Matilda's Last Waltz
Jenny looked into that artless face and wide, deceptively innocent eyes. She was lying – but why? ‘Mr Wilson said he’d booked a room,’ she said firmly. ‘I have the confirmation here.’ She handed over the telegram he’d sent to John Wainwright.
Lorraine remained unimpressed. She gave the telegram a fleeting glance and shrugged. ‘I’ll see if Dad can squeeze you in, but you’ll have to share.’ She turned swiftly, a tray of empty glasses expertly balanced in one hand.
There was a murmur of disapproval from the other women, and Jenny shrugged and laughed it off. ‘No worries. I could sleep anywhere, I’m so tired.’
‘Well, I think it’s disgraceful,’ hissed a middle-aged woman whose broad girth was harnessed in sensible navy blue cotton. During the long bus ride, Jenny had learned that her name was Mrs Keen, and she was on the way to the Northern Territory to visit her grandchildren.
‘If you’ve paid for a room, then you should have one.’
A murmur of agreement went round the table and Jenny began to feel uneasy. She didn’t want to cause a fuss, and certainly didn’t relish getting on the wrong side of Lorraine whom she’d clearly already upset. Though God knows how, she thought.
‘I’m sure it’ll sort itself out,’ she murmured. ‘It’s too hot for a fuss, let’s see what Lorraine has to say when she gets back.’
Plump Mrs Keen put her soft hand on Jenny’s arm, and with a conspiratorial wink, leaned forward to whisper, ‘It’s all right, luv. You can bunk in with me. Lorraine obviously thinks you’re after her man – that Brett you were supposed to meet?’
Jenny stared at her. Perhaps that was the answer. Lorraine had been fine until Mr Wilson’s name had come into the conversation. God, she must be tired not to have realised sooner. But the whole thing was absurd, and the sooner she cleared it up the better.
‘Brett Wilson’s the manager of my sheep station. I can’t see that I pose any threat to Lorraine.’
The older woman’s laughter made her bulk quiver. ‘I’ve never seen a woman so eaten up with jealousy in my life as when she clapped eyes on you, luv. And as for you posing no threat – well,’ she dried her eyes, ‘I reckon you ain’t looked in a mirror lately.’
Jenny was lost for words but the older woman continued. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting Lorraine’s got her hooks into your manager and is making plans. Mark my words,’ she said solemnly. ‘You want to watch that one.’ This piece of advice was accompanied by a forceful spearing of lamb and potato.
Lorraine came back into the room as the conversation threatened to grow heated amongst the women. ‘We’re full so you’ll have to share,’ she said coldly. ‘Or have a mattress on the back verandah. There’s screens, so it’ll be private.’
Mrs Keen mopped up the last of the gravy with a hunk of bread. ‘I got a room with two beds. Jenny can come in with me.’
Lorraine’s eyes were hostile as they switched between Jenny and Mrs Keen but she didn’t reply.
Jenny finished her dinner and helped Mrs Keen with her things. They went through the back door and out on to the verandah. A flight of rough stairs took them to the room above the bar. The ceiling fan groaned as it moved turgid air in the small, gloomy room. Two cot beds, a chair and dressing table were the only furniture. The shutters were firmly closed against the night and the mosquitoes. The dunny was downstairs, outside, and the washing facilities were a bowl and pitcher of tepid water that was the colour of tea dregs.
‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it?’ said Mrs Keen, slumping on to one of the cotbeds. ‘Never mind. After that bus ride, any bed will be heaven.’
Jenny turned to her back-pack as the other woman stripped off her dress and washed before climbing into bed. At least the linen was clean, she thought, and there are fresh towels and a bar of soap.
Mrs Keen was soon snoring softly into the pillows, and after a quick wash Jenny pulled on a thin cotton T-shirt and sat in the deepening gloom, relishing the peace and quiet after the long journey. After a while restlessness drew her out of the stuffy little room and on to the balcony.
She leaned against the railings and looked up into the sky. The night was velvet soft, the Milky Way splashing stars in a broad sweep against the inky black. Orion and the Southern Cross were bright and clear above the slumbering earth, and for a moment she wished she could sleep out here on a mattress. But the mosquitoes made it impossible.
