Matilda's Last Waltz
* * *
The Culgoa River rippled in the sunlit breeze. By the time Charlie and Jenny arrived there were already a great many blankets and picnic baskets laid out under the trees. Children splashed in the cold water and played football on the grass. Brightly coloured stalls had been set up and were busy. There were jugglers and fire-eaters, boxers, fat and bearded ladies, a carousel and swing boats.
‘As host there are things I have to do, Jenny.’ Charlie looked down at her solemnly. ‘I could ask someone to keep you company if you’d prefer?’
She shook her head. ‘You go on. I’m quite happy to explore on my own.’
He eyed her for a moment, then left. Although she’d enjoyed his company, Jenny was glad Charlie had other things to see to. She was looking forward to wandering on her own, and to a treat of candyfloss and toffee apple. The sounds and smells of the country fair had brought back memories of childhood at Waluna.
She picked her way around the picnic baskets and acknowledged cheerful greetings. It seemed everyone knew who she was, but thankfully only a few wanted to stop and chat. She walked past the beer tent. It was packed, and the pile of empties already stacked outside was growing by the minute. A heated argument was going on behind the tent, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, but within minutes the two protagonists were arm in arm, singing an old shearing song.
Jenny walked on, enjoying the taste of the sticky candy floss, and wondered if Brett was nearby.
She saw him finally, standing in a crowd that had gathered around the boxing ring. After pushing her way through, she came to a sudden halt. He was with Lorraine. Arm in arm, looking down at her as if quite at ease. They looked right together, as close as any couple enjoying a day out in each other’s company.
Jenny turned swiftly before they caught sight of her. The day had somehow lost its promise.
Chapter Fifteen
As Brett looked up, he caught sight of Jenny’s stricken face before she turned away. His spirits plummeted as he realised how it must have looked, and he pulled himself free of Lorraine’s grasp. She’d pounced minutes earlier, and rather than cause a scene he’d been waiting his moment to escape. ‘I’d better get going,’ he mumbled. ‘The horses need seeing to.’
She pouted. ‘I thought we could have our picnic together. I’ve set it out under the trees down by the water.’
‘Can’t eat before the races, Lorraine.’ He saw the glint of obstinacy in her eyes. ‘And I promised the Squires I would join them for a drink.’
‘Promised that Sanders woman more like,’ she sneered. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Brett Wilson. Her sort only go for money. I bet she’s well in with that Charlie by now.’
‘Don’t judge others by your own standards, Lorraine,’ he said grimly.
‘Bastard,’ she spat. ‘I don’t know what I ever saw in you. But if you think you’ve got it made with that Sanders woman, then you’re mistaken. She’s one of them. One of the rich – and you’re just a hired hand.’ She turned on her heel and flounced away, her high heels digging deep into the grassy earth.
Brett watched her retreat, stung by her words and reluctant to believe the truth of them. For the evidence of his eyes had reinforced that intuitive knowledge that Jenny was different to the Squires of this world. She would not be influenced by money and power, would make up her own mind about her future. He pushed his way through the jostling crowd and headed for the Kurrajong picnic area.
Yet as Brett caught sight of the large party, he hesitated. It was an interesting tableau – and one he felt reluctant to enter. Lorraine’s words returned full force at the sight of Jenny so happily chatting to Charlie Squires. Her face was animated as he leaned towards her. She seemed at ease with his attentions, and with the lavish surroundings.
Blankets had been spread on the grass beneath the wilga trees. Tables and chairs set in the shade, glinting with silver and blinding white cloth. The Kurrajong women were coolly elegant in their summer dresses and large hats as they sipped champagne from crystal flutes and laughed and chatted to their guests. Old man Squires was holding court beneath a large umbrella, the smoke from his cigar lingering in a pall above his head as he barked orders and orchestrated his guests. Helen was, as usual, in attendance, dancing to his malevolent tune, while her husband James dispensed the drinks.
But it was to Charles and Jenny he turned. They looked comfortable together, he acknowledged. Although Charles was a good forty years older than Jenny, he was still a good-looking bastard who was known to have a way with women.
