Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  Since she’d arrived she’d intended to plant a small garden. She’d collected some seeds, and Maria and the other women gave her more. Now there was time to plant. The lightly sloped patch of soil to the west of the breezeway had all-day sun. Italo had some free time and built a wire-mesh fence to keep out the kangaroos and possums and bandicoots and hosts of other animals she had no names for. She turned the sods and dug some of the cow manure into the soil.

  She planted pumpkin, cabbage, beetroot, carrots, potatoes, rhubarb and silverbeet. In a corner, she’d try a bay tree, thyme and basil. With the rain and the humidity and heat, she had no idea what would grow and what would perish, but trial and error would soon educate her.

  And on the other side of the breezeway, part shaded by the house, Italo built an enclosure for the two chickens Maria had promised.

  ‘Do the chickens need to be hemmed in?’ she said to Italo. ‘Are there foxes?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but a snake can eat a chicken whole.’

  He opened his mouth wide and flicked his tongue. She winced. He started to laugh and she threw a sod at him. But she’d keep the chickens in their pen.

  And Italo proved a patient teacher as she kangarooed the truck along the paths between the fields. But she proved herself a willing student, and within weeks could drive the truck into the village with Maria. And the Italian women at church talked of the coming wet season (‘Just you wait for that’) when already it rained nearly every day, and not just a shower but long, heavy falls. The next major task in the new year was to plant the new season’s cane. Italo had stored lengths of cane to cut to small sections, setts, which they buried in the earth to sprout. At first she thought he was making a fool of her by saying you could grow new cane from this without seed, but Maria confirmed this method.

  And slowly over these months the bits of this new language, bits gathered from any book she could borrow, came together, from the daily Cairns Post newspaper and the Queenslander magazine, a weekly summary of the Brisbane Courier, or gathered ad hoc on the street. She fluttered across the pages of her mother’s dictionary. Always there was another word. Often there was another meaning for a word she knew. Often a single sound was written in different ways with different meanings – rain, rein, reign. And then there were sayings, like ‘beyond the pale’, and it would take her weeks to find someone to explain that pale was a social boundary, not just a colour. English was designed to keep the migrant out.

  But after three months, she and Maria could pass the whole day in English. Sure, she stumbled and often fell, and often took three attempts just to get the subject and verb to agree, but she was managing, always jumping back and forth between the two. Yet speaking with Maria was one thing; her accent was familiar, and she spoke slowly and, Amelia suspected, used words Amelia knew. Each Sunday, Amelia would sit through the church service and could only understand the Latin. She still hadn’t taken confession. And so her sin rested in her.

  Despite Italo’s constant affections, there was no sign of pregnancy. Part of her felt dismayed, but a greater part felt relief; as much as she wanted a child, she had so many new things to deal with. There would be time. The children were in the future.

  And she wrote back to Clara and Paolo and Cristiano, who, from their cheery letters, were all doing well in Brisbane. Clara had found work as a seamstress in a small factory, which meant they had a little more money and hoped to move from the hostel. Amelia urged them to come to Babinda as soon as they could, for Christmas, even. She received a reply. Clara too hated the heat and humidity, far worse than Bologna’s. Cristiano would start school in the new year but was finding life hard without English, although at times she felt he’d picked up more than her. And they’d moved from the hostel to a small, run-down house they rented in New Farm, a suburb of Brisbane. She doubted they could afford the travel and the time off work to come to Babinda, but it was a lovely idea.

  The remnants of the year pushed forward to Christmas. She’d always loved Christmas evening, when her mother had prepared special foods. But what could she buy here? She would try to save some money, but without aunts and uncles and family, and with the heat, the holiday seemed broken.

  And in Babinda she would shop on her own. The shopkeepers, busy with their day, would grow impatient as she pointed to items she wanted, and her confusion stripped all her courtesy away to craggy nouns. One afternoon she left a shop particularly downhearted. With the keeper’s frustration, every word and phrase she’d polished became dulled and fell from her. And he’d snarled at her. No disguising that. He was busy, but his anger made her lunge at English worse.

  Outside the Babinda State Hotel, a group of men were talking. One of the men was overly loud, and she veered to avoid them. But as she passed, the group went quiet. She could feel their eyes. At first she quickened her step but then realised this only showed her fear and slowed it. She heard some words – nice, pretty; one of them even badly pronounced bella – but she kept walking.

  ‘Do you know why Italy’s shaped like a boot?’ yelled one of the men, the older one, who stood apart from the mob.

  She turned but realised the question hadn’t been directed at her. But in a way, she knew it had. Now the men all looked at this man. His red eyes glared at her. Every part of her said to leave. But she wanted the answer.

  ‘Because they couldn’t fit that much shit in a shoe.’

  The men laughed. The one who’d told the joke staggered slightly, and she guessed he was drunk. But then the men realised she’d stopped and was looking at them. Some of them returned her gaze, their expressions blank and fixed, and then turned away with what she hoped was embarrassment. Other Italian men, who must have heard what he’d said, just continued to walk, offering no reaction at all, as if he’d just said it would rain. But the man, a tall, strong man in his late fifties, met her eye.

  Many retorts came to her: Why is Australia the shape of a cowpat? Didn’t he know of the Roman Empire? The Renaissance? She looked the man in his burning eyes. She mustered all the defiance she could find.

  ‘And a boot is better to kick with than a shoe,’ she said.

