is my friend Tommy, from the city.’

Another nod. Tommy nodded back.

‘Would you like some tea? I can get another cup.’

Mr Sampson shook his head. He still stood without speaking.

The silence grew uncomfortable, then to Matilda’s relief he said, ‘Goin’ to make a pen for the sheep. Shearin’ next week. Wondered if you’d like to see where we can put it. Up near the spring, I was thinking. Easier to herd the sheep to water.’

‘A sheep pen?’ Tommy stared at him, sudden interest sparking in his eyes, then back to Matilda. ‘I started thinking about a design for a stock gate when you said you had sheep. Look.’ He kneeled down and undid his bag, then pulled out a thick drawing pad. He flipped over the pages, sketches of various machines and structures flipping past till he found the diagram he wanted.

‘Here it is. See, the gate only swings one way. The sheep can get in but can’t get out, unless you pull the toggle. A bloke in England invented it for cows, but it’d work for sheep too.’

Mr Sampson climbed up the steps, then crouched down, staring at the drawing. ‘Yep, reckon it’d work.’

Tommy sat back on his heels. ‘I bet it will. You going to make runs too?’

What were runs? wondered Matilda.

‘Yep. Got some corrugated iron left from my roof. Corrugated sheep runs is good. Sheep can’t see what they’re gettin’ into.’

‘I saw Mr Doo had some old corrugated iron. Maybe he’d let me have it cheap.’

Mr Sampson looked at him cautiously. ‘Enough for a shearing shed roof too, maybe? How much would he want for it?’

‘How big do you need the shed?’ Tommy made a quick sketch on the pad. Mr Sampson gazed at it thoughtfully.

Five minutes before they’d been like dogs sizing each other up. Now they were ignoring her.

Matilda felt her temper flare again. This was
her
farm!
Mr Sampson might know more about sheep and Tommy about machinery and Auntie Love about, well, probably about almost everything. But this place was still hers.

‘It’d be my shearing shed, remember. It’s my land.’

Boy and man looked up at her, as though surprised she was still there. Tommy frowned. ‘You want to make the shed different?’

‘No. I just …’

She didn’t know what she wanted. Didn’t know how she felt, either. She didn’t need anyone riding their bicycle up to rescue her. She didn’t even need Mr Sampson or Auntie Love. She’d have managed on her own …

Wouldn’t she? Suddenly she realised she was glad she had never had to find out. You fool, Matilda, she thought. They were here. A family, in a funny way. And Tommy made it complete.

‘Tommy,’ she said.

He looked up again from his plans. ‘What?’

‘I’m glad you’re here.’

He flushed again, embarrassed. ‘It’s going to be a swell shearing shed.’

‘I know it is,’ she said.

Mr Sampson left, at last. Auntie Love went to poke up the fire in the stone fireplace behind the house — now that the weather was so hot they mostly cooked outside. Matilda supposed she was going to put the haunch of roo on to roast. She and Tommy sat on the verandah together.