Matilda's Last Waltz Part 39

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 b.i.t.c.hes,' he hissed. 'Fancy going off for a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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, b.l.o.o.d.y 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 telephoned 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 swis.h.i.+ng 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 b.i.t.c.h, 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 G.o.d'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 sc.r.a.p. 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 G.o.d-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 G.o.d 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.'

'Destroy? You mean he wanted to destroy Churinga?' Jenny leaned forward and stroked back the wisps of hair from the old forehead and wiped away his tears.

'No.' The priest's voice was bitter. 'He wanted to keep it for you. He destroyed himself. Destroyed your life and any hope he might have had of making a home for you.'

'How did he do that, Father?' she whispered, already suspecting the answer.

'He decided to take you to Waluna. To the orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy where your ident.i.ty would be concealed by a new name. The only link with Churinga was your mother's locket which he gave to the nuns for safe-keeping until you came into your inheritance. I tried to stop him but no words could reach him by this time. I had to watch him drive away with you in a basket on the seat beside him.' Father Ryan sniffed and blew his nose. 'If only I'd known what he was planning to do, maybe I could have stopped him. But hindsight makes fools of us all.' He faded into silence.

So that was how Peter had come by the locket. His research had taken him to Waluna and the orphanage. Jenny looked at the priest through fresh tears. He was old and tired and the burden he'd carried for so long had exhausted him. She sat back in the chair, his frail hand still cradled in her own as she tried to imagine that last journey with her father. What terrible things had been going through his mind? How had he been able to hand her over, knowing he might never see her again?

The priest's voice startled her from her thoughts, bringing her back to the cheerless room.

'I went back to Wallaby Flats. My conscience was bothering me, and for the first time in my adult life, my faith deserted me. What good was I as a priest when I couldn't find the right words to help a man in torment? What good was I as a man when I'd never known what it was to love a woman or have to make a decision about my child? I had failed on both counts. I spent many hours on my knees but the peace I had always found in prayer seemed to elude me.'

Jenny felt a sickening plunge in her stomach as she waited for the old priest to put into words what she dreaded hearing.

'I wrote to Waluna and they told me you'd arrived, and that your father had arranged for money to be paid regularly into their account for your keep and well-being. I asked after you but all they would say was you were thriving. I kept up a regular correspondence with them over the years but they never told me much. You see, my child, I felt responsible for you. If I'd been strong enough in my faith, I could have stopped your father from committing the greatest sin of all.'

Here it comes, she thought. I don't want to hear. I don't want to believe it yet it's inevitable.

'Finn went missing shortly after you were left at Waluna. I thought perhaps he'd gone walkabout to try and recapture some sense of peace in isolation. In a way it was a relief because I'd feared something far worse...'

The spark of hope died in the cold reality of his next words.

'A couple of drovers found him out in the bush and called the police. Luckily I had some influence. After they'd established his ident.i.ty, I managed to persuade the police to keep it hushed up. It wasn't difficult. The drovers were only pa.s.sing through, and the police didn't care one way or the other they weren't local, you see.'

He patted her hand, his old face creased with concern. 'I knew you'd come back one day, Jennifer, and I didn't want your future tainted by what happened. But I suppose you've already guessed, haven't you?'

'Yes,' she said softly. 'But I'd like you to tell me anyway. It's better to know it all, then there's no room for doubt.'

He rolled his head against the pillow. ''Twas a terrible thing that he did, Jennifer. A mortal sin in the eyes of the church and yet, as a man, I could understand why he did it. He had driven into the bush and turned his own gun on himself. The coroner said he must have been there for six months or more before the drovers found him. But I knew when he'd done it. It must have been the day he left you at Waluna. He'd planned it all along.'

Jenny thought about the loneliness of her father's death. Of the torment and pain such a gentle, religious man must have gone through to drive out into the middle of nowhere and put a gun to his own head. She dropped her face into her hands and gave in to the anguish.

Yet the tears weren't for herself alone, but for her parents who'd paid such a terrible price for falling in love, and for the priest who'd carried the burden of his loss of faith to this cheerless place where he would end his days, never knowing what he could have done to prevent such a tragedy.

When the tears finally ran dry and Jenny felt more in control, she looked once again at the old priest. He seemed very grey against the whiteness of the sheets and pillows as if his life-force had been spent in the effort of relieving his burden.

'Father Ryan, I want you to believe you couldn't have done more. I've returned to Churinga strong and healthy, and because of my mother's diaries I now know my parents wanted only the best for me. I've come to love them through you, and the diaries, and to understand why my life began as it did. You have nothing to feel guilty about and I'm sure your G.o.d is waiting to welcome you with open arms. You're a good, kind man. I wish there were more like you. G.o.d bless you, and thank you.'