Matilda's Last Waltz by Tamara McKinley Page B

on the line changed here, the next leg of the journey for the others would be in another train.
    Jenny packed up her guide book and prepared to get off. Silver City, as it had once been called, lay on the banks of the River Darling, lush undergrowth and bright flowers jarring against the backdrop of dust and turn-of-the-century buildings.
    The incongruous sight of the simple nineteenth-century iron mosque caused an excited babble amongst the others, who also talked of visiting the ghost town of Silverton which lay west of Broken Hill and was now used mainly for film locations. She would have liked to join them, and as she said goodbye to the back-packers, felt a twinge of regret that she couldn’t complete the journey and go cross-country to Perth. There was so much to see and experience, so many places that had only been names on the map until now. Yet the bus would be waiting, and her journey would take her in a different direction. Perhaps another time, she promised herself silently.
    Easing the straps of the pack, Jenny set off down the road. Broken Hill was a quaint mixture of outback village and city pretensions. Grand buildings from the age when silver mining boomed, jostled alongside wooden shacks and colonnaded shops. The Catholic cathedral vied with the Trades Hall and post office clock tower for attention amongst the newer, rather brash hotels and motels.
    The coach was waiting outside the Prince Albert Hotel that stood proudly in a lush garden. Jenny was disappointed. She had hoped to explore and take time out to shower and change her clothes, maybe get something to eat. But if she missed the bus, she would have to wait a week before the next one, and with Brett Wilson due to meet her at Wallaby Flats, this was not possible.
    â€˜Name’s Les. I’ll take this, luv. You hop on board and make yourself comfy. There’s cold beers and cordial in the cool box, leave the money in the tin.’
    The driver grabbed her rucksack and stowed it away. He was dressed in shorts, white shirt, boots and long white socks carefully turned over just below the knee. He seemed friendly, with a face leathered by the sun and a bright smile beneath his dark moustache.
    She gave him an answering smile and clambered aboard. With a bottle of beer in her hand, she nodded and returned the other passengers’ greetings as she passed down the bus to her seat. The space between them was narrow, the bus airless and flies buzzed around her face. She brushed them away, an automatic gesture as natural to an Australian as blinking, and took a long, refreshing pull of cold beer. Her excitement was building. In eight hours’ time she would be in Wallaby Flats.
    As the bus pulled away in a plume of red dust, the flies disappeared and a warm breeze came in through the windows. Hats and newspapers were used to stir the air, but despite the discomfort Jenny loved it. This was the real Australia. Not the cities and beaches, the parks and shopping malls, but the real essence of the country with all its faults.
    The heat increased, the beer stock was depleted, and Les kept everyone amused with his constant chatter and terrible jokes. More beer was purchased in Nuntherungie, and this was repeated at every stop in the eight-hour journey. Jenny was weary from lack of sleep, the heat and too much beer and excitement. Lunch had been doorstep sandwiches at a small hotel in the middle of nowhere, but there had been no time for a wash and change of clothes.
    It was almost dark, but thankfully cooler when the bus finally reached Wallaby Flats. Jenny stepped down with the others and stretched. Her shirt and shorts were dark with sweat, and judging by the look of the others, she knew she must look a fright. Yet her spirits were high for she’d come through the journey and was almost at her destination.
    She stood in the twilight and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that awful smell?’ she gasped.
    Les grinned. ‘That’ll be the