Matilda's Last Waltz

by Tamara McKinley

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Action & Adventure Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; 20th Century Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

If you love Lesley Pearse, you're sure to fall for Tamara McKinley. When tragedy strikes, Jenny craves a fresh start away from the memories of her past. So when she unexpectedly inherits a sheep station in the Australian Outback called Churinga, she welcomes the escape. But Churinga turns out to be a lonely place, where the weather is extreme and the neighbours hostile. As Jenny fights to take control of her new life, she discovers some surprising secrets about the station itself and its enigmatic previous owner - the mysterious Matilda - leading Jenny to wonder if inheriting the station has been a blessing or a curse.

Release date: June 13, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 438

Sample

Churinga. The sigh of the warm wind in the pepper trees seemed to whisper its name. Churinga. A place of magic, of sacred mystery, carved from the bush and scrub by her grandparents. It broke hearts and backs but until now Matilda had been willing to pay the price. For this was all she had known, all she had ever wanted.

Her throat constricted as she looked beyond the family graveyard and out into the wilderness. She must not cry, no matter how deep the pain, no matter how sharp the loss – for the memory of her strong, seemingly invincible mother forbade it. Yet in all her thirteen years, there had been nothing to compare to this sense of abandonment, this feeling that childhood was over and she was destined to follow a lonely trail in this great, beautiful, dreaming place that was home.

The horizon shimmered, diffusing the bright ochre of the earth with the impossible blue of the enormous sky, and all around her were the sounds to which she had been born. For this vast, seemingly empty land was alive with a voice of its own, and she took comfort from it.

The fretting of the sheep in the pens, the quarrelling of the galahs and sulphur-crested cockatoos, the distant cackle of the kookaburra and the soft jingle of harness, were as familiar as the rhythm of her pulse. Even now, in her darkest moment, Churinga’s magic had not deserted her.

‘You wanna say a few words, Merv?’

The shearer’s voice broke the silence of the graveyard, jolting her back to the present and reality. She looked up at her father, willing him to speak, to show some kind of emotion.

‘You do it, mate. Me and God ain’t what you might call on speaking terms.’

Mervyn Thomas was a giant of a man, a stranger who’d returned five years ago from Gallipoli, scarred in mind and body from the things he’d seen – things he never spoke of except in the night when his dreams betrayed him, or when the drink loosened his tongue and his temper. Now he stood sombre in dusty black, leaning heavily on the makeshift walking stick he’d carved from a tree branch. His face was in shadow, the brim of his hat pulled low, but Matilda knew his eyes were bloodshot and that the trembling of his hands had nothing to do with remorse, merely the need for another drink.

‘I’ll do it,’ she said softly into the awkward silence. Stepping out of the small circle of mourners, she clutched her tattered prayer book and approached the mound of earth that would soon cover the rough timber of her mother’s coffin. There’d been little time to mourn. Death had come swiftly at the end and the heat made it impossible to wait for neighbours and friends who would have had to travel hundreds of miles to be here.

The sense of isolation grew as she felt her father’s animosity. To give herself a moment to regain her courage, Matilda trawled the familiar faces of the drovers, shearers and jackaroos who worked Churinga.

The Aborigines were clustered outside the gunyahs they’d built near the creek, and watched curiously from a distance. Death to them was not something to mourn, merely a return to the dust from which they’d come.

Her gaze finally came to rest on the crooked headstones that marked the history of this tiny corner of New South Wales. She fingered the locket her mother had given her and, with courage restored, faced the mourners.

‘Mum came to Churinga when she was just a few months old, wedged in a saddle-bag on my grandfather’s horse. It was a long journey from the old country, but my grandparents were hungry for land and the freedom to work it.’ Matilda saw the nods and smiles of agreement on the sunbaked faces around her. They knew the story – it echoed their own.

‘Patrick O’Connor would have been proud of his Mary. She loved this land as much as he did, and it’s because of her that Churinga is what it is today.’

Mervyn Thomas shifted restlessly, his belligerent glare making her falter. ‘Get on with it,’ he growled.

She lifted her chin. Mum deserved a decent send-off, and Matilda was determined she would have it.

‘When Dad went to war some people said Mum would never manage, but they didn’t know how stubborn the O’Connors can be. That’s why Churinga’s one of the best properties around, and me and Dad intend to keep it that way.’

