Matilda's Last Waltz

  St Joseph’s Rest Home was a long white building set in a large shady garden at the far edge of town. Helen pulled on the hand-brake and switched off the engine.

  ‘We could always turn round and forget the whole thing?’

  ‘No fear, not after having come all this way.’

  ‘Okay. No worries.’ Helen’s smile was bright. ‘Come on then. Let’s see if the old boy has anything interesting to tell us.’

  * * *

  Brett woke to an all too familiar silence that didn’t bode well. He clambered out of bed and looked outside. It was half-light and gloomy, which matched his mood. The heat was intense despite the earliness of the day and threatening clouds loomed low over Churinga. Not a breath of air stirred the trees or ruffled the crisp, dry grass. The storm was about to break.

  He looked at the letter he’d taken so long to write the night before, and stuffed it in his pocket. It could wait. The stock needed seeing to, the fences checking just once more, for although they were already mustered in the two nearest paddocks, they would soon panic once the storm hit.

  Lighting a cigarette, he looked towards the main house and frowned. There was something wrong, something missing. Then he realised that although the hippy van was still there, the utility was gone.

  ‘Any you blokes moved the ute?’ he shouted into the drovers’ barracks.

  They shook their heads and turned over in their bunks.

  He looked back at the house. The lights were on and the curtains were drawn, nothing much looked out of place, but still he had the feeling something was wrong.

  ‘Bill, you and Clem ride the paddocks today. Jake, Thomas, get the others and see to the stock. Batten down all the buildings and make sure the machinery’s in the barns. Get the boys to check the dogs and pigs are penned safely, and while you’re at it, make them clean up the bloody yard. There’s tools and stuff out there which’ll be blown into the next state when the wind gets up.’

  He left the men grumbling and strode out of the barracks towards the house. Delivering the letter to Jenny would be a good excuse to make sure everything was all right. He knocked on the screen door and waited.

  Ripper barked and Brett could hear the frantic scratch of his claws on the front door. He knocked again. She should have come to the door by now. Even if she and her friend were asleep, Ripper was making enough racket to waken the dead.

  ‘Mrs Sanders? Jenny? It’s Brett.’

  There was still no reply and he decided enough was enough. The feeling that something was wrong could no longer be ignored. He opened the door and was bombarded by Ripper.

  ‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Brett squatted down and stroked the pup’s head as he looked around the silent home. The lights were on, the bedroom doors were open, there was obviously no one at home. Several puddles on the floor were evidence that Ripper had been alone for some time and, from the way he was whining, Brett suspected he hadn’t been fed either.

  He walked into the kitchen and quickly opened a tin of dog food. He stood thoughtfully watching the pup gobble it down.

  ‘Poor little bugger,’ he muttered. ‘But I wish you could tell me what’s going on here.’

  Leaving the pup to his meal, Brett made a hurried search through the deserted house. He stood in the doorway of Jenny’s room and looked at the mess. The diaries were scattered across the unmade bed, clothes dropped on the floor or flung over the chair.

  ‘Jenny,’ he yelled. ‘Where the hell are you? Answer me, dammit!’

  He stood in the middle of the kitchen and ran his hand over his chin. He’d forgotten to shave, but that was the least of his worries. There was no sign of either woman outside and all the horses were still in the paddock so it stood to reason they must have taken the utility.

  Slamming through the screen door he ran from barn to shed, from pen to slaughter house. None of the men had borrowed the ute and no one had seen the women leave.

  ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll have to get on the two-way and try to track them down.’ He marched back to the main house, temper rising with each stride. ‘Silly bitches,’ he hissed. ‘Fancy going off for a bloody drive when this storm’s about to break. Jeeezus!’

  He stormed into the house and picked up the receiver. She’s probably gone chasing after Charlie, he thought grimly. The sooner I leave the better. I’m far too old to be wet nursing a bloody townie.

  ‘Kurrajong. This is James. Over.’

  ‘Brett Wilson,’ he replied curtly. This was no time for civilities. ‘Is Mrs Sanders there?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. She and my wife have gone to Broken Hill on some errand. I only found the note last night. Been out mustering the mob. Over.’

