Matilda's Last Waltz Part 2

'Now look what you done! Stupid b.i.t.c.h. You're all the b.l.o.o.d.y same.'

His boot connected with her hip and she crawled away, blindly searching for the door and the sanctuary of the house.

'Yer just like yer ma,' he yelled as he swayed over her. 'But then you b.l.o.o.d.y O'Connors always thought you were too good for the likes of me.' He kicked out again, sending her cras.h.i.+ng into the wall. 'Time you learned some respect.'

Matilda scrabbled for the door, her eyes never leaving him as he returned to his chair, a fresh bottle in his hand.

'b.u.g.g.e.r off,' he growled. 'You ain't no use to me. Just as yer ma wasn't.'

She didn't need telling twice. Stumbling to her feet, she edged towards the door.

Mervyn took a long pull from the bottle. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and eyed her belligerently. Then he sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'Not so lah-de-dah now, are ya?'

Matilda slipped into the house. With the door closed behind her, she leaned against it for a moment and took deep, shuddering breaths. The pain in her hip was nothing compared to the pain in her leg, and on closer inspection she understood why. A jagged piece of gla.s.s was deeply embedded in her thigh.

Hobbling to the pantry, she pulled down the medicine box and swiftly dealt with the wound. The sting of antiseptic made her bite her lip, but once the gla.s.s was out and a clean bandage drew the lips of the ragged cut together, it didn't seem so bad.

Alert for the sound of Mervyn leaving his chair, she hastily stripped off the filthy dress and left it to soak in a bucket while she washed. There was nothing but the creak of the rockers on the bare boards and his unintelligible ramblings.

Matilda limped across the kitchen to the tiny room where she slept. With the door firmly jammed by a chair, she fell exhausted on to the bed where she lay wide-eyed and vigilant. Night sounds came to her through the shuttered window, and the outback smell of eucalyptus and wattle, dry gra.s.s and cooling earth, drifted between the gaps of the clapboard walls.

She fought to stay awake, but it had been a long, traumatic day and her eyelids drooped. Her last thought before sleep was of her mother.

The sound was alien and woke her instantly.

The door handle was turning. Rattling against the wood. Matilda edged up the bed, the thin sheet drawn to her chin as she watched the chair being rocked.

She cried out as a great weight was thrown against the door, splintering the panels, rasping the chair across the floor. The screech of rusty hinges was loud as the broken door slammed back against the wall.

Mervyn's towering bulk filled the frame, the light of a candle casting deep shadows around his staring eyes.

Matilda shuffled to the furthest corner of the bed. Her back was pressed to the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Perhaps if she was small enough, she could become invisible.

Mervyn stepped into the room, the candle held high as he looked down at her.

'Don't.' She put out a hand as if to ward him off. 'Please, Dad. Don't hit me.'

'But I've come to give you your present, Matilda.' He walked unsteadily towards her, fumbling with his belt.

She thought of the last time he'd beaten her, and how the buckle had bit so deep she'd been in agony for days. 'I don't want it,' she sobbed. 'Not the belt. Please, not the belt.'

The candle was carefully placed on the beside table. Mervyn belched as he pulled the belt free. It was as if she hadn't spoken. 'It ain't the belt you'll be getting,' he hiccuped. 'Not this time.'

Matilda's sobs came to an abrupt halt and her eyes widened in horror as he fumbled to undo the trouser b.u.t.tons. 'No,' she breathed. 'Not that.'

The moleskins dropped to the floor and he kicked them aside. His breath was ragged, eyes bright with more than whisky. 'You always were an ungrateful b.i.t.c.h,' he grunted. 'Well, I'm gonna teach you a lesson in manners, and when I'm through you'll think twice about giving me lip.'

Matilda dived off the bed as he climbed towards her. But he was between her and the door, and the window was tightly fastened against the mosquitoes. There was nowhere to go, and no one to turn to and as he grabbed her she began to scream.

But the screams bounced off the corrugated iron roof and were lost in the great silence of the Never Never.

Dark clouds swirled in her head. Matilda thought she was floating in a coc.o.o.n. There was no pain, no terror, just endless darkness which welcomed her, drawing her into its depths, offering peace.

Yet somewhere in that darkness was the sound of another world. Of c.o.c.ks crowing and early-morning birdsong. The darkness faded to grey, the first rays of light banis.h.i.+ng it to the furthest reaches of her mind. Matilda willed the clouds to return. She didn't want to be torn from this protective womb and thrust into cold reality.

The sunlight broke through the cloud, warming her face, forcing her to return to awareness. She lay for a moment, her eyes closed, wondering why there was so much pain. Then memory hit and her eyes snapped open.

He was gone but there on the mattress was the evidence of what he'd done. Like a demonic rose, blood blossomed across the kapok, its petals scattered on the sheet and the remains of her petticoat.

