A Waltz for Matilda (41 page)

‘James will be all right,’ she said. She didn’t know if she was comforting him or herself.

Christmas came. No word from Tommy, not even a card. She had sent one to his mother’s house, saying
Merry Christmas with love from Matilda.
But there had been no reply. Mr Gotobed and his mates were away. No visit even from the Sampsons — perhaps they thought she would spend Christmas at Drinkwater. The whole district seemed to know that James had enlisted and that he and Matilda were engaged. It was her fault, she knew, for wearing his ring. At least no one outside the family seemed to know about the quarrel with his father.

Matilda killed a young rooster, and Auntie Love stuffed it. It was tough, not quite young enough or maybe cooked too fast. They ate it with roast potatoes and pumpkin, the first of the beans and young corn. The only other sign of celebration was the pot of ginger from Mr Doo and Patricia.

A note arrived on Boxing Day, delivered by one of the stockmen, asking her to dinner at Drinkwater on New Year’s Eve.

Was the old man lonely? There had been no more letters yet. She supposed James was still at sea.

She scribbled a note in return:
Yes, I would like to come, no need to send the car
— she would ride over, ride back by moonlight. She could cope with dinner, she thought, but not
with staying the night, nor with being in the motorcar without James.

It was hard to leave Auntie behind. Auntie was used to being alone, but she was like a shadow these days, as though if the sun moved you might find she wasn’t there.

It was even harder sitting in the Drinkwater drawing room, neither she nor her host talking about what was most on their minds.

They ate roast duck and Mrs Murphy’s lemon shape. They spoke of the weather, the price of wool, the defeat of the Labor government in Queensland, after governing the state for less than a week. They were on opposite sides politically, but comfortably so, in this at least. Sheep — and James — meant more to them both than politicians.

It wasn’t till she was leaving that she said what she’d been wondering how to say the whole evening. ‘We need to dag the sheep next week. Would you prefer not to have my stock in your shed now?’

He looked startled. ‘Why would you think —’ He stopped, his mouth twisted. ‘The sheep are still welcome here. You are welcome.’

‘Then why would it be so very bad to have me as a daughter-in-law?’

She had expected anger again. It didn’t come. He simply said, ‘My dear, you do not understand.’

‘You’re right. I don’t. Why … why haven’t you threatened me, like James? You could make my life much harder, and you know it.’

‘Because it wouldn’t work.’ He hesitated, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. He smelled of cigars and the whisky he had been drinking. ‘Happy new year, my dear. Happy new
century. May it bring rain and a new nation and happiness for us all.’

And bring James home, she thought. She kissed him back, then went out to where one of the men was holding her horse.

SEPTEMBER 1900

Matilda put the letter carefully back into its envelope. She’d take it up to Drinkwater this afternoon, to show it to the old man.

She guessed that he too checked the newspaper casualty lists, looking for James’s name. The letters from him were good, but they took so long to get here, weeks and even months sometimes after they had been written. The casualty lists were sent by telegram, and were the only real news they had, apart from the scanty war reports in the papers.

Slowly she had been accepting that they really would be married, when the war was over. Perhaps, she thought, it was easier to love James wholeheartedly when he wasn’t here. It was a future that just made sense. They would run the two properties together. Whatever her doubts about James, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to bear seeing him married to another woman, another woman ruling Drinkwater.

‘Matilda.’

She looked up, startled. Auntie Love hardly ever used her name. Hey You sat at her feet, panting from the heat. He was grey about the muzzle now, an old dog with an old woman.

‘Auntie, are you all right?’

Auntie Love had been silent the past few weeks, as though she had forgotten all her language. Matilda wondered if she’d had yet another apoplexy, for her hands were clumsy too.

‘Go and lie down,’ said Matilda gently. ‘I’ll make you some tea and toast. I won’t burn it this time, I promise.’

Auntie Love shook her head. She held out her hand, and Matilda took it. The fingers felt like sparrow bones. Auntie Love began to walk, each step as slow as honey dripping into the bucket, her breath shallow.

She should be in bed, thought Matilda, or at least resting out on the verandah. But even now there was something that made it impossible to argue with Auntie Love.

Down the steps they went, then up the slope toward the cave. Hey You padded silently at her feet. They were walking so slowly it seemed a dream, the air shimmering heat around them. Nothing moved, except an eagle, high up above the cliffs, riding on the wind.

Step, step, step … Auntie Love was even slower now, but she didn’t stop to catch her breath. It was as though she knew just how slowly she must walk to keep going.

Up the path … Matilda looked back. The house sat like a doll’s house, its iron roof glaring in the sun. Her father’s wooden slats had weathered to the same colour as the rocks.

At last they reached the cave. Here, finally, Auntie Love paused, looking down at the valley. Hey You lay down in the shade of a rock, as though he had been told to stay. Auntie Love let go of Matilda’s hand, and bent down, into the darkness.

