A Waltz for Matilda (6 page)

Curry and Rice laughed. ‘What do you know about it, girly? You ain’t no worker. I reckon only workers got the right to say —’

‘I am a worker!’

‘Needlework?’

‘Proper work.’ She glared at him. ‘I worked fourteen hours a day at the jam factory. Or I did till Mum died last week. I looked after her too. We couldn’t pay for a doctor or a nurse so I did it all. That’s work too! I slept in the street so I could be sure to wake up in time to get to work because the bailiffs took our alarm clock —’

‘Hold your horses, girly!’ Curry and Rice held up his hands in mock terror. ‘No need to start nippin’ at me ankles like a sheep dog. Fourteen hours a day, eh? What were you doin’?’

‘Sticking labels on cans of jam.’ She held up her hands when the men began to laugh. ‘The cans have to be hot or the jam doesn’t seal. Your hands blister at first, then they get tough.’

Curry and Rice blinked at her skin. ‘Them’s scars right enough. All right, girly, you’s a worker too. Now you eat yer tucker an’ enjoy the ride.’

Matilda took another bite of chicken, then looked at the man curiously. ‘Why are you called Curry?’

‘Used ter cook for the shearers, that’s back before the strike, o’ course.’

‘How long have you been on strike around here?’

‘About a year.’

‘How do you make money then?’

‘This ’n’ that.’ Mr Gotobed shrugged. ‘No one’s got money with the drought. Sell a few possum skins now an’ then.’

Matilda pulled at a piece of chicken. Had that been why her father hadn’t sent money for so long? But he owned a
farm … and yet the men had said he was a union man, that he’d even started the union around here.

The horses pulled along at a good pace. They might be dusty, not brushed shiny like the Drinkwater horses, but they kept their heads down and moved well, even on the uneven track. It looked like it would vanish any second into the dry dirt either side.

Then we’d be lost, thought Matilda, for all the trees looked the same, all the clumps of grass and giant mounds of orange clay.

‘Who built those?’ she pointed, a chicken leg in her hand.

‘Them’s ants’ nests, girly,’ said Curry and Rice. He burped, and handed the jug over to Mr O’Reilly. O’Reilly shook his head, and passed it to Mr Gotobed. ‘Good things, them ants’ nests. You can dig a hole in them an’ light a fire and them’s the best oven yous ever seen. Or spread ’em over a dirt floor an’ wet ’em and tamp ’em down, and it sets hard as rock.’

‘Oh,’ said Matilda.

I’d better not ask any more questions, she thought. Adults often got impatient if you asked too many questions, and these men were drinking spirituous liquor. They could go mad at any moment.

Besides, she couldn’t ask the real questions. What was her father like? Why hadn’t he ever been to see them? What was his farm like? Mum and Aunt Ann had drilled it into her that private things were … private. And you especially didn’t talk about your family to men like these.

The wagon rumbled along. She finished the chicken — she didn’t want to leave any, in case the flies got at it — and the bread and butter. She wrapped the fruit, biscuits and cake in her shawl, then used it as a pillow to lean against.

The men were silent now. Even the dust from the Drinkwaters’ carriage had vanished in front of them. There was
just the clop of the horses’ hooves, the silence of the trees above, the almost noiseless cluster of the flies. She put an arm over her face to keep the worst of them away. And despite the heat, she slept.

It was growing dark when she woke.

The wagon had stopped.

She sat up. All four men had gone, leaving the empty stone jug on its side next to her. She peered around.

So this was Gibber’s Creek. There was a street — a proper one, she was glad to see, with what looked like a town hall next to her, lit up with gaslights, and shops on either side, dark now, the glass in their windows reflecting the last of the sun. There seemed to be no street lights here.

Further down the road were what looked like houses — nice houses, with gardens, and cottages too, lamplight glowing from their windows.

Horses were tied to the rails all along the shops, single horses and others still hitched to carts or buggies or sulkies. There were so many that it took her a moment to realise that she was the only person in the street.