Matilda remained huddled on the floor. She had no memory of how she'd got there, but guessed she must have crawled into the corner some time after he'd gone. Pus.h.i.+ng away the images of that awful night, she gingerly dragged herself up the wall.

Her legs trembled and every part of her ached. There was blood on her too. Dried and dark, its coppery smell was laced with something else, and as Matilda looked down at her nakedness, she realised what it was. It was the smell of him of his unwashed body and rough, demanding hands. Of his whisky breath and great forceful weight.

The sharp cry of a c.o.c.katoo made her flinch, but it also sharpened her resolve. He would never do this again.

With the trembling under control, Matilda pulled on a clean petticoat and moved painfully round the bed to gather her meagre possessions. The locket was drawn from the hiding place under the floorboards, her mother's shawl taken from the bed post. She added her two dresses, one skirt and blouse, and her much-darned underwear. Last of all, she picked up the prayer book her grandparents had brought with them all the way from Ireland. She wrapped everything in the shawl, leaving only her moleskins, boots and s.h.i.+rt to change into once she'd washed.

Creeping past the discarded, broken chair, she hesitated just long enough to satisfy herself Mervyn was still asleep then began the endless journey across the kitchen floor.

Every creak and groan of the house seemed magnified. Surely the noise would bring an end to the snoring from the other room?

She paused again, blood singing in her ears, the pulse of it drumming in her head. The snoring was rhythmic and uninterrupted as she reached the door. She held her breath. Her hands were wet with perspiration as she took the water bag down from its hook. It was heavy, and thankfully full. Now for the front door.

The hinges shrieked the snores stopped bed springs groaned Mervyn muttered.

Matilda froze. Seconds stretched into infinity.

With a grunt, the snoring began again and Matilda breathed once more. Slipping around the door, she eased past the screen and ran down the steps. One glance told her Gabriel and his tribe had not returned, neither had the drovers. She was on her own, and she had no idea how long it would be before Mervyn awoke.

Her bare feet stirred the dust of the yard as she hurried down to the creek. The banks were steeply cut and sheltered by willows, and as she slithered and slid towards the shallow, listless water, she knew she couldn't be seen from the house.

The water was icy, the sun not yet high enough to warm it, but it washed away the evidence of his filth, made her skin clean despite the lingering stink of him which she knew would always be with her. She s.h.i.+vered as she scrubbed. She might appear clean on the outside, but no amount of water could wash away the stains on her soul.

After drying herself roughly on her s.h.i.+rt, she dressed quickly. She dared not cross the yard to the tack room, the dogs would kick up a fuss and alert Mervyn. There was nothing for it, she would have to ignore the pain and ride bare-back. The decision made, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the shawl and, holding her boots, paddled along the creek bed until she reached the home paddock at the back of the house.

She looked over her shoulder. Nothing stirred behind those shuttered windows and the sound of his snoring drifted into the sleepy dawn.

With sharp, trembling breaths, she climbed the fence and dropped down into the paddock. Most of the horses were partially broken brumbies and would have meant a swifter escape, but the old mare was her only option. She'd been around for as long as Matilda could remember, and unlike the others could be relied on to return to the home paddock when set free.

The brumbies whickered and tossed their heads, milling back and forth as she approached Mervyn's bay mare. 'Shhh, Lady. It's all right, girl. We're just going for a ride,' she whispered, stroking the soft nose.

Lady rolled her eyes and stamped her feet as Matilda grasped her mane and hauled herself painfully on to her back.

'Whoa there, girl. Calm down,' she soothed. Matilda's cheek rested on the twitching neck as she whispered into the p.r.i.c.ked ears, but her fingers were tightly woven into the coa.r.s.e mane. Lady was used to Mervyn's rough handling and heavy weight there was no knowing how she would react to this strange behaviour, and Matilda didn't want to risk being thrown.

With the canvas water bag slung over her back, and the shawl bundle hooked over her arm, she urged the mare forward and opened the gate at the far end of the paddock. Rounding up the others as she would a mob of sheep, she spent precious minutes encouraging the brumbies to leave their grazing and lead her out into the wider pastures of Churinga station.

Once they got a taste for the unexpected freedom they were off, and Matilda grinned as she kicked her heels into Lady's ribs and galloped after them. They would take a long time to round up, but it should give her a head start. For without a horse, Mervyn had little chance of catching her.

Thunder rumbled in the distance of his dream and Mervyn tensed, waiting for the flash of lightning and the drum of rain on the corrugated roof. When it didn't come, he turned over and burrowed more comfortably into the pillows.

Yet sleep, now broken, was elusive, and he found he couldn't settle. There was something wrong with the image of thunder. Something that didn't sit easily in his mind.