She looked at Mervyn for confirmation and received a resentful glower in return. It didn’t surprise her. His pride had never recovered from returning from the Great War to find his wife independent and the property flourishing. He’d found consolation in the bottom of a glass soon after that, and she doubted the death of his wife would change him.

The pages of the prayer book were well thumbed and brittle. Matilda blinked away tears as she read the words Father Ryan would have said if there had been time to fetch him. Mum had worked so hard. Had buried her own parents and four children in this little cemetery before she was twenty-five. Now the earth could claim her, make her a part of the Dreaming. She was finally at rest.

Matilda closed the book in the ensuing silence and bent to gather a handful of soil. It trickled between her fingers and gently scattered on to the wooden box. ‘Sleep well, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll look after Churinga for you.’

*

Mervyn was feeling the heat and the effect of the whisky in his belly as the horse plodded towards Kurrajong. His shattered leg throbbed, and his boots felt too tight. This did not improve his temper. Mary had been put in the ground two weeks ago but he could still feel her presence, her disapproval, everywhere.

It had even manifested itself in Matilda, and despite his giving her a touch of his belt after that embarrassing performance at the funeral, still she eyed him with her mother’s customary contempt. Two days of frosty silence had passed before he’d slammed out of Churinga and headed for Wallaby Flats and the pub. A man could drink in peace with his mates there. Could shoot the breeze and garner sympathy and free whisky as well as a tumble with the barmaid.

Not that she’s much to look at, he conceded. In fact she was just a ripe old tart, but then he wasn’t particularly fussy when the urge took him, and he didn’t have to look at her while he did it.

He leaned precariously from the saddle to fasten the last of the four gates to his neighbour’s property. The sun beat down, the whisky churned, and his own sour smell drifted up from his clothes. The horse shifted restlessly, jarring Mervyn’s bad leg against the fence post, and with a yelp of pain, he almost lost his balance as well as his breakfast.

‘Keep still, you mongrel,’ he growled, jerking the reins. He leaned on the pommel and wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he waited for the pain to ease. His head was a little clearer now he’d thrown up, and after straightening his hat, he slapped Lady’s flank and urged her forward. The homestead was visible on the horizon and he had business to discuss.

Kurrajong stood proudly on the crest of a low hill, sheltered from the sun by a stand of tea trees, its verandah cool and welcoming beneath the corrugated iron roof. It was a quiet oasis amongst the bustle and noise of a busy station. Horses cropped the lush grass in the home paddock which was watered by the bore hole Ethan had dug a couple of years back. Mervyn could hear the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer coming from the forge. The shearing shed was still busy if the noise was anything to go by, and the sheep in the pens were kicking up a racket as they were herded and bunched by the dogs towards the ramps.

He took it all in as he rode up the long drive to the hitching post, and nothing he saw made him feel any better. Churinga’s land might be good but the house was a dump compared to this place. God knows why Mary and Matilda thought so much of it, but then that was typical of the bloody O’Connors. They thought themselves better than anybody else because they had come from pioneer stock, which in these parts was considered almost royal.

Well, he thought grimly, we’ll see about that. Women should know their place. I’ve had enough. They don’t own me.

His belligerence stoked by alcohol, he slid from the ornate Spanish saddle. Grasping his crude walking stick, he made his erratic way up the steps to the front porch. The door opened as he was about to knock.

‘G’day, Merv. We were expecting you.’ Ethan Squires looked immaculate as usual, his moleskins gleaming white against the polish of his black riding boots, open-necked shirt crisp over broad shoulders and flat stomach. There was very little grey in his dark hair. The hand he offered Mervyn was brown and calloused but the nails were clean and the ring on his finger sparked fire in the morning sun.

Mervyn felt overweight and old by comparison, and yet there was only a few months’ difference in their age. He was also aware he was in dire need of a bath and wished he’d taken up the offer before leaving the hotel.

But it was too late for regrets. To hide his discomfort he gave a bark of laughter and pumped Ethan’s hand rather too jovially. ‘How’re ya goin’, mate?’

‘Busy as always, Merv. You know how it is.’

Mervyn waited for Ethan to sit down, then followed suit. Ethan’s greeting had thrown him. He hadn’t announced any intention of calling so why had the other man been expecting him?

