by G S Johnston
There was nothing to eat in the house, save the leftovers of last night. What had she come to? Suddenly, Signora Pina’s derision seemed more like fair warnings and not jealousy. This was the end of the world. In Italy they may have been poor, but they had good food and a rug on the floor her great-grandmother had made, and floorboards and walls without huge cracks. Why had she been so headstrong? Tears and cries rose. Clara advised avoiding such moments; she must keep busy.
She had to relieve herself and returned to the privy – so uncivilised, this dark room now hot inside. The lean-to on the side of the house had no window. A rectangular tin hung from the ceiling on a pulley, small holes pushed through the bottom. He must fill this with cold water from another tap poking through the wall from the tank. A sour, fusty odour, something of day-old cook cabbage and onion, emerged from a heap on the floor – Italo’s blackened clothes. She bent over and gingerly picked up the acrid shirt. She was meant to clean them. But how?
‘Hello.’
The call came from the front of the house. She dropped the shirt tail and walked around the outside of the building. Maria stood on the verandah, looking into the house, down the hall.
She turned to Amelia. ‘Good morning. Have you eaten? I’ve brought us breakfast.’
Maria brandished a wicker basket and let herself in, and Amelia walked back around the outside to meet her in the breezeway.
‘There’s no food in the house,’ Maria said. Amelia followed her through the main room to the kitchen. ‘Italo never cooks. He’s over at our place most nights. But I guess he won’t be now. So once we’ve eaten we can go into town and buy provisions.’
Amelia said nothing. She remained standing on the kitchen doorstep. Maria stopped moving and looked at her.
‘Did you sleep?’ Maria said.
‘Yes.’
‘You must have been very tired. All that travel.’ She pulled back a cloth from a basket to reveal a wheel of small bread rolls baked in a round tin. She’d bought ground coffee. ‘Italo loves coffee,’ Maria said.
‘Then why is there none?’
Maria placed the jar of grounds on the bench.
‘Italo needs … help.’
Maria made the coffee. How good it smelt. They drank it in the main room and ate the small bread rolls with butter and a strange jam. Maria talked and Amelia felt so leaden, but this woman was generous, and so she too should be.
‘What’s your husband’s name?’ Amelia said.
‘Dante.’
‘Was he born here too?’
‘He came out before the war.’ Maria thought. ‘About the same time as Italo, but he came straight to cane cutting.’
‘So you met here?’
‘There are so few women I could have had my pick … But I chose Dante.’
Amelia wouldn’t advance on this note of discord. ‘Do you have children?’
‘Four. All boys. But they’re older now and need me less.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And more.’
Maria talked about people in the district as if Amelia already knew them: Pennisi, Tedesco, Lanza. She tried to concentrate but it was meaningless. After they’d finished, they made ready for the long walk to the village, the prospect of treading on dry land pleasing. But some way from the house, Maria walked to a truck.
‘Can you drive?’ Amelia said.
‘Of course. Can’t you?’
Amelia stared at her. ‘Of course not.’
Maria pulled back in shock. ‘Another thing we’ll have to teach you.’
Once they were on the main road, Amelia appreciated the quiet. She couldn’t remove her eyes from this new world of so much space, other houses built in a similar manner to Italo’s, raised high from the ground.
‘Why are the houses like that?’ she said.
‘It keeps them out of the flooding and cooler in summer, as the air moves about.’
Her parents fought to keep warmth in. This really was a world upside down. The valley was flat, framed with beautiful mountain ranges, the vegetation lush and green. The sight lifted her spirits. But soon they came to the village, the main street so wide, wider than four streets of Tovo di Sant’Agata put together. But there were few people, as if the street had been built for the future. Buildings lined the street, built on the ground but with large awnings over the footpath, held by poles flush to the curb, long colonnades. Some of the buildings even ran to a second floor, and most had pelmets with stylised signs.
‘I don’t get the luxury of coming to town that often,’ Maria said. ‘I have a lot to do.’
