‘I’m the manager and what I say goes around here, whether you’re the boss or not. Shearing shed’s no place for women. They cause accidents,’ he said firmly.
She was about to give him a piece of her mind when he turned away and disappeared back into the shed. Aware of curious eyes and listening ears, she bit down on the angry retort and fumed silently. Bastard! Who the hell did he think he was?
She thought about going back into the shed and having it out with him then and there, but knew it would only cause her more humiliation. So she scuffed her boot heels in the dust, rammed her fists into her pockets and headed for the paddock. Of all the insufferable, pig-headed, rude men she’d ever had the misfortune to meet, that one took some beating. And, boy, did he know how to wind her up.
The stock horses looked at her with mild curiosity before returning to crop the grass. She leaned on the top bar of the fence and watched them, her temper cooling, the heat of her embarrassment waning as the minutes ticked by. What’s the matter with me? she wondered. I’m usually so calm, so in charge of my emotions. Why did I let him get under my skin like that?
A warm breeze rippled through the grass as if invisible feet had danced through the paddock. She shivered. The magic of Churinga was touched by something dark and powerful. She could feel its presence, hear the music it brought with it.
Her thoughts turned to the diaries and the still silence of the cemetery. Like Matilda, she’d been enchanted. Now she was wary – perhaps afraid. Her reason for coming had been curiosity, a need to find the roots she’d left far behind in her search for fulfilment – yet she couldn’t help feeling the agenda had been changed. She was really here because of Matilda. Here because a fourteen-year-old girl needed to tell her story to someone who would understand.
Jenny sighed. She should never have come. She had hoped for too much, had looked to Churinga to show her the way now Peter and Ben were gone – and Churinga had merely brought confusion.
She left the horses to their grazing and wandered listlessly around the other buildings. There were barns full of hay, sheds full of machinery and oil drums, men bent to their chores, sheep bleating and fussing in the pens. Her footsteps led her finally to the dog breeding kennels.
The puppies were enchanting: bright eyes, wobbly legs and fluffy wisps of tails. She scooped one up and nuzzled him. His tongue rasped her face and she laughed. There was nothing like a small animal to chase away the blues.
‘Put that bloody pup down!’
Jenny froze, the puppy squirming in her arms. She’d had enough of Brett Wilson for one day. ‘This isn’t the wool shed, Mr Wilson. I’ll put it down when I’m ready,’ she retorted.
The silence stretched as grey eyes held violet.
‘Those dogs aren’t pets. Everything around here has to earn its keep – and that includes the pups. If they don’t make good sheep herders, they’re put down.’
‘I bet they are,’ she snapped. ‘Pity they don’t do the same for rude managers.’
Gold flecks glinted in his eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Shooting the manager seems a bit drastic, Mrs Sanders.’
Jenny buried her face in the puppy’s silky fur. The man was laughing at her, and she didn’t want him to see the answering mirth in her own eyes.
He jammed his hands into his pockets. ‘Reckon we got off to a bad start, Mrs Sanders. How about calling a truce?’
‘It wasn’t me who declared war,’ she said firmly as she looked up at him.
‘Neither did I,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But in a place like this there have to be rules. Accidents happen in a shearing shed when the men are distracted. And, believe me, you would distract them.’
His eyes settled on her for a long moment, the glint of humour still in evidence. ‘As for the pups…’ He sighed. ‘It’s more difficult to kill them once you’ve made a pet of them.’
There was silence as he took the puppy from her and returned it to its mother. Then he tipped his hat and strolled away.
Jenny watched him cross the yard, acknowledging silently that she’d enjoyed their sparring. At least he has a sense of humour, she thought. Pity he doesn’t show it more often.
With a last, lingering look at the puppies, she turned back to the house. She had no skills to contribute to the running of the property but was filled with a restless need to do something. Envy of Simone swept over her. Now there was a woman who knew the rules and could effortlessly cook a hundred meals in the heat of an outback summer. She knew her place, knew she could contribute and earn her keep. ‘God,’ sighed Jenny. ‘I feel so damn’ useless. There must be something I can do.’