The two men remained silent as the young Aboriginal housemaid served drinks. The breeze on the verandah was cooling Mervyn off and now he wasn’t on the back of a horse his stomach was more settled. He stretched out his bad leg and rested his boot on the verandah railings. No point in worrying over Ethan’s welcome, he always had talked in riddles. Probably thought it was clever.

The beer was cold and slid easily down his throat, but it didn’t quite shake the bitterness he could taste at the thought of how lucky Ethan was. Not for him the carnage of Gallipoli but an officer’s billet miles from the fighting. No shattered leg, no nightmares, no memory of mates without faces and limbs, no screams of agony to haunt him day and night.

But then Ethan Squires had always led a charmed life. Born and raised on Kurrajong, he’d married Abigail Harmer, who was not only the best-looking widow around but also one of the richest. She’d brought her son Andrew with her and given Ethan three more before she died in that riding accident. Three living, healthy sons. Mary could only manage one scrawny girl – she’d lost the others.

Mervyn had once dreamed of having a woman like Abigail for himself, but being only a station manager was not considered good enough. Money always went to money, and when Patrick O’Connor had come to him with his extraordinary offer, he’d jumped at the chance. How was he to know Mary was land rich but cash poor – and that Patrick’s promises had been empty?

‘Sorry about Mary.’

Mervyn was startled from his dark thoughts. It was as if Ethan could read his mind.

‘Still, I reckon she suffered enough. Not good to have so much pain.’ Ethan was staring off into the distance, his cheroot clenched between even, white teeth.

Mervyn grunted. Mary had taken a long time to die, but had never once complained or let that steely determination slip. He supposed he should have admired her but somehow her strength had merely weakened him. Her courage shattering his own feeble attempt to blot out the horrors of war and the pain in his leg. He’d felt cheated by the bargain he and Patrick had struck, trapped in a loveless marriage which denied him the respect he craved. No wonder he spent most of the time in Wallaby Flats.

‘How’s Matilda taking it, Mervyn?’

Ethan’s bright blue gaze rested on him for a moment then slid away, but Mervyn wondered if he’d caught a glimpse of disdain in that fleeting look or whether it was just his imagination. ‘She’ll be right. Like her ma, that one.’

Ethan must have heard the acid note in his reply for he turned and looked at Mervyn more deliberately. ‘I don’t reckon you came all this way to talk about Mary and Matilda.’

That was typical of him. Never wasted time on trivialities when he could outmanoeuvre another man. Mervyn would have preferred to sit on the verandah for an hour or two, drinking beer as he watched the work go on around him and wait for his moment before broaching the reason for his visit. He drained his glass and dropped his foot from the railing. Might as well get it over and done with now Ethan had taken charge.

‘Things are a bit crook, mate. I don’t feel the same about Churinga since I got back and I reckon, now Mary’s gone, it’s time to shoot through.’

Ethan chewed his cheroot, gaze drifting with the smoke. When he finally spoke, his tone was thoughtful. ‘The land’s all you know, Mervyn. You’re too old a dog to learn new tricks and Churinga’s a nice little station after all the work Mary put in.’

There it was again. Praise for Mary. Didn’t his years of labour count for anything? Mervyn clenched his fists and dug them into his lap. He needed another beer but his glass was empty and Ethan wasn’t offering more.

‘Not compared to Kurrajong, it isn’t. We need a new bore dug, the roof’s falling in, termites are making a meal of the bunkhouse and the drought’s killed off most of the lambs. The wool cheque won’t barely cover the bills.’

Ethan stubbed out his cheroot, lifted his glass and drained it. ‘So what is it you want from me, Mervyn?’

Impatience welled in him. Ethan knew perfectly well what he wanted. Did he have to rub salt into the wound and make Mervyn grovel? ‘I want you to buy Churinga.’ His tone was deliberately flat. No point in letting the other man know how desperate he was.

‘Ah.’ Ethan smiled. It was a smirk of satisfaction, and knowing how Ethan had always looked down on him, Mervyn hated him for it.

‘Well?’

‘I’d have to think about it, of course. But perhaps we could come to an arrangement …’

Mervyn sat forward, eager to wind up negotiations. ‘You’ve always liked the land around Churinga, and with your property bordering mine, it would make you the biggest station in New South Wales.’

‘It would indeed.’ Ethan raised one eyebrow, blue gaze steady beneath dark brows. ‘But haven’t you forgotten one tiny detail?’

Mervyn swallowed. ‘What detail?’ he asked nervously, avoiding Ethan’s penetrating stare as he moistened his lips.