Matilda followed. Once again, inside, her eyes quickly got used to the dimness. She waited to see what Auntie would do. Was there something hidden here, something else her father had left that she hadn’t found? Or did Auntie want to see the stream maybe?

But to her surprise Auntie Love moved over to the wall, the one where streams of light glowed through holes from outside. She bent toward the lowest one, and crawled inside.

Matilda watched her feet vanish. What if there was a snake in there or … She took a breath, and crawled after her.

The passageway was less than a yard — a wiggle on her stomach and she was through. She stood, light glowing around her, and caught her breath.

She was in a small chamber, a few yards wide, high and bright as though the walls themselves shone light.

It was impossible, like a small sun beneath the earth. And then she saw that the light came from more holes higher up in the cave wall. The real sun must be at just the right angle in the sky, this hour, this day, she thought, to shine down here, to turn the tiny cave to gold.

She didn’t think it was coincidence.

She gazed around. The floor was mud, even now when the world outside was dry. Water must seep through the rock. Behind her, and on either side, the walls were hard as glass and pale, as though the rock had melted or water turned solid. But the wall in front …

There were handprints. Hundreds of hands, thousands perhaps, some almost hidden behind the white layers of rock, others fresher, as though they had been left yesterday, but when she stretched out a finger the image didn’t smudge; it was smooth and rock-hard as well.

As she watched, Auntie Love bent down, and pressed her hand into the mud, and then against the wall. When she took her hand away another print was left, fresh and unfaded.

She nodded at Matilda.

‘You want me to do it too?’

Another nod. Matilda felt the damp clay clutch her hand; she pulled it free of stickiness, then held it against the wall. The rock felt strangely warm — from the sunlight, she supposed.

She glanced at Auntie Love, wondering if there was anything else. But the old woman just turned and bent down, her breath coming in shallow pants, to push herself through the crevice.

It was strange being outside again. As though she had been hours in the cave, not minutes. The valley below looked brighter, clearer than she had ever seen it, the shine of tree trunks, the depth of shadows in the cliff.

My eyes are used to darkness, she thought, and knew that was the true answer, but not the whole truth. Hey You got to his feet, still panting, and pressed against Auntie Love’s thin legs.

Auntie Love stared at the world again too. Suddenly she turned to Matilda. ‘Rain coming,’ said Auntie Love.

Matilda glanced up at the sky automatically. ‘The ants aren’t swarming,’ she said. ‘No flying termites either. And the kookaburras aren’t calling the right way for rain.’

‘Not rain now.’ Auntie Love shook her head, as though trying to find the words she needed, then held up her hand, three fingers extended. ‘After three cold time, rain will come. Good rain. Dry will go.’

Matilda tried to understand. Did Auntie Love mean the drought would end in three winters’ time? But the drought was never going to end. All she had ever known was drought.
Impossible that the world could be green again, the dry rocky creeks covered with water.

Impossible for anyone to know that far ahead. She looked at Auntie Love, surveying the world, fragile but serene. No, not impossible for Auntie Love.

Auntie Love took her hand. Slowly, slowly they walked down the path, Matilda watchful with each step, in case the old lady slipped. Her breathing was shallow and even louder than Hey You’s. Her hand felt almost like it wasn’t there.

Matilda had expected to head for the house. But instead Auntie Love walked down the track between the cliffs. Were they going to the Sampsons’ house?

Suddenly she turned the other way. She kept on walking, around the ridge and down the hills, toward the flat plain on the other side, away from the river, away from Drinkwater and Moura.

Is this where Auntie went sometimes? wondered Matilda.

‘Auntie … you have to come back to the house. Let me look after you.’

The old woman looked at her. She lifted her hand and stroked Matilda’s cheek. She smiled, suddenly younger, her teeth strong and white. Then she put her hand down and she was old again, a hollowed gum tree with only a few green leaves, already turning brown.

‘You stay,’ said Auntie Love, to Matilda, not to the dog. ‘Not come now. You stay.’ She took another step, then looked back to make sure Matilda had obeyed.

She wanted to cry, ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me all alone.’

So many had left her: Mum, Aunt Ann, her father, Tommy, James so far away.

She couldn’t speak. Auntie Love had so little strength. Just enough, perhaps, for what she was doing now.

The sun was high above them. The world was shadowless. The air shimmered between the trees. The land was dappled with leaves and bark, the thin shape of Auntie Love stepping slowly away, her dog at her heels. Matilda watched. And between one blink and the next, the old lady was gone.

She could run after her. But she wouldn’t. Auntie Love had given her so much. She couldn’t disobey her now.

So she waited, sitting down, her back against a tree, watching the ants trickle out from the roots then clamber back, taking tiny seeds into their nest. She waited till the shadows grew longer than the trees.

Something moved behind her. It was Hey You. The old dog climbed onto her lap and lay there, whining softly. Matilda hugged him, her tears wet against his fur. Finally she stood, and walked back toward the house. This time the dog followed her.

JANUARY 1901