A rich bastard, too, Brett added in grim silence. One who could give her everything she’d ever wanted – but one whose only priority had to be the acquisition of land.
Brett turned away before they could catch sight of him. He had no part to play in this scene, would only have felt like the outsider he was. And yet his reluctance to leave was fuelled by the thought that Jenny was slipping away from him. Now she had tasted what life could bring a rich squatter, what could he ever offer her that she didn’t already have?
* * *
Jenny had never seen a picnic like it. There were cold meats and salads, whole smoked salmon and roast chickens, and glossy caviar nestling on beds of ice. A pyramid of fruit graced the centre of the table which had been covered in white damask and glinted with silver and crystal. The masters of Kurrajong certainly knew how to entertain. And yet, for all the gracious hospitality and polite conversation, she felt there was something missing, and as she watched them interact with each other over the weekend, she realised what it was.
This was a family of diverse characters who didn’t much like one another. Ethan Squires was the indisputable patriarch who ruled his vast family of children and grandchildren by fear. The fear of being passed over. The fear of being cut out of a will. The fear that Kurrajong wealth would somehow be snatched away if his word was not instantly obeyed. Like many old people, it was within his power to hold them to ransom. And he wielded that power with relish.
James had had any fires of ambition in him burned out by the old man’s relentless hand on the reins of Kurrajong. Charlie was pleasant enough company, but his own frustration was evident in the way he talked of plans for Kurrajong which could never be realised in his father’s lifetime. Andrew was the only one who seemed comfortable with his life. But even though he’d escaped the old man’s clutches to find a career in the city, the ties that bound him to Kurrajong were still strong. For all his sophistication, he was still at the mercy of Ethan’s tyrannical rule. All Kurrajong business went through his office, and Jenny suspected Ethan kept tight control of everything.
Languid from too much food and wine and drowsy from the heat, she leaned back on the cushions and closed her eyes. The talk around her was desultory and as she was a stranger amongst these outback people she could take no part in the women’s gossip.
‘Strewth! Now that’s what I call a bird of paradise.’
Jenny opened her eyes and sleepily wondered what Charlie was talking about. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Diane,’ she gasped.
Charlie tore his gaze from the vision in a scarlet caftan and eyed Jenny with interest. ‘You know that exotic creature?’
She grinned and got to her feet. ‘Too right I do,’ she replied. ‘And isn’t she just a sight for sore eyes?’ She didn’t wait for a reply from the stunned Charlie. Diane always had that effect on men.
Jenny raced towards her friend and flung her arms around her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘That’s a nice way to greet a mate who’s come halfway across the country to see you,’ Diane laughed and pulled away, her strong fingers gripped around Jenny’s wrist. ‘Jeez, you look good, girl. This outdoor life must be agreeing with you.’
Jenny eyed the vermillion caftan that somehow didn’t clash with the orange scarf Diane had tied in a piratical swathe around her head. Gold earrings swung from her ears and bracelets clashed and jangled around her wrists. The make-up around her eyes was heavy as
usual, despite the heat, and her perfume was reminiscent of the arab bazaars in Morocco. ‘I see you decided to blend in with the locals,’ she spluttered.
Diane looked around her, smiling at the audience that had gathered. ‘Thought I’d give these wool growers something to talk about,’ she said airily.
Jenny glimpsed Charlie making his way towards them. ‘Let’s get out of here so we can have a chance to talk,’ she said quickly.
Diane followed her glance and stepped out of reach. ‘No chance. Not until I’ve met everyone you wrote to me about.’ She eyed Charlie. ‘That’s not Brett, is it? Nice-looking, but a bit old.’
‘Behave yourself,’ Jenny whispered hastily. ‘That’s Charlie Squires.’
The heavily kholed eyes widened. ‘Not Squires of the dastardly deeds?’
‘His son,’ Jenny muttered as Charlie drew near.
Diane was like a bright parakeet amongst the sparrows as Charlie took possession of her and led her back to the picnic to introduce her to the others. Her bracelets clashed as she shook hands and accepted a glass of champagne. Her smile never faltered or dimmed as the other women looked on aghast.