First they stopped at a tailor, then a bootmaker. Amelia listened as Maria negotiated her business, all in English. How lucky she was to have both tongues. While the shop assistant went to check something, Amelia excused herself and went outside for some air.
It was still humid. If this was what it was like in spring, what would it be by summer? She looked at the other women, dressed in lighter fabric. She would need to sew something similar. She saw in the distance a familiar face. Her first sensation was that it must be Italo, and it lifted her spirits. But he was cutting cane. It was Fergus. He stood some metres away, along the street, slouched against a pole of the colonnade, much as he’d been in the arrivals hall in Brisbane, a burning cigarette in his hand at his side. She waved. At first she thought he hadn’t seen her but then he turned and looked, more glared, his face stern but impassive. He raised the cigarette to his mouth, exhaled a haze. Then something came into those dark circles, some small light, calm and yet searching. He raised his brow slightly and nodded. Maria came to her.
‘Looks like one of his bad days,’ Maria said.
‘Bad days?’
‘Some days it’s like there’s a fog between him and the world. No-one can get through. He never sleeps. Wanders around half the night. Best left on a day like that.’
Maria put the packages on the truck’s tray and Amelia looked back at Fergus.
‘It’s sad,’ Maria said. ‘Such a good-looking young man. His father’s given up on him. To be honest, I’m surprised he found you in Brisbane. But there you go, people are full of surprises.’
They drove in silence. The war had reached Australia. She wanted to talk to Fergus, but it wasn’t possible unless she learnt English.
‘I to learn English,’ Amelia said, in English.
‘Good,’ Maria said. ‘Very good.’
They went to the butcher. Maria spoke in English, and Amelia concluded all the shops were owned by English-speaking people.
‘I bought you half-a-dozen chops,’ Maria said, using the English word. She handed Amelia a parcel wrapped in paper.
Amelia stared at the package. ‘What are chops?’
‘It’s a cut of mutton. Just cook them in a pan in a bit of dripping. Boil some vegetables.’
Amelia looked at the package again. She was embarrassed to admit she had no idea what a chop was.
In the draper, Amelia found some heavy material, a brown colour, to make curtains for the bedroom. She found a pair of nightclothes for Italo.
‘You’d better buy some needles and thread too,’ Maria said. ‘There’d be none at the house.’
Maria introduced her to some Italians on the street, all men, and there were too many faces for her to remember. There were no Italian women. That was why Amelia was there.
In the general store, Amelia found some coffee beans and a small hand grinder. Maria bought them for her, along with the basic provisions for the house: oil, more tea and a sack of flour. Amelia asked to mail her letters, so they walked to the post office, the entrance up a small number of stairs. Maria ordered the stamps and Amelia floundered around to find the correct money. Lire and centesimi were so much easier. How many pence made a shilling, and how many of these made a pound? The man behind the counter said something to Amelia, and Maria nodded. He went back to a wall of small slotted shelves and handed Amelia a letter. She recognised the handwriting – dear Clara’s – and placed it safely in her bag, to savour later.
When they returned to the street, a man was yelling, mainly at a group of men. That much Amelia could understand. Perhaps he was just the Babinda village eccentric, their Signor Gregorio. The men were dressed like Italo, and she presumed they were canecutters. They said things back to the man, just humouring him, but they did their best to ignore him. Maybe this man was drunk, but it was only midmorning, though this was a country with many strange habits. Maria took her arm and led her away.
‘Is he drunk?’ Amelia said.
‘No.’ Maria’s reply was sharp, her grip firm.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘I’ll tell you.’
Once they were at the truck, Maria let go of her arm. She heaved the goods onto the tray and lassoed them in, and they drove out of the village.
‘That man was accusing those Italian men of working for less money than the union’s rates.’
‘Is that true?’
