A Waltz for Matilda (3 page)

‘Here, you!’ she called more loudly. ‘You men, put him on the door. Gently now: don’t jar that leg. Don’t touch them burns, neither. You.’ She fixed her eye on Mr Thrattle. ‘Get a taxi cab to take him to the hospital.’

‘But who will pay …?’

The woman fixed him with her eyes. ‘You will,’ she said.

The man opened his mouth as though to argue, then hurried to do her will.

They wouldn’t let Matilda see him at the hospital. One of Tommy’s brothers sat with her in the wide hospital corridor, with its wooden benches and smell of antiseptic, awkwardly twisting his hat in his hands, as though he had no idea how to handle a crying, jam-splattered girl who refused to leave till she knew how his brother was. ‘He ain’t woke up yet. But Ma says Doc told her he should be all right, long as it don’t get infected. Doc has set his leg.’

‘Will he be able to use his hand?’ Matilda tried to keep her voice steady. Impossible to think of Tommy not using his hands. Tommy, grinning as he took machines apart, creating new ones from scraps of cogs and wire. Tommy, grinning as he watched her eat his sandwiches.

‘Don’t know.’ The young man’s voice cracked. He’s trying not to cry in front of a girl, thought Matilda. The image of a one-armed Tommy must be as hard for him as her.

‘Tell him … When Tommy wakes up, tell him I was here. Tell him I’ll come back tomorrow night.’

‘Might not let you see him.’

‘I’ll come anyway. Tell him.’

‘I’ll tell him.’ The boy had his voice under control again. ‘That old lady said you saved his life.’

Matilda shrugged.

‘Thank you.’ The words were even more awkward. ‘Tommy’s …’ The young man bit his lips. ‘Tommy’s a good ‘un.’ ‘Yes,’ said Matilda softly. ‘He is.’

The smell of boiled cabbage and stale wash-rags lingered around the front door of Mrs Dawkins’s boarding house. Matilda slipped upstairs as quietly as she could.

For a few seconds Matilda let herself linger on the memory of Aunt Ann’s tiny cottage up above the beach, the salty sea air, the scream of seagulls overhead. It was only an hour’s cart ride away, but it was gone from her life as surely as the jam had burned the flesh from Tommy’s arm.

She shuddered, trying to shut away the image, and fixed a smile on her face.

Mum lay under the grey cotton sheet. Her eyes opened at the click of the door. They seemed too vivid for her white face. She managed a smile.

‘Matilda …’ Her eyes darkened. ‘Rabbit, what’s wrong?’

How could she think she’d hide the truth from Mum? The tears that wouldn’t come before erupted in a giant choke. ‘Tommy. There was an accident at the factory. He’s burned.’

‘How bad?’

Mum’s voice was just a thread; there was no breath behind it.
One thin hand touched hers, its fingers long and soft. The nails had grown since she’d stopped sewing.

‘I don’t know. He’s at the hospital. They said they think he’ll live …’

‘Oh, my little rabbit.’ Matilda could feel Mum’s warmth as she lay next to her, the comfort of her arms. ‘Come, lie down. He’s strong, little rabbit. He’ll pull through.’

Matilda nodded, her sobs easing. Tommy was too — too bright to vanish into death. But his arm, his hand … how could he be Tommy without two hands?

‘Have you had something to eat?’

‘Yes,’ lied Matilda. She’d go down soon and make Mum’s soup. She glanced over at the bowl and cup she’d put out before she left. Both were empty, and she could smell the chamber pot had been used too. Surely that must mean Mum was getting well. In a few weeks she’d be up again.

‘How’s the pain?’

‘Better. Much better.’

But Mum said that every evening, and every day she was weaker still. Weariness flooded Matilda suddenly, as though her bones were liquid. Just a few more minutes before she went downstairs. Just a few moments to dream.

‘Mum, tell me the story.’

For a moment there was silence. Matilda lifted her head. Was Mum too tired to talk? But Mum was smiling again. ‘Once upon a time …’

Matilda nestled back into the warmth.

‘Once upon a time,’ whispered Mum, ‘a golden man rode into town. He had brown eyes, deep as a well, and a smile as bright as lamplight.’

‘Tell me about the horse.’

‘It was a big horse, black as night.’

Night isn’t black, thought Matilda, not with the gaslights and the lanterns in the windows. The horse would be as black as Mrs Dawkins’s velvet dress, the one she kept for funerals …

‘Go on,’ breathed Matilda.

‘Most men stopped at the hotel. But the golden man came into the Presbyterian Ladies’ Tearoom.

‘“I could eat a horse and chase the rider,” he said.

‘The waitress had never seen anyone like the golden man. “We don’t sell horses here,” she said. “There’s cheese on toast, or creamed asparagus on toast, or cinnamon toast. You couldn’t fit a horse on toast.”’

Matilda smiled. It was the best joke in the world: the most familiar too.

‘“You smell like spices,” said the golden man.

‘“That’s the cinnamon,” said the waitress.

‘“Then I’ll have a pile of cinnamon toast right up to the ceiling,” said the golden man. And he did, all of it dripping with butter.’

Matilda felt her tummy rumble. She hoped Mum didn’t hear it.