‘Matilda of course. Surely you hadn’t forgotten your daughter’s passion for Churinga?’

Relief drenched him and hastily he gathered his wits. It was all right, Ethan didn’t know about the will after all. ‘Matilda’s too young to meddle in men’s business. She’ll do as I say.’

Ethan stood and leaned against the ornamental railings. The sun was at his back, his expression inscrutable. ‘You’re right, Mervyn. She is young, but she has a feel for the land that’s as natural to her as breathing. I’ve seen her work, watched her ride as fast and as well as any jackaroo when she follows the mob at round-up. To lose that land would kill her spirit.’

Mervyn’s patience snapped. He rose from his chair and towered over Ethan. ‘Look, mate, I’ve got a property you’ve been eyeing for years. I’ve also got debts. Whether Matilda loves the land is neither here nor there. I’m selling, and if you ain’t buying there’s others who’d be only too pleased to take it off my hands.’

‘How exactly do you plan to sell the land when it doesn’t belong to you, Mervyn?’

The wind of Mervyn’s temper blew itself out. He knew! The bastard had known all the time. ‘No one need find out,’ he croaked. ‘We could do the deal now and I’ll be gone. I ain’t gonna tell no one.’

‘But I’ll know, Mervyn.’ Ethan’s tone was arctic, his pause just long enough to make Mervyn itch to hit him. ‘Mary came to me several months ago, just after the doctor told her she didn’t have much time. She was worried you might try and sell Churinga and leave Matilda with nothing. I advised her on how best to protect the girl’s inheritance. She left that land in trust for Matilda. The bank has all the papers until she reaches twenty-five. So you see, Mervyn, there’s no way you can sell it to pay off your gambling debts.’

Mervyn’s gut rolled. He’d heard the rumours and hadn’t wanted to believe them – until now.

‘The law says a wife’s property belongs to her husband. Patrick promised it to me when I married her, and it’s my right to sell it now. And anyway,’ he blustered, ‘what was my missus doin’ calling on you for advice?’

‘I was merely doing the neighbourly thing by lending her the services of my solicitor.’ Ethan’s face was stony as he picked up Mervyn’s hat and held it out to him. ‘I might want Churinga but not enough to break my word to someone I respected. And I think you’ll find that goes for most of the other squatters around here. G’day Mervyn.’

*

Ethan dug his hands into his pockets and leaned against the white verandah post as he watched Mervyn limp down the steps to his horse. The man’s tug on the rein was vicious as he led it across the hard-baked dirt of the front approach to the cookhouse, and Ethan wondered if that temper had ever been loosed on Mary – or, God forbid, Matilda.

He glanced at the shearing shed before going back into the house. The season was almost over and the wool cheque would be welcome. Lack of rain meant expensive, bought-in feed, and if the sky was anything to go by, the drought would be with them for some time yet.

‘What did Merv Thomas want?’

Ethan eyed his twenty-year-old step-son and gave a humourless smile. ‘What do you think?’

Andrew’s boots rang on the polished floor as they went into the study. ‘It’s Matilda I feel sorry for. Fancy having to live with that mongrel.’

Andrew flopped into a leather chair and slung one leg over the arm. Ethan eyed him fondly. He might almost be twenty-one, but his strong, wiry figure and dark mop of auburn hair made him look younger. Although the boy had turned his back on the land, Ethan was as proud of him as if he’d been his own. Andrew’s English education had been worth every penny. Now he was doing well at university and would afterwards take up a partnership in a prestigious law firm in Melbourne when he qualified.

‘I don’t suppose there’s much we can do, is there, Dad?’

‘Not our business, son.’

Andrew’s blue eyes were thoughtful. ‘You didn’t say that when Mary Thomas showed up here.’

Ethan swivelled his chair to face the window. Mervyn was heading down the track towards the first gate. It would take at least another day and night for him to reach Churinga. ‘That was different,’ he muttered.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock Abigail had brought with her from Melbourne. Ethan’s mind drifted as he stared out over his land. Yes, Mary had been different. Tough, indomitable little woman that she was, she’d had no armour against the terrible thing that had slowly eaten away at her insides. He could see her so clearly, it was as if she stood before him again.