‘There may be some, but the majority don’t. And he knows that. So they accuse the Italians of other things: not expecting a weekly wage and just taking their money at the end of the season, working longer hours than they should, on and on it goes. To listen to some of them you’d think the Italians have put every British Australian out of work. And if it’s not that, it’s that Italians are buying all the land. And they don’t stop at that – apparently, we only buy the best land.’
‘They must be selling it to them.’
‘They don’t consider that.’
Amelia sighed heavily and looked out the window. Italo had said anything was possible under Australia’s blue skies. But in Babinda the morning had already clouded, grey and darker-grey streaking the horizon to the zenith.
‘They call us the olive peril,’ Maria said.
Amelia looked back to Maria.
‘Maybe it doesn’t translate,’ Maria said. ‘Before, during the gold rush, it was the yellow peril, that Chinamen would take over the country. Now we’ve moved here, it’s the olive peril.’
Amelia pulled up the sleeve of her shirt. Indeed, the skin on her hand was olive from the sun, her forearm whiter. But didn’t everyone’s skin colour in the sun?
‘Truth is they’re scared of anything that’s not them,’ Maria said. ‘They want us all to work for nothing, say nothing, do nothing, like the Kanaka.’
They’d now cleared the village and were back on the wide plain, and a cooler breeze swept them along.
‘They’re annoyed the Italians are successful,’ Maria said. ‘If the Italians hadn’t helped one another, worked together, they’d never have been able even to buy land, get loans from the bank, lawyers, let alone work it. The British Australians are just too lazy to get organised.’ She was silent for a while. ‘I dare say you were annoyed Italo didn’t come to meet you in Brisbane. I know you mightn’t see it this way – he had no choice. Nothing will stop the mill. They just have to get the cane there in the time that’s allotted. Not even a new wife can stop that, I’m afraid. Take comfort in that. Despite all his faults, Italo’s dependable.’
They drove in silence.
‘I shouldn’t be so critical,’ Maria said. ‘God knows, I was born here. Technically, I’m one of them.’
‘Have you ever thought to go to Italy?’
Maria laughed. ‘I’ve never imagined that. What’s it like?’
‘It’s upside down to here. It’s beautiful – everything is old, everything has a story. But in many ways, this is its greatest problem. And the war destroyed so many things. My father doubts Italy will ever recover.’
‘It’s always been a part of me that’s missing. I’m told about it, I speak the language, but I don’t know what it is.’
‘Italo said anything is possible in Australia. I believe that.’
‘And it’s not in Italy?’
Amelia turned to Maria and smiled, shrugged her shoulders. She wouldn’t criticise Italy.
They’d arrived back at Italo’s farm and brought the supplies into the house. Amelia stoked the fire and made them fresh coffee, which was surprisingly good.
‘If we start in Italian,’ Maria said, ‘we’ll stay in Italian. If we start in English, it will be hard and slow but it’s the only way you’re going to learn. And you need to learn.’
Amelia smiled. Despite Italo’s claim there would always be someone close by who spoke Italian, the morning’s outing had shown she needed to speak English. It would be hard work, but she would enjoy it. A new land needed new words.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Amelia took Clara’s letter to the verandah, pleased just to see her firm hand. The letter was written and mailed the day they’d parted. She had no real news, just hopes Amelia was all right. Cristiano had settled, but he talked of her and Italo constantly, although he thought Fergus was Italo, despite her corrections. Paolo worked on a huge construction site in the city, to be some government building. It was strange and lovely to see Paolo. The hostel was dreary, but once she found some work they would rent a small house. She had a million questions of Italo and expected her to write immediately. Again she urged her to keep busy; it would drive all homesickness and loneliness away. It heartened Amelia that a letter could come so quickly.
Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon making curtains for the bedroom, sewing a flap and inserting the rod, hemming them at the base. She did a rough job of it, one her mother would chastise her for, but it would do until she could do something better.