There were people nearby, though. She could hear yelling, the stamp of feet and the hum of chatter, all coming from inside the hall.

Her father would be there. Her heart thudded at the thought of finally meeting him. She brushed her hair back over her ears, wishing she could wash her face, look nice for him.

But why hadn’t he come out to look for her? Had the men even remembered to tell him about her? She doubted it, after so
much spirituous liquor. She picked up her bundle in case someone stole it, and clambered down from the cart, then stepped up into the hall.

The noise broke over her as soon as she was in the door, and the smell too: old sweat and bad teeth, musty clothes and unwashed bodies, the stale smells of horses, tobacco and spirituous liquor.

Most of the crowd was made up of men, standing in the hall below the stage, but here and there women sat on chairs against the walls, some with children on their knees or by their sides: weather-stained women, with faces creased from work and sunlight. Even the young ones looked dried from the sun.

And every face looked hungry.

Not just hungry for food, though many, especially the women, were hollow cheeked. The crowd gave off a curious sense of expectation.

The stage above was dark.

Matilda clutched her bundle closer. Her father was in here somewhere — or was he? She couldn’t see anyone here who looked like a ‘golden man’, the way Mr Drinkwater and his sons had looked. Golden boys with black hearts, she thought, remembering the careless way the older boy had spoken of shooting natives.

Maybe there was more here than she understood. Aunt Ann had often spoken about sending missionaries to civilise the natives. Some natives were cannibals, weren’t they? She remembered a cartoon of natives cooking a missionary in a big pot.

She shivered … maybe, maybe the natives here were savage. Maybe Mr Drinkwater and his sons were trying to keep everyone safe.

It was impossible to feel a lurking hope that her father was more like Mr Drinkwater than the men in the cart.

The crowd was growing restless. All at once the room quietened, like when the foreman at the factory turned off the machinery. A man walked onto the platform, carrying a taper. He bent down at the edge of the stage. Suddenly lights flared, one by one, washing a glow across the boards.

‘Oi, Slippery Lucas, we ain’t here to see you!’ Laughter rippled across the crowd. Even some of the women smiled.

The man on the stage smiled cheekily, then walked off behind the curtains that hung on either side. The crowd stayed quieter now, muttering instead of yelling, watching the stage instead of chatting to each other.

Mr O’Reilly walked on.

He still looked small. The knees and elbows of his suit shone in the gaslight. He cleared his throat. ‘Men and women of Australia!’

It was the voice of the man in the cart, but it was different too. This voice was pitched to carry to the back of the hall. It reached in and spoke to people’s hearts.

‘Tonight we stand on the brink of a new nation: one nation, no longer separate colonies. A new, big-hearted nation where each man has the vote — yes, and each woman too. A nation where each has the right to work — and to withdraw their labour when the bosses grip too hard; the right to worship freely, Catholic as well as the church of the English Queen; the right to wages a man can keep a family on …’

The crowd was cheering now, but O’Reilly’s voice thundered across them. A small man, thought Matilda, but with big ideas.

‘Tonight in slums across our cities children sleep in gutters; they work in factories and never see the sun. Today women die
without money for a doctor, while their children weep, hungry and helpless.’

He had been listening, thought Matilda. Watching and taking notes …

‘Today the rich live on plum puddings while the children of the strikers starve. Today squatters bring in scab labour, forcing white men out of a job. Today the bosses bring in kanakas and Chinese who work for little money or none at all, tearing the bread from the mouths of the children of decent working men.’

The cheers had changed now to a steady call of, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

‘I see a new world opening! Hand in hand you and I will build it. The nation of Australia, a brotherhood, a new nation where no man travels second class, for all men are created equal. A just nation, where no man can profit from his neighbour, but must share with all.’

The audience members were silent now, as though imagining a world like this took every fibre of their being. Suddenly Matilda could see it too. A land where people shared, with someone like Tommy, maybe, in charge of the factory, and the money made by Mr Thrattle shared out with everyone who worked there.