Taking the steps two at a time, she went into the kitchen and made herself tea. Adding biscuits to the saucer, she went back out to the verandah and the long swing seat suspended by hooks from the rafters. The gentle creak of heavy rope through metal rings was the sound of summers long passed, and as she swung back and forth, she felt distanced from the bustle of the yard and pens. It was hot, even in the shade of the verandah. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the pepper trees or the petals of the bougainvillaea. Birds called and fussed in the eucalyptus, and a couple of possums scampered back and forth on the verandah roof.
As her tea cooled and the sun slowly moved overhead, her thoughts turned to Matilda. Churinga had been smaller then, less successful, but if she were to return now, she would still see much that was familiar.
Jenny looked into the heat haze and thought she could see that slight figure, wrapped in a colourful shawl, running barefoot over the yard down to the stream. She shivered as the figure turned to look at her, beckoning her to follow. She was trying to communicate – to pull Jenny back to those long, dark days and make her witness the evil that had gone on here. But why? Why had she chosen to reveal her story to Jenny?
Her tea forgotten, she stared into the horizon. She felt strangely drawn to the child of the outback. Felt they were kindred spirits, their lives somehow entwined – and knew that no matter how terrible the road, she could not abandon Matilda’s journey along it.
Returning to the shadows of the house, Jenny carried the second diary over to the bed. With a long, trembling sigh, she opened it and began to read.
* * *
Life at Churinga had changed. Matilda moved within the shadows, becoming at one with them. Yet her spirit remained unbroken, her mind working feverishly as she plotted revenge for the things Mervyn did to her on those long nights after her return.
As days turned into months, she grew resourceful and quick-witted. His drinking became her salvation, and although it depleted their meagre wool cheque, she encouraged it. Once in a stupor, he posed no threat. But that didn’t make her sleep easily. Night after night, weary from the day’s grind, she would lie awake, face turned to the door, senses honed for the sound of his footsteps.
A sharpened stick became a deadly weapon in her small, darting hands as she tried to protect herself, but was often turned against her. Foraging for poison berries and leaves to put in his food proved useless. It was as if nothing could touch him. Her spirit dwindled as the months of abuse took their toll. There seemed to be no end to this torment, no lessening of his greed. She would have to kill him.
The axe was sharp, glinting in the lunar light that spilled through the shutters. The blood was pounding in her ears as Matilda stood in the silent house. She had dreamed of this moment, plotted and planned and waited for her courage to mount enough to see it through. Now she stood in the kitchen, the axe in her hand, the latest bruises livid on her arms and face.
The floor creaked as she tip-toed across the kitchen and she held her breath. His snores remained undisturbed behind the closed door.
She reached for the latch. Lifting it inch by inch, pushing the door until it whined on its hinges. Her pulse drummed, roaring in her head, making her hand tremble. Surely he must be able to hear it?
She could see him now. He was on his back, mouth open, chest rising and falling as he snored.
br />
Matilda crept to the side of the bed. Looked down at that hated face, those strong, violent hands and heavy body – and raised the axe.
Light glinted on keen steel. Breath was tight in her throat. Pulse hammered as she stood poised above him.
Mervyn grunted, one bleary eye rolling towards her.
Matilda wavered. Fear made her weak, dissolving her courage. She fled back to her room, the tears bitter, the failure devastating. Her spirit had finally died.
* * *
Summer burned its way through Christmas and into the New Year. Clouds gathered on the horizon, black and swirling, heavy with promised rain. Matilda rode out with Mervyn and Gabriel to bring the depleted mob closer to the house. The dirty, woolly backs jostled before them, Bluey racing from one side to the other to keep them together. Choking dust rose beneath the trampling hooves, blinding the riders’ eyes, filling their throats.
She dug her heels into the gelding’s side and urged him up the steep bank after a ewe that had leaped for freedom. She rounded it up, whistling for Blue to chase it back into the pack. The mob trundled through the vast, dry grasslands and Matilda looked at the numbers in despair. They had lost a great many lambs to the dingos and the drought this year. They could no longer afford to pay wages – and there was too much land for two men and a girl to cover.