  Brett gripped the mike. Of all the stupid, inconsiderate, hare-brained, bloody silly things to do! He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. ‘Any idea when they plan to get back? Over.’

  ‘You know women, mate. When they go shopping they could be gone for weeks. How’s things over there, by the way? Storm’s building up here. Over.’

  Brett thrust his uncharitable thoughts to one side. ‘Same here, mate. Reckon it’ll hit soon – been too long in coming. Over.’

  ‘Gonna be a fair cow when she does. Good thing the women are out of it. I’ll get Jenny to call you when she gets back. Over.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Good luck, mate. Over and out.’ Brett hooked up the mike and tuned in the radio to the weather station. None of the news was good. The storm was dry and ferocious and had already hit the south-east. Now it was heading their way fast. There was nothing they could do but batten everything down and wait for it.

  He called Ripper and left the house. James was right about one thing, he acknowledged. The women were best off out of it. The last thing he needed was a couple of terrified females clinging to him when he was needed elsewhere. Yet he couldn’t quite bury the thought that he wouldn’t mind Jenny clinging to him – in fact, would rather like it.

  ‘Get your brain in gear, Brett Wilson,’ he muttered crossly. ‘Stop mooning about and get to work.’

  Ripper followed him everywhere in the next three hours as he organised the men into working parties and made sure everything was stowed away. The pup seemed lost without Jenny, and Brett knew how he felt.

  With frequent returns to the house to check on the weather reports and listen in to the other squatters report their damage, he plotted the storm’s path. Then he heard the words he’d been dreading.

  ‘We got fire heading our way. It’s about fifty miles south of Nulla Nulla and moving fast. We need every man we can get.’

  * * *

  Jenny clambered down after Diane and looked at the line of elderly men sitting in the shade of the verandah. ‘I wonder if one of them is Father Ryan?’

  Diane shrugged. ‘Maybe. All I know is they look horribly lonely and forgotten sitting there in their rocking chairs. I reckon we’re probably the first visitors any of them have had for years.’

  As they trooped through the front door and into the reception hall, Jenny glanced at Diane. She had the unnerving sensation of having been here before. Then she realised it was the smell of furniture polish and antiseptic which had reminded her of the orphanage and Waluna. The crucifix on the wall and the small statuette of the Madonna and child brought all those memories back – and she could see by the pallor of Diane’s face that it was the same for her.

  The click and rustle of rosary beads against habit made her turn to face the nun who’d appeared from behind a highly polished door. Her courage almost failed her and she grasped Diane’s hand for support.

  As she looked into the face she realised it wasn’t Sister Michael – but she could have been a close relative. Tall and austere, her white wimple cruelly pinched her thin face. With her hands clasped beneath the wide sleeves of her robe, the nun regarded them with unblinking hostility.

  Helen seemed unperturbed. ‘We’ve come to visit Father Ryan,’ she said coolly. ‘I understand Father Duncan telephon
ed to inform you of our arrival.’

  The nun ignored her and cold, sharp eyes rested on Jenny and Diane. ‘I can’t have Father disturbed by visitors,’ she said forcefully. ‘He needs to rest.’ She eyed each of them imperiously. ‘Five minutes. That’s all I’ll allow.’ She turned on her heel and strode down the long corridor.

  Jenny and Diane exchanged horrified glances before they followed her. This was Sister Michael incarnate and they had been reduced all too swiftly to two little girls who had lived in terror of her cruelty.

  Jenny followed the swishing habit and remembered how it had been when she was just five years old. She had wondered then if nuns had legs and feet at all or if they were propelled by wheels for they’d seemed to glide everywhere on those highly polished floors. But when she’d asked, she’d been smacked hard across the face and told to make a penance of two rosaries and three Hail Mary’s.

  It wasn’t until much later that her question was answered by a gust of wind which had whipped up Sister Michael’s skirts. And as she’d gazed in astonishment at the marbled columns of flesh encased in heavy, gartered stockings, she’d received a well-aimed box around the ears for her newly found knowledge.