‘He had cup after cup of tea, and so much toast the kitchen ran out of bread. Then when the tearoom closed he walked the waitress home. That night there was a church dance. The golden man and the waitress danced every dance, and then they waltzed, out through the door and onto the verandah. The moon shone a golden road down the sky. “One day I’ll take you along a golden road,” whispered the man. “We’ll go to my farm.”

‘“It’s a golden farm,”’ said Mum softly. ‘That’s what he said. Hills of golden grass and golden paddocks. He’d build us a house there, and one day we’d waltz in the paddocks, under the moon —’

She stopped to cough. But just a little cough, thought Matilda. She held the water to her mother’s lips. ‘And six weeks later you were married, and a year after that there was me. One day we’ll go to the farm and see the golden hills.’

Mum nodded. ‘One day,’ she whispered.

‘There’ll be the sheep,’ said Matilda dreamily, ‘and lots of lambs, just like in Aunt Ann’s book, and a dog for me and a big chair out on the verandah for you to sit in.’ She felt Mum nod next to her.

Matilda shut her eyes. Sometimes she thought she remembered her father: a big man, with strong hands. But it was so long ago, and maybe the person she remembered wasn’t her father at all.

All that she really knew of him were the postal notes. No letter with them — men didn’t like to write, said Mum. Dad was off shearing to earn enough money to build their house.

But one day the golden man would come again. He’d take them to their house. Mum could sleep in the sun on the verandah, away from the city smoke, and get strong enough to waltz in the moonlight. And Matilda could have a dog, and books, and Tommy could come and stay —

Tommy! Her eyes opened. She wished she could go back to the hospital to see if he had woken up or over to the Thompsons’ house to see if there was any more news. But she needed to make Mum’s broth, and empty the chamber pot.

She sat up. Mum was asleep, smiling. She always smiled when she talked about the golden man. Matilda stroked her cheek. It was so soft, so …

Cold.

‘Mum! Mum!’

The shadowed eyes didn’t open.

The hospital floor was so polished her boots kept slipping. They were Mum’s boots, worn with newspaper stuffed in the toe, to look respectable for Mum’s funeral. The black dress was Mum’s too, the hem hastily taken up and the sides tacked in. ‘No point cutting good cloth,’ said Mrs Dawkins, when it could be let out again later as Matilda grew.

Tommy’s bed was at the end of the row of neat grey blankets and white sheets, and men’s white faces too. Tommy looked younger and smaller, somehow, on the starched pillow. One side of his face was still puckered and red, but at least the jam had missed his eyes. She looked down at his hand. His arm was still bandaged, but now he held a small rubber ball in his fingers. She could see the sweat on his forehead as he tried to clasp it.

‘You should wait till your hand has healed.’

He looked up at her and tried to smile, one half of his face twisting while the other stayed still.

‘I need to stretch it before the scars set. I was reading about a cove who kept working on his muscles when his leg was crushed. Got his leg working again after six months. Arms and legs are just like machines, except they got muscles and tendons instead of cogs and pulleys.’

It was so like Tommy to have read how arms and legs worked. ‘I’m sorry. I should have bought you grapes or something.’

‘Ma brought those.’ He gestured to the bowl by his bed. ‘Go on, eat them. I’m that sick of grapes.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Eat them.’ The voice was gentle, but firm. She nodded. It was funny, everyone wanted to feed her now, even Mrs Dawkins, but her appetite had gone.

‘How was …’

‘The funeral.’ She forced herself to eat another grape. ‘It was just me and Mrs Dawkins. But it was a proper coffin, not a pauper’s. I pawned Mum’s wedding ring.’ She glanced up at him. ‘I’ll get it back one day. Bury it with her.’

He nodded. ‘What now?’

‘I don’t know. Mrs Dawkins has let our room to someone else. I’m sleeping with her Monica. She says I can stay, as long as I go on working at the factory. My wages will pay for my keep.’ She shrugged. ‘Or I can go to the Destitute Children’s Home.’

‘No!’

She gave up on the grapes. ‘I heard they send the orphans to school.’

‘Only till they’re big enough to work. They’d farm you out as a maidservant, working all hours just for your keep.’

‘Oh,’ she said slowly, ‘I didn’t know.’

He sat forward, grunting a little with the pain, and reached out to her with his good hand. ‘Stay at the factory for now. Maybe … maybe you can live with us. I’ll be out of here soon.’

No, you won’t, she thought. And when you do you’ll need nursing. She’d met his ma two days ago, thin-faced and anxious. She’d thanked Matilda over and over for saving her son. But she had eight children already in that small house, and now
Tommy not working. Matilda couldn’t add another burden to that tired face.

She said steadily, ‘There’s one other thing that I can do.’

‘What?’

‘Go to my father.’

Tommy stared. ‘You don’t know where he is.’

‘Of course I know where his farm is. It’s called Moura, north of Gibber’s Creek.’

‘Gibber’s Creek! That’s beyond the black stump.’

‘What stump?’

He gestured with his good hand. ‘Just a saying. But Gibber’s Creek’s hundreds of miles away from here.’

‘I know. I found it on the map when I was at school. But even if he’s not there, there has to be someone looking after his farm. Don’t you see,’ she added urgently, ‘it makes sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t. Write to him, send a telegram, and wait for him to come to you.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’