Unlike Abigail’s cool, fair beauty and striking height, Mary was small and angular with an abundance of red hair which she squashed beneath a disreputable felt hat. Freckles dusted her nose, and wide blue eyes and dark lashes stared back at him as she wrestled to still the black gelding dancing beneath her. She’d been furious, that first time they’d faced one another after her return to Churinga. The fences were down and her mob had got mixed in with his.

He smiled as he remembered the Irish temper of her. The way her eyes flashed and she tossed her head as she yelled into his face. It had taken the best part of a week to sort the mobs out and repair the fences, and by that time they had called an uneasy truce that hadn’t quite become a friendship.

‘What’s so funny, Dad?’

Andrew’s voice dispelled the memories and Ethan dragged himself back to the present. ‘I don’t think we need worry too much about Matilda. If she’s anything like her mother, then it’s Merv we should feel sorry for.’

‘You liked Mary, didn’t you? How come you never …?’

‘She was another man’s wife,’ he snapped.

Andrew whistled. ‘Strewth! I did touch a nerve, didn’t I?’

Ethan sighed as he remembered the time he’d had his chance and lost it. ‘If things had been different, then who’s to say what might have been? If Mervyn hadn’t come back so crippled from Gallipoli then …’

He let the unfinished sentence hang between them as the sights and sounds of war intruded into his mind. They still gave him nightmares, even after six years, but he was one of the lucky ones. Mervyn had finally been released from hospital almost two years after the war was over but was a different man from the one who’d eagerly caught the train in 1916. Gone was the lazy smile and careless charm and in their place was a shambling wreck who, after a long convalescence, found relief only in a bottle.

It was a poor substitute so far as his wife was concerned, Ethan thought. And I’m to blame, lord help me. He pulled his thoughts together. At least all the time Merv was bed-ridden she could keep an eye on her husband’s drinking. But once he was up and back on a horse, he would disappear for weeks on end, leaving Mary to cope with the running of the station. She’d been tougher than he’d thought, and although his plans had come to nothing, Ethan couldn’t help but respect her strength.

‘I admired her, yes. She did the best she could in a tough situation. Although she rarely asked for help, I tried to ease things the best I could for her.’ He lit a cheroot and opened up the wool accounts book. There was work to be done and half the day had already been wasted.

Andrew unhooked his leg from the arm of the chair and sat forward. ‘If Merv runs up many more debts, Matilda won’t have an inheritance. We could always make her an offer in a couple of years’ time and get the land cheap.’

Ethan smiled around his cigar. ‘I plan on getting it free, son. No point in paying for something when you don’t have to.’

Andrew cocked his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘How? Matilda’s trust is hard won. She’s not going to just give it away.’

Ethan tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve got plans, son. But patience is called for, and I don’t want you shooting your mouth off.’

Andrew was about to speak when his father interrupted. ‘You leave it to me and I guarantee Churinga will be ours within the next five years.’

*

Matilda was restless. The silence in the house was heavy and she knew her father would soon return. He never disappeared for more than a couple of weeks at a time, and he’d been gone that long already.

The heat was intense, even inside, and the red dust she’d swept from the floor was beginning to settle again. Her ankle-length cotton dress clung to her as sweat rolled down her back. She unfastened the sacking apron and folded it over the back of a chair. The aroma of rabbit stew came from the oven and several flies buzzed around the ceiling. The fly papers she’d stuck to the kerosene lamp were black with bodies, despite the shutters and screen doors Mum had fixed a couple of years ago.

Dragging her hair from her sweaty face, she pinned it in an unruly coil on the top of her head. She hated her hair. There was too much of it and it wouldn’t be tamed. And to add insult to injury, it was a pale imitation of her mother’s Irish auburn.

Matilda pushed her way through the screen door and stood on the verandah. The heat was a furnace blast, bouncing off the impacted earth of the front yard fire break and shimmering on the horizon. The pepper trees in the home paddock drooped in it and the weeping willows by the creek looked exhausted, their fronds dipping uselessly towards the runnel of green sludge that still remained. ‘Rain,’ she muttered. ‘We must have rain.’

The three steps leading down to the hitching post and front yard needed mending and she made a mental note to get it done. The house itself could have done with a bit of paint, and Dad’s repair to the roof was already coming apart. But if she stood in the centre of the yard and half closed her eyes, she could see how Churinga would look if they had the money to do the repairs.