Jenny watched her, knowing how much pleasure Diane was receiving from being the centre of attention. It had always been that way, and she supposed her friend’s outrageous clothes and extrovert nature had a great deal to do with having been abandoned as a child. She was determined to be noticed, never to be ignored or sidelined again. It was her way of making a mark, a defence against the indifference and anonymity she’d suffered as an orphan.
Diane finally drifted away from the knot of admirers and, linking arms with Jenny, they strolled down to the river. The sun was lower in the sky, and a welcome breeze cooled the heat.
‘How the hell did you find me?’ This was the first chance Jenny had had to speak to her alone.
‘I bought an old camper from an artist friend who’s just come back from the west coast. The exhibition went real well and I was exhausted. Needed to get away and find some space.’ Diane laughed. ‘And, boy, is there space out here! Miles and miles of it. I never thought I’d reach Wallaby Flats, let alone Churinga.’
Jenny eyed her. ‘You drove all this way? You? Who hires a cab to go to the shops?’
Diane shrugged. ‘We did it before, so why not now.’
‘We were eighteen, Diane. And without an ounce of sense between us. When I think of the risks we took driving all over Europe and Africa, it makes my blood run cold.’
Diane pursed her lips, her eyes lighting up with mischief. ‘But we had fun, though, didn’t we?’
Jenny thought of the cold, damp room where they’d lived in Earl’s Court, and the dark alleys they’d had to walk through when they’d finished working in the Soho bar. Thought of the dust and flies of Africa, and the dangerous, dark-eyed interest of the Arabs they’d met along the route to Marrakesh. She remembered the camaraderie of being poor and footloose amongst the other Australians who’d left home for adventure. Remembered how danger had only added spice to their travels. Sublimely ignorant and naive, they’d gone their merry way without a thought. But for all that, they’d made good friends during that year after art college, and the memories would always be with them.
‘I still can’t believe you’re here,’ she said finally. ‘Jeez, it’s good to see you again.’
Diane’s gaze was direct. ‘I was worried about you, that’s why I had to come. Your letters were too few and far between. They weren’t telling me anything, but I got the feeling something wasn’t right.’
Jenny gave her a hug. ‘Everything’s fine. I just got caught up in the diaries and let my imagination get the better of me for a while. But I’ve had the time and space to come to terms with everything, and in a crazy way I reckon the diaries have helped me to see there is life after tragedy. Matilda’s example has made me realise it’s time I got on with my life and left the past behind.’
‘So you’re planning to come back to Sydney, then?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied carefully.
‘This hesitation wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain Brett Wilson, would it?’
Jenny felt the blush creep up her neck. ‘Don’t be daft. He’s here with his girlfriend.’
Diane eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then let it pass without comment. ‘Looks like it’s time for the next race,’ she said as the crowds began to gather towards the marked out circuit. ‘Anyone interesting riding in it?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I’ve got no idea,’ she said truthfully. ‘It’s the veterans’ race before the final.’
They pushed their way through the crowd and were soon caught up in the excitement as they stood by the railings and watched the men and horses prepare. The stock ponies seemed to sense something was about to happen, and they stamped and snorted and kicked out at one another, teeth gnashing, lips curled.
As in all the races over the weekend, the riders were a fair representation of the men who worked and inhabited the outback. Squatters, drovers, shearers, and station managers. Each dressed in the bright colours of their sponsor, with a bed roll or Bluey over their back.
Silence fell on the crowd. Horses and riders tensed. The starter’s flag fluttered in the breeze. Then they were off in an explosion of dust and a roar of encouragement.
The course ran along a narrow straight, then up a hill to wind through trees and around termite mounds. The crowd lost sight of the leaders but even after two days of racing that did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm as they watched the trail of dust hovering over the bush. Long minutes passed until the leader was spotted emerging from the trees to begin the steep descent back into the valley. With hooves slipping on shale, breath fiery in their lungs, the stock horses swung left and right through the stand of tea trees and raced over the uneven ground. The men on their backs gripped the reins, heels thumping as they leaned against sweat-frothed necks and shouted into pricked ears. The finishing line was up ahead, and there could only be one winner.