He opened a bleary eye and tried to focus on the empty bed beside him. There was something wrong about that too but his head hurt and coherent thought was fogged by the need for a drink. His mouth tasted sour, and as he ran his tongue over his dry lips, he winced from the sting of a deep cut he had no recollection of receiving.

'Must have fell over,' he muttered, testing it with his tongue. 'Mary! Where the h.e.l.l are you?' he yelled.

The drummer behind his eyes beat a painful tattoo and he fell back into the pillows with a groan. b.l.o.o.d.y woman was never around when she was needed.

He lay there, his mind drifting aimlessly through the fog of pain. 'Mary,' he groaned. 'Get in here, woman.'

There was no answering rat-a-tat-tat of hurrying footsteps, no rattle of pots from the kitchen or bustle of activity in the yard. It was too quiet.

Mervyn rolled off the bed and gingerly stood up. His leg throbbed with the same rhythm as his head, and the wasted thigh muscle trembled as he put his weight on it. Where the h.e.l.l was everybody? How dare they leave him here like this?

He lurched for the door and threw it open. It crashed against the wall, triggering off a memory that was fleeting and seemed to make no sense. He dismissed it and staggered into the deserted kitchen. He needed a drink.

As the last of the whisky slid down his throat and m.u.f.fled the drummers in his head, Mervyn took stock of his surroundings. There was no porridge bubbling on the range, no billy steaming, no Mary. He opened his mouth to yell for her then remembered. Mary was in the ground. Had been for more than two weeks.

His legs suddenly refused to support him, and he slumped into a chair. A coldness swept over him that no amount of whisky could warm as memory returned full force.

'What have I done?' he whispered into that terrible silence.

The chair toppled over as he thrust away from the table. He had to find Matilda. Had to explain to make her understand it was the whisky that had made him do such a thing.

Her room was deserted. The splintered door hanging on one hinge, the bed a b.l.o.o.d.y reminder of what he'd done. Tears streamed down his face. 'I didn't mean it, girl. I thought you was Mary,' he sobbed.

He listened to the silence, then sniffed back the tears and stepped into the room. She was probably hiding but he needed to see her, to convince her it had all been a terrible mistake. 'Where are you, Molly?' he called softly. 'Come to Daddy.' The childhood endearment Mary had used was deliberate he hoped she might respond to it more easily.

There was still no reply, no rustle to betray her hiding place. He flicked back the soiled sheet and looked under the bed. Opened the heavy wardrobe door and fumbled in its dark, empty recesses. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to think. She must have gone to the barn or one of the other outbuildings.

He limped back into the kitchen, saw the bottle on the table and swiped it to the floor where it crashed with a satisfying explosion of gla.s.s. 'Never again,' he muttered. 'Never, ever again.'

His crippled leg dragged his foot on the floor as he hurried for the screen door, and as he was about to step on to the verandah, something caught his eye. It wasn't something that was there but something which should have been.

Mervyn stopped and looked at the naked hook, and as he pondered the disappearance of the water bag, other things began to fit into place. The wardrobe had been empty. Matilda's boots weren't under the bed, and Mary's shawl was gone from the bedpost.

The tears dried as remorse and self-pity were replaced by fear. Where the h.e.l.l was she? And how long had she been gone?

The sun was still rising, its glare hitting his eyes and making his head throb. He rammed his hat low and headed for the barns and outhouses. She had to be here somewhere. Even Matilda wasn't stupid enough to run off, not with the nearest neighbours almost a hundred miles away.

He gave a brief thought to the drovers who'd ridden out with the mob a couple of days ago. She might come across them, but they would know to keep their mouths shut if they valued their jobs. Yet it was the idea of her making it to Wilga, and that nosy-parker Finlay and his wife, that truly bothered him. That would be bad enough but what if she'd headed for Kurrajong and Ethan?

Icy terror made his pulse drum and quickened his shambling walk. He had to find her and quickly.

Moments later he was approaching the home paddock, saddle and bridle in hand, a fresh water bag slos.h.i.+ng at his back. He was angry and afraid. If Matilda made it to Wilga or Kurrajong then his life at Churinga would be over. Fast talking and lies wouldn't save him this time.

He crossed the yard and came to an abrupt halt. The home paddock was deserted, the far gate open. The pastures beyond stretched emptily towards the horizon. Rage tore through him as he threw his saddle to the ground. Unlike Ethan Squires, his money didn't stretch to a ute and without a horse he would never catch the devious little b.i.t.c.h.

He lit a cigarette, then picking up his saddle, fretted and fumed his way through the long gra.s.s. She shouldn't have drunk that whisky and sat on his knee if she hadn't been willing. If she was old enough for that, then she was old enough for other things. Neither should she have looked so like her ma and treated him like dirt if she didn't expect to be punished.