Mervyn’s visits to the pub had become more protracted, and although Matilda was grateful for this small respite, she knew they would soon be bankrupt. The house was ramshackle, the once fine barns crumbling because of the termites. Creeks needed clearing, fences re-posting, fields disentangled from the ever-invasive bush. Water was down to a trickle and the need for a new bore hole had become urgent.
She gave a defeated sigh and urged her horse on towards the home pasture. Ethan Squires had made no secret of his desire for Churinga, and Mervyn had tried to bully her into selling. But she’d clung to her inheritance. Ethan Squires was not going to take it away from her – and neither was his stepson.
Matilda’s smile was grim beneath the handkerchief she’d bound tightly over her nose and mouth to keep out the dust. Ethan probably thought he was being clever, but she’d seen through his devious plan. Andrew Squires might be handsome and educated, but she felt nothing for him and never would. She was damned if she would barter herself in marriage just to escape her father. Churinga meant too much to her, and marrying Andrew would mean she would lose it.
Churinga pastures were yellow beneath the unforgiving skies, and once the mob was released and the gates barred she headed for the house. It couldn’t be called home any more, she thought sadly. Merely the place where she survived another day.
Mervyn slid from the saddle and led the tired horse into the corral. Separating Lady from the others, he fumbled with bit and bridle. The mare rolled her eyes as he swung on to her back. ‘That’s it then. I’m off to Wallaby Flats.’
Matilda rubbed down her own horse and set him free in the paddock. The relief was sharp, but she daren’t let him see it in her eyes so concentrated on gathering up the tack.
‘Look at me, girl. I’m talking to you.’
She heard the dangerous stillness in his voice. Her expression was deliberately calm and unreadable as she turned towards him. But inside she was quaking.
‘Ethan and that young pup of his are not to come on our land. I know what he’s after – and he ain’t having it.’ He glowered down at her. ‘Is that clear?’
She nodded. It was about the only thing they agreed on.
Mervyn’s riding whip flicked lightly against her cheek, the stock coming to rest beneath her chin, tilting back her head, making her look up into his face as he leaned down from the saddle. ‘No kiss goodbye, Molly?’ He was mocking her.
The cold, hard nugget of hatred settled deep inside her as she stepped forward and brushed his stubbled cheek with numb lips.
His laugh was humourless, laced with sarcasm. ‘Not much of a kiss. Perhaps you’re saving yourself for Andrew Squires.’ Eyes the colour of pewter glared down at her, held her frozen for an endless moment, then released her. ‘Remember what I said, girl. You belong to me – and so does Churinga.’ Digging in his spurs, he galloped out of the yard.
Matilda watched the plume of dust until it faded into the distance. The silence of Churinga enfolded her, bringing back peace of mind, a renewal of energy. She looked up at the sky. It was still threatening rain, but would it be yet another empty promise? For the clouds were breaking up, moving away towards Wilga.
With the pigs and chooks fed and shut in for the night, she crossed the yard to speak to Gabriel.
The old man was squatting over a smoking fire, the billy simmering a stew of kangaroo meat and vegetables. ‘Rains coming, missy. Cloud spirits are talking to the wind.’
Matilda took a deep breath. He was right. The wind had changed, she could smell the rain. ‘Better move your gunyahs. When the creak runs a banker you’ll be flooded out.’
His yellow teeth glistened as he smiled and nodded. ‘Tucker first. Plenty time.’
And he was right. There were two more days of searing heat and dry winds before the wet arrived. Thunderous rains hammered the corrugated iron roof and lashed the windows. Water filled ditches and creeks, running over parched earth in torrential rivers. Lightning turned night into day, cracking like pistol shots across the black sky. Thunder rolled and crashed, sending tremors to the very foundations of the little house.