The lines of the house weren’t grand, but the single-storey Queenslander was sturdily built on brick pilings, and sheltered on the south side by young pepper trees. The roof swooped down over the verandah which ran around three sides of the house and was finished off with ornate iron lattice work. A rugged stone chimney stood tall on the north wall, and the shutters and screens had been painted green.

Underground springs kept the home pastures green. Close by several horses cropped contentedly, seemingly undisturbed by the clouds of flies swarming around their heads. The shearing shed and wool barn were quiet now the season was over, the wool on its way to market. The mob would be kept in the pastures nearest to water until the rains, but if the drought lasted much longer they would lose even more.

As Matilda walked across the yard she whistled and from under the house came an answering yelp. A shaggy dark head appeared, followed by a wriggling body and wagging tail. ‘Come on, Blue. Here, boy.’

She mussed his head and pulled his ragged ears. The Queensland Blue was almost seven and the best sheep herder in the business. Her father refused to let him in the house. He was a working dog like all the others, but so far as Matilda was concerned, she couldn’t have had a better friend.

Blue trotted beside her as she passed the chicken runs and stock pens. The wood pile was stacked behind the storage shed and the clear, bell-like ring of an axe told her one of the black jackaroos was working hard to make it bigger.

‘Hello, luv. Hot, ain’t it?’ Peg Riley mopped her scarlet face and grinned. ‘What I wouldn’t do for a long cold dip in the creek.’

Matilda laughed. ‘You’re welcome, Peg. But there’s not much water in it, and what there is is green. Why don’t you drive up to the water hole under the mountain? The water’s cold up there.’

The Sundowner shook her head. ‘Reckon I’ll give it a miss. Me and Bert gotta get to Windulla by tomorrow, and if he hangs about for too long, he’ll lose his wages on the two-up game goin’ on at the back of the bunkhouse.’

Bert Riley worked hard and travelled in his wagon all over central Australia, but when it came to gambling he was a loser. Matilda felt sorry for Peg. Year after year she came to Churinga to work in the cook house whilst Bert bent his back shearing. Yet only a fraction of their earnings went with them to the next job.

‘Don’t you get tired of moving around, Peg? I can’t imagine ever leaving Churinga.’

Peggy folded her arms beneath her pendulous bosom and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘It can be hard leaving a place, but you soon forget and look forward to the next one. Course, if me and Bert could have had kids it would be different, but we can’t so I suppose we’ll just keep going until one of us drops dead.’

Laughter rippled through her ample body, making it dance beneath the cotton dress. She must have noticed Matilda’s concerned expression, for she reached out and swamped her in an affectionate hug. ‘Don’t mind me, luv. You take care of yourself and we’ll see you next year.’ She backed away, then turned to the horse and wagon and mounted up. Grasping the reins, she let out a mighty yell.

‘Bert Riley, I’m leavin’, and if you ain’t here in one second flat, I’m going without yer.’

Snapping the whip between the horse’s ears, she headed for the first gate.

Bert came shambling out from behind the bunkhouse with the peculiar gait synonymous with all shearers and hurried after her. ‘See yous next year,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he climbed on to the wagon.

Churinga seemed deserted suddenly. As Matilda watched the wagon disappear in a cloud of dust, she stroked Blue’s ears and received a lick of comfort in return. After checking the wool shed and shutting down the ancient generator, she turned her attention to the cook house, which Peg had left spotless, then the bunkhouse. The termite damage was worse, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, so after a quick sweep round and a minor repair to one of the beds, she closed the door and stepped back into the heat.

The Aboriginal men were lounging around outside their gunyahs as usual, swatting flies, chattering listlessly amongst themselves as their women stirred something in the black pot over the fire. They were of the Bitjarra tribe and as much a part of Churinga as she was – but she wished they’d earn their bread and tobacco instead of sitting around or going walk-about.

She eyed Gabriel, their leader. A semi-literate, wily old man who’d been brought up by the missionaries, he sat cross-legged by the fire, whittling a piece of wood.

‘G’day, missus,’ he said solemnly.

‘Gabriel, there’s work needs doing. I told you to see to those fences in the south paddock.’

‘Later, missus, eh? Got to have tucker first.’ He grinned, showing five yellow teeth, of which he was very proud.

Matilda eyed him for a moment and knew it was pointless to argue. He would simply ignore her and do the job in his own good time. She walked back to the house and climbed the steps to the verandah. The sun was high, the heat intense. She would rest for a coup