And anyway, he thought as he finally reached the open gate at the far end of the paddock, she's probably not even my daughter. It was obvious something had been going on between Mary and Ethan and if the rumours were true, it had begun long before Mary had become Mervyn's wife. That would explain Patrick's extraordinary offer of Churinga in exchange for his daughter's marriage to Mervyn, and why Mary and Ethan had plotted to cheat him.

Having convinced himself he'd done nothing wrong, he pushed back his hat and stared moodily into the distance. Matilda had to be found. She must not be allowed to tell anyone what had happened. They wouldn't understand. And, besides, it was none of their d.a.m.n business.

His heated thoughts stilled and he grew tense. Something was moving out there but too far away for him to tell what it could be. He s.h.i.+elded his eyes and watched the dark speck emerge from the s.h.i.+mmering heat haze. The brumby p.r.i.c.ked its ears as Mervyn whistled, and after a few nervous twitches of its mane, curiosity drew it into a canter.

Mervyn stood rock steady, waiting for the animal to reach him. The horse was young and had obviously become separated from the herd. He'd found isolation bewildering and had returned to the only place he knew.

Mervyn's impatience was hard to contain as the horse dithered and twitched just out of reach. He knew from experience that rough handling or sudden noise would make the brumby bolt again so he took time to talk to it, to calm it before saddling up. Once astride, he studied the tracks of the other brumbies and followed them. The churned earth marked their pa.s.sage well, but after an hour there were separate tracks of a single horse being ridden in a straight line.

That line headed south towards Wilga.

Matilda had given Lady her head and the first few miles were covered swiftly. Now the mare was tiring and they'd slowed to an easy trot. No horse, let alone one as old as Lady, could be expected to gallop far in this heat. It was better to take it easy than to risk her getting injured or blown.

The morning was advanced, the sun high and fierce. Watery mirages s.h.i.+mmered on the parched earth and the silver gra.s.s rustled beneath Lady's hooves. The vast emptiness engulfed them, the sound of its silence coming back as a sibilant echo. If Matilda hadn't been so intent on escape, she would not have been afraid. For this harsh, beautiful land was as much a part of her as breathing.

Its grandeur piqued her senses, the raw colours jolting some deep part of her that yearned to embrace it and be embraced by it. Yet within that ancient landscape was the soft beauty of delicate leaves, of pale flowers and ashen bark, the sweet aroma of wattle and pine, and the joyous trill of the skylark.

Matilda s.h.i.+fted on the mare's back. Her discomfort had grown more intense as the miles lengthened between her and Churinga, but there was no time to rest. She mopped the sweat from her face and adjusted the brim of her old felt hat. The water in the bag was warm and tasted brackish, but despite her thirst, she knew it must be rationed. The nearest water hole was still miles away.

After another long, sweeping search of the horizon behind her still revealed no sign of Mervyn, she settled as best she could on the mare's broad back and concentrated on the view between Lady's ears. The steady rhythm of plodding hooves became a lullaby, the heat embracing her in the languid coc.o.o.n of carelessness.

The snake had been coiled in a narrow cleft of corrugated earth, hidden from the sun by an overhang of scrub gra.s.s. The vibration of the approaching horse had woken it, bringing it sharply alert. Red-brown coils slithered in the dirt as forked tongue flickered and unblinking eyes watched the girl and the horse.

Matilda's chin rested low and her eyes were heavy-lidded with the enticement of sleep. Her fingers loosened their clutch on the mane as she drooped towards Lady's neck.

Sharp hoof rang on stony ground. Scrub gra.s.s tore. The snake whipped powerful coils, fangs unsheathed, yellow eyes fixed on their target. It struck hard and fast.

The mare reared as venom spewed. Her hooves flashed as she pawed the air and screamed in terror. Wild-eyed, she tossed her head, nostrils flared, back legs dancing over the shale.

Matilda grabbed for the wildly flying mane, her knees and feet instinctively clinging to the animal's sides.

The mare's flaying hooves crashed back to earth. Matilda's grip was torn from the mane and she clung to the sweating, straining neck. Lady reared again to resume the twisting, dancing fight for escape, and Matilda's desperate efforts to stay on board were over. The red earth rushed to meet her.

Lady pranced on her back legs, eyes rolling, lips peeled back as she trampled the ground. Matilda fought for breath as she rolled away from those cras.h.i.+ng, deadly hooves and all the while wondered where the King Brown had gone.

With a snort and a toss of her head, Lady wheeled around and tore back the way she'd come. Dust rose around her, the earth vibrated with the thud of her hooves, and Matilda was left far behind in a bruised heap. 'Come back,' she shrieked. 'Lady, come back.'

But there was only a cloud of dust tracing the mare's departure and eventually even that had disappeared.