  Nasty, vicious old bitch, she thought. Sister Michael had only succeeded in beating any love of religion out of her. Now she couldn’t even go into a church without cringing.

  ‘You have visitors, Father. Don’t let them tire you,’ said the nun as she yanked at his pillows and punched them into place. ‘I’ll come back in five minutes,’ she warned, giving all three women a frosty glance before leaving the room.

  Diane and Helen held back as Jenny hesitantly approached the old man. He looked so frail against the white cotton sheets and pillowcases, and now she was here, she wasn’t at all sure she was doing the right thing.

  She took his blue-veined hand gently in her own and held it. She’d thought long and hard during the drive of how she would approach this most delicate of situations, and had decided to come straight to the point.

  ‘I’m Jennifer Sanders, Father. And this is Helen and Diane.’

  The priest lifted his head and Jenny saw the milky clouds that blinded him. She experienced a pang of uncertainty. What could this old man tell her that she didn’t already know, or at least suspect? He was old and should be left in peace.

  ‘Jennifer, is it? Well now, there’s a thing.’ He fell silent for a moment then twisted awkwardly. ‘Would you be moving these darn’ pillows for me?’ They’re the very divil and give me a crook in the neck.’

  Jenny smiled. Father Ryan might be old but his Irish outspokenness hadn’t left him. She quickly adjusted the pillows. There wasn’t much time. Sister would be back soon.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Father,’ she began. ‘About what happened to Finn McCauley. Do you remember him?’

  The priest lay still for a long time then turned his rheumy eyes on her. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  Jenny swallowed her impatience. ‘Jennifer Sanders, Father.’

  ‘Would that be your maiden name, child?’ he asked softly.

  With a puzzled frown to Diane and Helen, she shook her head. ‘No, Father. I was christened Jennifer White. Evidently the list was down to W by the time I reached the orphanage.’

  The old man nodded, his long sigh whispering like dry leaves on rough ground.

  ‘’Tis God’s will you came in time, my dear. You have been on my conscience for many a long year.’

  Jenny drew back from him. This was not what she’d been expecting. ‘Why should I be on your conscience, Father?’

  The old man closed his eyes and sighed. ‘It was all so long ago. So many years of torment for your poor mother. But it started long before then … long before.’

  Jenny froze. His words had dripped like ice into her heart and buried themselves deep. ‘My mother?’ she whispered. ‘What about my mother?’

  He was silent for so long Jenny wondered if he’d either fallen asleep or merely forgotten they were there. Either way, he’d muddled her up with someone else, that was for sure.

  ‘Old boy’s lost the plot, Jen. I knew this was a mistake.’ Diane reached over and clasped her hand. ‘Come on. Best leave him to it.’

  Jenny was about to stand up when his frail voice stilled her. ‘I first realised all was not well when I heard Mary Thomas’ dying confession. She had married one man but loved another. Her child was not her husband’s.’

  ‘Then there was no doubt Matilda was Ethan Squires’ daughter?’ Helen interrupted.

  The old priest lifted his milky gaze at the sound of her voice. ‘None whatsoever. But she kept her secret right until the end. Mary was very strong, you know. Like her daughter.’

  Jenny relaxed. Muddled he might be but at last she was finding out about Matilda and her family. What did it matter if he thought he was talking to someone else?

  ‘I remember Matilda and Finbar coming to see me about their wedding. They were so happy then. So full of joy and looking forward to the future. It was a cruel thing that happened. Cruel and unjust after all Matilda had gone through.’ He fell silent.

  ‘I know what happened, Father. I found her diaries. Tell me what Finn did after Matilda died!’ She took his frail hand and felt his pulse. It was thready, but his grip was firm.

  ‘Your father called me out to Churinga to give your mother a decent burial. ’Twas a miracle she lasted long enough to give you life, Jennifer.’

  ‘My fa—?’ Her breath was trapped in her chest, making her head spin and the floor heave beneath her. This was crazy. The old boy must be rambling. ‘Father, you’re mistaken,’ she manager to stutter. ‘My name is Jennifer White. I am not related to Matilda or Finn.’

