Free A Waltz for Matilda by Jackie French Page B

clothes and shawl as a pillow, stirred the pot, then wondered what to do next. She had a feeling that once she stopped doing things the loneliness might be too hard to bear.
    Nonsense, she thought. I’ve borne worse than this. I have a roof over my head — a good roof and waterproof, by the look of it. No mouse droppings, no cockroaches scuttling in the corners, no fug of coal smoke, no factory in the morning.
    No Mum, no stories whispered as she fell asleep. No Tommy, comforting bearer of sandwiches and friendship. No Mr Ah Ching.
    She ran her hands through her hair to get more knots out. It was almost dry now, and reached her waist. The ends looked red in the firelight. She stirred the soup. The potatoes weren’t quite dissolved, but she was almost too hungry to wait. Her eye caught the strange green fruit on the table. She cut a slice off the top. It was bright red inside, even in the dim light. She sniffed it. It smelled sweet and good.
    It was. She cut another hunk, and another, nibbling the red right down to the peel. The juice left her skin sticky, but she wasn’t going out into the growing dark to wash it. She’d have to explore the shed tomorrow, in full daylight, keeping a wary eye out for snakes. There might be a bucket in there, so she could keep water in the house.
    The fruit had revived her. Suddenly she thought of the tatty edges of the blankets. At least there were needles and thread in her bundle. She fetched them, then crouched by the light of the fire and lamp, and began to darn, turning the edges over neatly.
    The familiar routine was soothing too. She began to hum, and then to sing a lullaby that Mum had sung:
    ‘Sleep then, my pretty one, sleep,
    Fast flow the waters so deep …’
    The door was flung open.
    ‘Who the flamin’ hell are you?’

Chapter 10
    She struggled to her feet, her sewing slipping to the floor, then ran behind the table, to keep a barrier behind her and the stranger. It wasn’t till he’d hung his hat on the peg inside the door that she realised who he was, who he had to be.
    Her father.
    He was … nothing special. No glow of gold. Not tall and handsome as her mother had described, but not ugly either. Just a work-worn man. You could pass him on the street and never look at him again.
    Brown eyes like hers; black hair and beard, roughly trimmed; tanned skin, creased about the eyes; pants and shirt washed till they had lost all colour, like most of the clothes she’d seen yesterday; gaping boots tied together with twine; a bundle tied with more twine in his hand.
    Strong, though. Had she remembered that?
    ‘Dad?’
    ‘What the —’ He stared at her. ‘You’re not Matilda?’
    She nodded.
    He let the bundle drop. ‘Well.’
    Once again, it was nowhere near what she had hoped, but not what she had feared, either. At least he knew who she was. Despite her fantasies she had been half afraid that he might not even remember her, his mind rotted by spirituous liquor, or that he might not return to the house for weeks or even months, perhaps ever. She had even been afraid he might be one of those men who had two families or even more, leaving one and travelling to the north or west, starting afresh, leaving their wives and children never knowing where they had gone or even if they were alive.
    But he was here, at least.
    He moved his bundle near to the bench, still gazing at her, then shut the door behind him.
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    He didn’t sound unfriendly or angry, just bewildered.
    ‘I wrote you a letter. Lots of letters.’
    He shook his head. ‘Haven’t had a letter for a year. More ’n that, I reckon. Drinkwater’s men pick up the mail bags for round here from the train. Reckon the old bast— I reckon Drinkwater only passes the mail on to those he likes.’
    ‘He doesn’t like you?’
    It was as though he hadn’t heard the question. A smile twisted his face. It looked almost familiar, and then she realised; she had seen that twist of the lips