Matilda sat huddled over the smoking fire of the old cooking range. There was nothing more she could do. The horses were warm in the barn, Gabriel and his family secure in the hay loft. The mob would have to take their chances, but the other animals were securely shut away in their kennels and pens. Of Mervyn, there had been no sign.
‘It’s you and me, Blue,’ she murmured, stroking the silky head of the old Queensland Blue. He seemed to understand her need for his company, and licked her hand.
Matilda pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The house had been built to catch every breath of air in the heat of the outback summers. Now it was icy. The smoking fire gave little warmth, and the light of the kerosene lamp barely dispelled shadows in the corners of the room. And yet she felt safe. The rain was her friend. It kept Mervyn away and brought new life to Churinga. Soon the desert would be covered in kangaroo paw and wild blue anemones, thick grass and stout saplings.
She leaned back as her eyelids grew heavy. She could sleep without fear tonight.
* * *
Heavy hammering shocked her awake, bringing her sharply to her feet and reaching for the rifle. Bluey growled deep in his throat, his front legs straddled, hackles high.
‘Who is it?’ she yelled above the thunder of rain on the roof.
‘Terry Dix from Kurrajong. Let us in, luv.’
Matilda edged towards the window where runnels of water obscured everything beyond. Shadows were visible on the verandah. ‘What do you want?’ She rammed a bullet into the rifle chamber and drew back the hammer.
‘We got yer dad. Let us in.’
Matilda frowned. If it was Mervyn, then why all the rumpus? Something was wrong. She edged closer to the window. The shadows moved, divided into two figures and became clearer as they approached the window. They seemed to be carrying something heavy. Mervyn must have passed out again and his mates had brought him home.
She sighed. At least he wouldn’t cause any trouble, not in that state.
The rifle was steady in one hand as she unfastened the door with the other. It flew open, the wind tearing in behind it, bringing rain and leaves and bits of tree. The two men pushed passed her, Mervyn slung between them. His body hit the table with a dull thud and the three of them stood for a moment in silence.
Matilda looked from the bedraggled muddy heap on the table to the two drovers who were dripping water from their capes. There was something about Mervyn that was too still. Too silent.
Terry Dix took off his sodden hat and ran his hands through his hair. His eyes didn
’t quite meet Matilda’s, and his usually light, cheerful voice was hesitant. ‘We found him tangled up in a tree root on the boundary of Kurrajong. No sign of his horse.’
Matilda thought of Lady and hoped fervently the mare was all right. She looked at Mervyn. ‘He’s dead then,’ she said flatly.
Terry’s eyes were round with surprise, his reaction to her lack of emotion clear on his young face. He looked away quickly to the other man, then down to the floor. ‘About as dead as a man can get when he’s caught in a flash flood.’
Matilda nodded and walked back to the kitchen table. Mervyn’s clothes were torn and stained with mud. His skin bore the evidence of gouging tree roots and gashing stones, and was grey with death. He didn’t appear as large or threatening as he once had. But when she looked at those closed eyes she felt a tremor of fear. She could imagine them suddenly opening, staring at her.
‘We’ll help you bury him, luv. If that’s what you want?’
Matilda took one last look at the man she hated, and nodded. ‘Yeah. He’s too big to manage on my own.’ She crossed the room to the range and put the big smoke-blackened kettle over the heat. ‘Have a cuppa first and get warm. You must be frozen.’
She stoked the fire and cut hunks of bread and cold mutton, but her eyes never settled on the body in the centre of the room as she worked around him.
The two drovers ate their food and drank their tea in silence. Their clothes steamed as the fire brightened, glances drifting between them, their curiosity unspoken except in their expressions.
Matilda sat by the fire staring into the flames. She was unconcerned for their thoughts or feelings. They didn’t know Mervyn the way she’d known him – or they would have understood.
‘We’d better get going, luv. The boss’ll be sending out a search party for us soon, and the horses need feeding.’
Matilda calmly wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stood up. ‘Come on then. There’s spades in the shed. I’ll get Gabriel to help you.’ She picked up the discarded flour sacks. They would do for her father’s shroud.