How beautiful it all is, she thought. Then smiled. The soft, haunting chuckle of a kookaburra echoed in the stillness. She would have to reacquaint herself with this land called the outback, but knew she was already a part of it.
Chapter Three
The first fingers of light came through the slats of the shutters and warmed her face. Jenny slowly emerged from a deep sleep and lay for a moment, eyes shut against the glare. The night had been dreamless for the first time in months, and although she felt refreshed there was a sense that Pete and Ben were drifting away from her. Faded silhouettes, growing dim on the horizon, the pain of their loss diminished by time and space – how soon the human psyche began the process of healing.
She slipped the photographs from under her pillow and looked at their faces. Then, with a kiss, she put them away. They would remain alive in her memory, no matter the distance between them.
Mrs Keen, who’d been snoring, woke suddenly, eyes bleary, hair tousled. ‘Morning already?’
Jenny nodded and began to brush her hair. ‘Comes early out here.’
‘Too right, it’s only five o’clock.’ Mrs Keen stretched and had a luxurious scratch. ‘I wonder when they serve breakfast?’
Jenny twisted her hair up on to the top of her head and anchored it with tortoiseshell clips. By the time Mrs Keen had returned from the dunny, she’d washed and dressed and was ready to explore. ‘Catch you later,’ she said quickly, squeezing past the older woman. It was too nice a day to be cooped up inside.
The dunny was a shed in the far corner of the back yard, well away from the kitchen. It was dark, smelled evil, and wasn’t a place to linger. Jenny shuddered as she thought of lurking spiders and snakes, and was soon back in the early sunshine.
It was already warm, with a promise of more heat to come. The sky was streaked pink and orange, the earth reflecting the heat in an endless, shimmering horizon. As Jenny walked around the side of the hotel, she heard the rattle of saucepans and Lorraine’s shrill voice. Digging her hands into the pockets of her shorts, she felt a return of the deep calm that had been missing in her for so long. It was a beautiful day and not even Lorraine could spoil it.
The dirt road meandered past the hotel and was lost in the desert. The houses on either side of this track were blasted by heat and dust. Paint was cracked and peeling, wooden shutters shrunken on rusting hinges. The river, now down to a trickle, ran parallel to the road, and was obviously in the habit of flooding during the wet, for every building was perched on stone pilings.
Jenny headed for the sulphur pools. Les had been right, she hardly noticed the smell any more, but at the sight of the bilious yellow water she decided against testing their therapeutic powers and went off to explore the mine shafts instead.
They were nothing more than deep holes punched into the ground, shored up by railway sleepers. According to her guide book, opals had once been big business around here, but these didn’t look as if they’d been worked for years. She leaned over the side of one and almost lost her balance as a voice boomed in her ear.
‘Wanna watch yerself there, lady.’
She spun round and came face to face with a gnome. Short and spare, with a gnarled nose and bright blue eyes, the little man glared up at her ferociously from beneath bushy white brows.
‘G’day. This yours then?’ She was finding it hard to keep a straight face now she’d got over the initial shock.
‘Too right it is. Been digging here for two years. Reckon I’ll hit the big one soon.’ He smiled. There were only a few teeth on display – and they were rotten.
‘So there are
still opals here?’
‘Yeah. Got me a beaut the other day.’ He looked over his shoulder then leaned towards her. ‘No point shouting me mouth off or some bludger’ll come and nick me mine. I could tell you stories that’d make your hair curl, lady, and that’s a fact.’
She had no doubt he could. Like most Australians, he’d obviously kissed the blarney stone, and there was nothing like a tall story to pass the time.
‘Wanna have a look around?’
‘Down there?’ Jenny wasn’t too sure. It looked awfully deep and horribly dark. Besides, there was probably nothing to see down there anyway.
‘Yeah, she’ll be right. There ain’t snakes down there any more like the old days when the miners kept ’em for guards. C’mon, I’ll show yer.’
His hand was rough to the touch, and she felt the strength in his fingers as he grasped her arm and showed her the best way to go down the ladder. He might have been small and goodness knows how old, but he was amazingly powerful. As Jenny balanced on the rickety rungs, she wasn’t at all sure she was doing the right thing by going down a hole with him.