  He sighed again and gripped her hand a little tighter. ‘Jennifer White was the name they gave you. Jennifer McCauley is the one you were born with.’

  He didn’t seem to notice the electricity in the air. The stunned silence. The look of horror on Jenny’s face as she sat there frozen, pulse drumming so loud and hard she thought it would burst from her chest.

  ‘You were a poor little scrap. Yelling for your mother’s breast and filling the house with your noise. Your poor father was heartbroken and at his wit’s end.’

  The silence was almost tangible as he paused for breath. Jenny was only half aware of Diane’s hand gripping hers. Images from the diary were coming alive, parading before her, tearing her apart. And yet his voice would not be stilled.

  ‘We buried your mother in the little cemetery on Churinga. And it was right she should be laid to rest with prayers and holy water. She had not knowingly sinned – was more sinned against. I stayed on for a few days to help Finn. He needed someone to see him through that most terrible of times.’

  The priest fell silent as if lost in his memories. The only sound in the room was the rattle of air in his lungs as he breathed.

  The tears were hot against Jenny’s chilled face but the compulsion to know everything had grown even stronger. ‘Go on, Father,’ she urged. ‘Tell me the rest.’

  ‘Finn read the diaries.’ He turned his blind gaze towards her and tried to sit up. ‘Finn was a God-fearing man. A good man. But reading those diaries so close after her death turned his mind. It was his darkest hour. Far darker than any battlefield. He told me everything. ’Tis a terrible sight to see a man destroyed and to have to watch as his spirit’s crushed. There was nothing I could do but pray for him.’

  The image this conjured up was too painful to bear. Jenny fought hard to maintain control. Give in now and she would be lost.

  The old priest rested back on his pillows, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. You see, Finn couldn’t believe that God would forgive him. And that’s what finally destroyed him.’

  The door opened and the nun stood on the threshold, arms folded, face grim. Jenny glared at her – wanting her gone – needing to hear the rest of the old man’s story, knowing it could only bring pain.

  ‘
It’s time for you to leave. I won’t have Father upset.’

  Father Ryan seemed to have found an inner strength. He raised himself on his pillows and shouted, ‘You’ll shut that door and leave me with my visitors.’

  The austere expression faltered into confusion. ‘But Father…’

  ‘But nothing, woman. I have important things to discuss. Now go. Go.’

  The nun eyed each of them with cold fury, then sniffed and shut the door rather too firmly on her way out.

  ‘That one will never learn humility,’ he muttered as he reached for Jenny’s hand. ‘Now, where was I?’ His breath wheezed in his chest as he collected his thoughts.

  Jenny couldn’t answer him. She was in an agony of bewilderment and disbelief.

  ‘Finbar sat for hours holding you. I hoped it would bring him some kind of peace. But Matilda had left him a letter telling him to take you away from Churinga and he desperately wanted to do the right thing.’

  The priest patted her hand and smiled. ‘He loved you very much, Jennifer. I hope that’s a comfort to you.’

  She squeezed his hand. It was a gesture that helped them both, and with it came the realisation that his words had indeed brought a degree of comfort to the torment of the past few minutes. ‘Yes, Father,’ she murmured finally. ‘I think it is.’ She wiped away the tears and squared her shoulders. ‘But I need to know what happened next!’

  The priest sighed and a tear slowly trickled down his own sunken cheek. ‘Your father drew up a will and I witnessed it. He spoke to the manager of the Bank of Australia in Sydney and arranged for Churinga to be held in trust for you until your twenty-fifth birthday. Then, against my advice, he called in the manager of Wilga and arranged for him to take over.’

  He grasped Jenny’s hand tightly and she leaned towards him – dreading what was to come, but knowing she must hear it all if she was to understand anything of what her father had wanted for her.

  ‘I had no idea what was going through his mind, Jennifer. No idea at all. He wouldn’t listen, you see, and not even prayer could make him see reason. I failed as a priest and as a man. There was nothing I could do but stand by and watch him destroy everything he and your mother had built between them.’