A Waltz for Matilda by Jackie French Read Free Book Online

clothes and unwashed bodies, the stale smells of horses, tobacco and spirituous liquor.
    Most of the crowd was made up of men, standing in the hall below the stage, but here and there women sat on chairs against the walls, some with children on their knees or by their sides: weather-stained women, with faces creased from work and sunlight. Even the young ones looked dried from the sun.
    And every face looked hungry.
    Not just hungry for food, though many, especially the women, were hollow cheeked. The crowd gave off a curious sense of expectation.
    The stage above was dark.
    Matilda clutched her bundle closer. Her father was in here somewhere — or was he? She couldn’t see anyone here who looked like a ‘golden man’, the way Mr Drinkwater and his sons had looked. Golden boys with black hearts, she thought, remembering the careless way the older boy had spoken of shooting natives.
    Maybe there was more here than she understood. Aunt Ann had often spoken about sending missionaries to civilise the natives. Some natives were cannibals, weren’t they? She remembered a cartoon of natives cooking a missionary in a big pot.
    She shivered … maybe, maybe the natives here were savage. Maybe Mr Drinkwater and his sons were trying to keep everyone safe.
    It was impossible to feel a lurking hope that her father was more like Mr Drinkwater than the men in the cart.
    The crowd was growing restless. All at once the room quietened, like when the foreman at the factory turned off the machinery. A man walked onto the platform, carrying a taper. He bent down at the edge of the stage. Suddenly lights flared, one by one, washing a glow across the boards.
    ‘Oi, Slippery Lucas, we ain’t here to see you!’ Laughter rippled across the crowd. Even some of the women smiled.
    The man on the stage smiled cheekily, then walked off behind the curtains that hung on either side. The crowd stayed quieter now, muttering instead of yelling, watching the stage instead of chatting to each other.
    Mr O’Reilly walked on.
    He still looked small. The knees and elbows of his suit shone in the gaslight. He cleared his throat. ‘Men and women of Australia!’
    It was the voice of the man in the cart, but it was different too. This voice was pitched to carry to the back of the hall. It reached in and spoke to people’s hearts.
    ‘Tonight we stand on the brink of a new nation: one nation, no longer separate colonies. A new, big-hearted nation where each man has the vote — yes, and each woman too. A nation where each has the right to work — and to withdraw their labour when the bosses grip too hard; the right to worship freely, Catholic as well as the church of the English Queen; the right to wages a man can keep a family on …’
    The crowd was cheering now, but O’Reilly’s voice thundered across them. A small man, thought Matilda, but with big ideas.
    ‘Tonight in slums across our cities children sleep in gutters; they work in factories and never see the sun. Today women diewithout money for a doctor, while their children weep, hungry and helpless.’
    He had been listening, thought Matilda. Watching and taking notes …
    ‘Today the rich live on plum puddings while the children of the strikers starve. Today squatters bring in scab labour, forcing white men out of a job. Today the bosses bring in kanakas and Chinese who work for little money or none at all, tearing the bread from the mouths of the children of decent working men.’
    The cheers had changed now to a steady call of, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
    ‘I see a new world opening! Hand in hand you and I will build it. The nation of Australia, a brotherhood, a new nation where no man travels second class, for all men are created equal. A just nation, where no man can profit from his neighbour, but must share with all.’
    The audience members were silent now, as though imagining a world like this took every fibre of their being. Suddenly Matilda could see it too. A land where people shared, with