‘Wait on,’ he said as they reached the bottom. ‘Let’s get some light.’ He struck a match and the warm glow of a kerosene lamp chased away the darkness.
It was cool down here in the ground, and as she looked around her she forgot her misgivings. It wasn’t just a hole but an enormous web of tunnels, the earth chiselled away to reveal centuries of colour and texture.
‘Beauty, ain’t it?’ He grinned with pride, then winked. ‘But it’s what’s hidden in the earth that’s really something.’ He turned away and reached into a narrow shelf dug into the wall of the tunnel. Moments later he opened up a leather drawstring bag and spilled the contents into his hand.
Jenny gasped. The lamplight caught the opals, sending glints of red and blue and green through the milky white. And here and there were the rarest of them all. The black opals. Gleaming and secretive, they were flecked with spell-binding gold.
He took a particularly fine specimen and placed it in the palm of her hand. ‘I polished it as best I could, but I reckon it’ll get me a good price in the city.’
Jenny held it up to the light, turning it this way and that until the deep red fires flashed and danced. ‘It’s magnificent,’ she breathed.
‘Too right,’ he smirked. ‘Give you a fair price if you wanted to buy it.’
Jenny looked at the opal. She’d seen them in the jewellers in Sydney and knew how much they cost. ‘I doubt I could afford it,’ she said regretfully. ‘Besides, aren’t opals meant to be unlucky?’
The old man threw back his head, his laughter ringing in the labyrinth of caverns. ‘Fair go, lady. You’ve been listening to blokes that don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re only unlucky for the poor bastards that don’t find them.’
She grinned back at him as he tipped the stones into the drawstring bag and returned it to its hiding place. ‘Aren’t you frightened someone might come down here and pinch them?’
He shook his head and reached for a tiny wire cage. ‘Put me scorpions in there when I leave the mine. No bastard’ll tangle with them.’ He released the scorpions and shut them in with the pouch behind a thick slab of stone. ‘Must be time for tucker. Lorraine cooks a fair brekkie, even if she does look like an accident in a paint factory.’ He laughed again at his own joke, and set off up the ladder.
They walked in amiable silence back to the hotel. Jenny would have liked to ask about Lorraine and Brett Wilson, but knew that in such a small place her curiosity would cause comment. Besides, she acknowledged, it was really none of her business, so long as it didn’t affect his work.
The kitchen was enormous and filled with noise. Long trestle tables were covered in plastic cloths and dishes, the benches crowded with the tourists from the bus, and the passing drovers and fossikers who’d stayed overnight.
‘Cooee!’ Mrs Keen’s voice sailed above the general clamour. ‘Over here, luv. I saved a place for you.’
Jenny had barely squeezed in beside her room mate before Lorraine dumped a plate of steak, egg and fried potato in front of her. She looked at it in horror. ‘I don’t usually eat breakfast. Just coffee, please.’
‘We only got tea. This ain’t some fancy hotel in Sydney, you know.’ The plate was snatched away, the tea pot slammed down in its place.
‘Too right it isn’t,’ Jenny snapped. Then instantly regretted it as the room fell silent and all eyes swivelled from her to Lorraine. She heard Mrs Keen draw in her breath.
‘So why don’t you push off back there?’ Lorraine tossed her head, and with bracelets jangling, left the room.
Jenny laughed to hide her shame at having lost her temper so easily. ‘And go through that bloody bus ride again? No, thanks,’ she said to the room in general.
There was a relieved sigh and the others laughed with her. Soon the room was once again filled with chatter and the clink of cutlery. Yet Jenny knew she’d made a bad start to her stay here. There were few enough women out in the bush, she’d been stupid to alienate the first one she’d come across.
Mrs Keen left on the bus an hour later, and after waving goodbye Jenny sat on the porch with her sketch book. She was eager to begin for there were so many things she wanted to commit to paper. The colours were primary but each of them a shade deeper or lighter than the next, melding into one glorious tapestry of red and tan, orange and ochre. Impossible to capture in the softness of pastel or pencil. She wished now she’d brought her oils and canvases.