Jenny and Diane yelled and cheered as loudly as everyone else when the Kurrajong drover won. ‘Whew! This is more exciting than the Melbourne Cup,’ said Diane. ‘How about putting a bet on the next race?’
‘What a splendid idea, ladies. Would you like me to place them for you?’
Charlie smiled down at them. ‘I suppose you’ll want an each-way bet on your manager, Jenny? His odds are short but you could do worse.’
She studiously avoided Diane’s sharp eyes as she gave him five dollars. ‘Why not? But let’s make it to win, not each way. After all, he’s wearing Churinga colours and I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Why are the odds so short?’ Diane said, handing over her money.
Charlie laughed. ‘Because he’s won for the last three years. But Kurrajong have a secret weapon this year and I reckon Brett’s reign as King of the Hill is over.’ His glance moved swiftly towards a skinny youth with a sly face who sat perched on a vicious little skewbald.
‘Dingo Fowley’s already won in Queensland and Victoria this year, and he showed up well in the heats. Reckon he’s the best rider I’ve seen in a long while.’
Jenny watched him saunter away and turned to find Diane staring at her. ‘So, which one is he then?’ she said impatiently. ‘I want to see what I’ve bought for my five dollars.’
Jenny looked across to the starting line. Brett was astride a chestnut gelding, the Churinga emblazoned in Aboriginal artwork on his green and gold shirt. He looked handsome and darkly powerful in the saddle, his capable hands soothing the excited horse and keeping him steady. Their eyes met and held. His lazy wink suggested an intimate conspiracy that isolated them both from the crowd and drew them together.
Diane made a sensuous growling noise in her throat. ‘Now that’s what I call a secret worth keeping. No wonder you didn’t have the time to write.’
Jenny could feel the heat in her face as she looked away from Brett. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, Diane,’ she said firmly. ?
??Nothing could be further from the truth. This is the first time I’ve seen him all weekend.’
‘Really?’ her friend murmured thoughtfully.
* * *
The starter’s flag was up and Brett took a firmer grip on the reins. Stroller was twitching beneath him, dancing on his toes in nervous anticipation. Dingo Fowley’s skewbald nudged and baulked beside him but Brett kept his concentration on the track. He’d heard about Dingo and the tricks he’d played in the heats, and was determined to beat him. He had a reputation to keep and a trophy to win – and with Jenny watching him carry her colours, it was more important than ever to remain King of the Hill.
The flag dropped and Stroller burst from the line with the skewbald neck and neck. The narrow run was rutted and steep. Dingo’s boot jarred against Brett’s stirrup, kicking his boot loose, upsetting his balance. Stroller lengthened his stride and pulled away as they made the first turn at the top of the hill and began the tortuous run through the bush.
Adrenalin was pumping as trees lashed them to either side and hooves thudded against dry earth and scrub. Termite hills loomed as high as a man – solid barricades that had to be swung around with the sure-footed swiftness that came only from years of experience with rounding up sheep.
Man and horse were lathered in sweat and dust as they approached the tunnel of light at the end of the bush. Dingo was still with him lying almost flat to the skewbald’s neck, his hands and legs pumping encouragement to go that bit faster as he kicked out again to dislodge Brett’s foot from the stirrup.
Sunlight blinded them after the green shade as they thrust their way out of the bush and pounded along the ridge. The world was a kaleidoscope of heat and dust, of drumming hooves and the smell of sweat. As Brett turned Stroller’s head to begin the steep descent, he knew Dingo was still with him.
Hooves slid on shale, muscles bunched and mighty lungs heaved as slender legs fought to keep their balance. Hands gripped reins, knees gripped horse flesh. Sweat and grime clung as closely as rider to mount as they reached the final plateau. The finishing line was up ahead, but the sound of the crowd was lost in the drum of hooves. Dingo was beside him still, the skewbald’s neck stretching nose to nose with Stroller’s.