In the late afternoon, she filled the kettle and placed it to the side of the coals. She went back to the verandah to read her grammar book but a short time later heard a truck approaching from the main road. It stopped at some distance, six or so men sitting in the back tray as if the driver didn’t want to come too close, all speaking Italian. Then Italo – at least this blackened man she presumed to be her husband – appeared, stood and jumped from the tray. He waved to her and she raised her hand. The truck started again, back towards the main road. She stood from the step.
‘Goodnight,’ she said.
He smiled again.
‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘But “goodnight” is at the end of the day. It’s “good evening” now.’
She blushed. Of course. She knew that. But there was an infinite distance between what she knew and her mouth.
‘It’s a lovely evening,’ he said.
He came up the stair. She stepped back to allow him space. He looked around the verandah, took the book from her.
‘You need a bench,’ he said.
She nodded, delighted at the prospect.
He stopped. ‘If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.’
She nodded again, as any word seemed inadequate.
‘I’ll go and clean up,’ he said.
She’d forgotten to ask Maria what to do with the work clothes, still in a stinking heap on the floor. But she motioned to him, told him to take the kettle from the hearth.
‘The water is warm, for the shower,’ she said.
He smiled and made his way inside, towards the rear of the house.
She read more and then returned to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. The paper parcel of chops sat on the bench. She unravelled the roll. A chop was mostly bone, a circle of red meat and a strip of white fat. Costoletta d’agnello. So expensive, her mother had never cooked them. What had Maria said? She needed to listen more. She filled a pot with water and hooked it to a low link on the chain to give it more heat. She cut some potatoes and carrots Maria had left. Italo hummed some tune in the washroom.
She placed the pan between two stones to the side of the fire, moved some coals in under. Once it was hot, she melted the dripping and added the chops. They spluttered as they seared. She forced a knife under them to turn them. She heard Italo walking. Was he in the main room or the breezeway? A loud whooshing erupted from the fireplace, heat slapping her cheek, flames dancing above the pan. She stood, suspended by their incongruity, their colours, their beauty. The heat engulfed her. She grabbed t
he pan; the metal was hot and burned, but she managed to lower it to the hearth then waved her hand in the air. The flames rose high; the fat spat. She took a cloth and waved it, but the breeze gave fuel to the flame. To call Italo was to draw his attention to this failure, the kitchen choked with smoke. Slowly the flame lowered, the fuel extinguished, leaving a congealed liquid about the chops. The fumes began to clear.
She couldn’t hear Italo humming. He must still be dressing. She lifted the charred chops from the pan to a plate, swaddled in a gelatinous black. They were ruined. But they had to eat something. She took them to the dining room. Italo was seated at the table. The meat smelled burnt and could only taste worse. She couldn’t look at him and returned to the kitchen for the vegetables. But in all the confusion she’d left them too long, and they were almost broth. She rescued what she could and took them to Italo.
Fortunately, he’d lit another pungent incense coil, masking the malodour. She served him. He stared at the meat but said nothing. What kind of fool wasted such money? She cut into the meat, charred and raw inside. Italo cut the bone free and raised it in his hands, nibbled at it, pulled the pinkish flesh with his teeth.
The conversation came slowly. She told him Maria had come and they’d gone into town. She liked the village. He smiled. She gave him the nightclothes. He blushed. She was sure he did. Not just the heat.
‘I’ve lived too long on my own,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at the meal’s remains. ‘Did your parents have a stove?’
‘Yes.’
He sighed. ‘There’s no point in spending money here. I want to build a new house.’
She breathed in. ‘I’ll learn.’ She refolded the nightclothes. ‘A man left milk in the kitchen this morning.’
‘Ben. He lives near the creek. He looks after the cows.’
The conversation came hard and without a rhythm. He was tired. But her mind jumped around, made more nervous by the silence. By eight-thirty, when the sun had gone, he excused himself to check his horses and smoke a last cigarette. She cleared the meal’s remains. The poor man must be hungry, but there wasn’t even bread. How was she to bake bread? She prepared herself for bed and lay still, waiting. The kerosene lamp cast dancing shadows on the ceiling, increasing her anxiety.