A free nation with laws to keep out the Chinese and the Islanders …

The spell broke. Chinese. That was Ah Ching. Dear Mr Ah Ching, her friend of the dark mornings. He didn’t take anyone’s job … or maybe he did, she thought, but did it matter? Why shouldn’t he work too? She would rather have a land of Ah Chings than the boys of the Push.

Mr O’Reilly was still speaking, the crowd still drinking in his words like they were rain on the dusty world outside. Outside,
she thought. I need fresh air and quiet. There’s no chance of finding Dad in this. Today had been too much …

Was it only this morning she had been creeping down the grimy street, sleeping in the silent train, journeying through dust and trees?

At least she was at the back of the hall, with no one to notice as she left. She slipped out of the door and down the stairs, then sat on the lowest one, breathing in the quiet and the darkness, trying to ignore the voice inside.

Big ideas, she thought. Too big perhaps for her to understand. Too big, maybe, for most in the room too — maybe even too big for Mr O’Reilly.

Aunt Ann had spoken about the agitation to unite the states into one nation, where even women would have the vote. Aunt Ann was for it, especially the votes for women. She was sure if the women of a new united Australia voted, they’d back the Women’s Temperance and Suffrage League, and ban spirituous liquors from the land.

Somehow Matilda didn’t see the crowd behind her cheering for that.

But Aunt Ann hadn’t had the passion, the intentness of that crowd. Maybe because her life was full with her church and her sewing, her temperance work, with her sister and her niece, till the dray tipped over crushing it all out so thoroughly.

Matilda reached for her bundle. She sat on the empty steps and began to nibble the leftover fruitcake.

What now? The crowd had been too thick to find Mr Gotobed and the others, and anyhow, she doubted they cared what happened to her. They’d been heading to the meeting, and so they’d brought her here. Probably her father wasn’t even inside.

How far away was Moura? She could just start walking till she found it. But the road ran in two directions. She might head in the wrong direction, and maybe there were other roads out of town too.

She was just so tired. For a moment she allowed herself to dream that when she woke she would be back with Aunt Ann bustling about and giving orders, a dust cloth in one hand and a jar of her home-made lavender polish in the other, telling her to polish the sideboard once a day for a week, once a week for a month, once a month for a year …

Something creaked along the road. Matilda opened her eyes. Mr Ah Ching walked toward her, pulling an empty cart along the road.

She blinked, and suddenly it wasn’t Ah Ching, but another man, a few years younger, though still with Ah Ching’s pigtail and black pants and top. But this man’s feet were bare.

He was a stranger, but in a funny way he was the most familiar thing in this long day. A Chinese man and a vegetable cart coming toward her in the darkness. Without thinking she stood and bowed, her head down, and said, ‘Qing An.’

The man looked up, seeing her for the first time. The rattle of cart wheels stopped. He spoke rapidly, so fast that she couldn’t tell if any of his words were ones she knew.

He stopped, then spoke more hesitantly. ‘You speak Chinee, missee?’

‘No, I’m sorry. A … a friend taught me a few words. I don’t really know what they mean.’ Somehow she had the feeling that the man in front of her understood her English, despite his halting speech. ‘You don’t know Mr Ah Ching, do you?’

She felt embarrassed as soon as she said it. There were lots of Chinese people in Australia. She had a vague feeling they’d been
here just about as long as the English and Irish. Why should he know Mr Ah Ching?

‘Sorry, missee.’ He stood there, as though considering her. ‘You need help?’

Was it so obvious? She stood up uncertainly, brushing crumbs off her skirt. ‘I need to find my father, Mr Jim O’Halloran.’

He looked around the empty street. Yells and cheers came from inside the hall, even louder now. She had a feeling that more spirituous liquor was being drunk in there than Aunt Ann had ever dreamed of. ‘Mr O’Halloran of Moura?’