She was lost in her work, page after page filling with colour and movement as the desert vista was transformed by the rising sun.
‘Mrs Sanders?’
She hadn’t heard his approach but his mellow drawl didn’t startle her. She looked up into grey eyes flecked with green and gold, and fringed by long black lashes. The sun had creased them at the corners, and the face that looked down at her was square and rugged beneath the shadow of his drover’s hat. His chin was cleft, nose long and straight, mouth sensuous and curved by humour. He looked about thirty, but it was hard to tell a man’s age out here once the sun had got to him.
‘Brett Wilson. Sorry I’m late. Got held up back at the property.’
‘G’day,’ she managed once she’d got her breath back. So this tall, handsome man was the manager of Churinga? No wonder Lorraine guarded him against all-corners. ‘Jenny’s the name,’ she said quickly. ‘Pleased to meet you at last.’
He withdrew his hand, but his gaze lingered a fraction longer than was comfortable. ‘Reckon it’s better I call you Mrs Sanders,’ he said finally. ‘People out here like to talk, and you are the boss.’
Jenny was surprised. It was most unusual for an Australian not to be on first name terms, even if they were a hired hand. Yet something in his eyes stopped her from saying anything. Quickly she gathered up her things. ‘I expect you’ll want to be getting back?’
He shook his head. ‘No worries. Could do with a couple of schooners first. Want me to send Lorraine out with one for you while you wait?’
She didn’t really, but if she was being forced to wait then the least he could do was shout her a beer. ‘Righto, Mr Wilson. But don’t let’s hang around for too long. I want to see Churinga.’
He tipped back his hat and Jenny had a glimpse of black, curly hair before the brim was firmly tugged back over his forehead again. ‘No worries,’ he drawled. ‘Churinga ain’t goin’ nowheres.’ He drifted into the hotel.
Jenny slumped back into the chair and picked up her sketch book. She would have to get used to this slower pace of life, even if it was frustrating.
Lorraine’s excited chatter was followed minutes later by the sound of her high heels clattering over the wooden verandah. ‘There you go. One schooner. Brett said he shouldn’t be too long,’ she said victoriously. The screen door slammed behind her.
‘Silly cow,’ Jenny muttered into her beer. It was as cold as Lorraine’s eyes. Brett Wilson had better get his a
ct together. She wasn’t going to sit here all bloody day waiting while he messed about with a barmaid. A couple of schooners should see him right, then she wanted to get moving.
Finishing the beer, she left the verandah and went upstairs to fetch her back-pack. After washing her face and hands, she set to and brushed her hair. It always soothed her, and by the time it was gleaming, her humour had been restored. She would go back downstairs and enjoy the scenery. Brett was right. Churinga wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she until he was ready to take her.
The beer glass was still on the arm of the chair where she’d left it. Lorraine was obviously busy elsewhere. With a grin, Jenny placed it on the floor and picked up her drawing things. She could still remember the way it had been with Pete in those early days. Snatching moments whenever they could. Tumbling into bed, unable to keep their hands off one another.
She sighed. Sex had been good with Pete, and she missed that intimacy, the feel of another skin against her own, the thud of a second heartbeat. With an impatient toss of her head, she snapped her thoughts back to the present. No point in dwelling on such things. They only brought back the pain.
Her attention was caught by the old opal miner sitting in a rocking chair at the far end of the verandah. As her pencil flashed over the paper, she forgot about Brett and Lorraine. The old man was a wonderful subject, hardly moving, staring into space, his broad-brimmed hat pulled back just enough from his face to expose the weather-beaten profile.
‘That’s real good. I didn’t know you could draw, Mrs Sanders.’
Jenny smiled up at Lorraine. Perhaps this was a peace offering now Brett was firmly in her clutches. ‘Thanks.’
‘You should try and sell your stuff to the gallery at Broken Hill if you’re planning on staying around for a while. The tourists love this sort of thing.’
Jenny was about to say her work was already quite well known in Australia, but held back. She didn’t want to spoil this attempt at peace-making by sounding smug. ‘It’s just something to do to pass the time.’