  The men were silent. A woman had spoken. Then they erupted in laughter, huge bolts. Although her heart beat fast and she could only draw breath to the top of her lungs, she kept the eyes of the man who’d spoken, not looking away. And then she realised all these thoughts had come to her in English, and she hadn’t moved back and forth and back and forth. It didn’t matter what this man did. She’d won. She thought in English.

  Slowly, his expression changed from sneering joy to concern. She nodded to him and walked away, into Mellick’s Draper and Mercer. Once clear of his view, she collapsed into a seat.

  Maria came to her. ‘Who’s that man?’ Amelia said. ‘The tall one. Standing at the front.’

  Maria looked at the group. ‘That’s your neighbour, Oisin Kelly.’

  Amelia held her breath. Not only was he her neighbour, this man thought he’d swindle Italo with bad land at a high price. And he was Fergus’s father.

  She told her what had happened, and Maria was unsurprised.

  ‘Why didn’t the Italian men say something?’ Amelia said.

  Maria laughed slightly. ‘Most speak English poorly. I doubt they understood.’

  Amelia pulled back. She’d just assumed they spoke and understood English. ‘How well does Italo speak?’

  Maria scrunched her mouth and her shoulders. ‘He’s okay …’

  But still, these men had no right to assume they were better than the newer immigrants. Oisin was born in Ireland and came to Australia with his parents after the Potato Famine. How was his circumstance different to theirs, except by a handful of years? Where was this superiority or this entitlement seated? What made him a kind of lord of the land?

  So it all poured out that evening to Italo.

  ‘How can he run a successful business being drunk in the street in the middle of the day?’ she said.

  ‘I’m no
t so sure he does.’

  ‘How much more successful are we?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If they’re so resentful, we must be earning more money.’ Was it wrong for a wife to ask such questions? ‘How much did the last harvest earn?’

  Italo looked away. ‘I’ve not really done the accounts yet, but enough …’

  Amelia felt herself heat. How could he run a business without knowing? Her mother did her father’s accounts; they had no choice but to try to stay ahead of the landlord’s accountants. Amelia went to the desk, opened the drawer and took out the pile of papers.

  ‘Then I’ll do them,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t have time for that.’

  ‘I’ll make it.’

  ‘But you don’t know how to do them.’

  She thought for some seconds. Her mother had never shown her. ‘How hard can it be? We either earn money or pay money.’

  ‘It’s a bit more than that …’

  A voice, a man, yelled out ‘hello’ from the verandah. Italo looked at her and she followed him. Oisin Kelly stood framed by the flywire door. She stopped, still in the dark confines of the hall. She felt her heartbeat, her skin prickle. What the hell was he doing there? Had he come to tell Italo she’d spoken against him?

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Oisin said.

  If he recognised her, he made no sign of it.

  ‘Come,’ Italo said, motioning with his hand to enter.

  ‘I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Fergus?’

  ‘Fergus?’ Italo said.

  Amelia tightened.

  ‘We’ve not seen him. Over a month,’ Oisin said. ‘Probably closer to two.’

  ‘I no see him,’ Italo said. ‘Some time.’

  Italo turned to Amelia and asked her in Italian if she’d seen Fergus.

  ‘I’ve not seen him,’ she said, in English. She wouldn’t be less in this man’s eyes.

  ‘Do you mind if I go to the hut? Have a look around?’

  ‘No,’ Italo said.

  Neither man spoke.

  ‘I come with you,’ Italo added.

  ‘I’ll find my way.’

  ‘Certo,’ Italo said. ‘As you like.’

  With that, Oisin turned and left the verandah. They watched him stride along the ridge of the hill in the direction of the hut and then returned to the main room. Italo went to the invoices.

  ‘Where would he be?’ she said.

  Italo looked from the pile of invoices. ‘Who?’

  ‘Fergus.’

  ‘He’s taken off. He does it all the time. His mind’s a mess.’

  In the morning, after Italo had left for the day, she walked to the hut. From the fringe of the clearing, she called out Fergus’s name. There was no response, save the calls of the birds and the wind moving through the forest. She edged closer. The coals of his fire, a circle of stones on the ground, were covered in leaves and twigs. The fire hadn’t been struck for some time. She knocked, which caused the door to open slightly and then close. She pushed it, just a notch, and said his name again and again. When there was no sound, no response, she pushed the door further.

  The room was darker than she remembered, the curtains pulled over the window. The small table was cleared. She ran her finger over it, dusty, untouched for some time. She pulled back a hessian curtain that cordoned off a small corner storage area. None of his clothes, not that he ever appeared to have many, hung there. He’d disappeared.

  She suddenly felt chilled and implicated, even attacked. What part did she have in this disappearance? Was he safe? She allowed the curtain to fall and turned towards the bed, the blanket pulled tight. But his nightshirt wasn’t on the pillow, as it had been the first time she’d come to the hut. She remembered the passion they’d shared. But the bed held nothing, mute folds of fabric.

  A small book lay on the bedside table. It hadn’t been there before. The Poetry of William Shakespeare. With all care, so as not to disturb the bed, she lay on her side, rest her head on the pillow, crisp and clean. She breathed in, searched for his scent but could find little trace of it, echoes at most. This was foolish. What did she want? Something material, some mark or stain or hair, some element of proof of his existence. But these were remote, flushed, brushed from the room. He’d not left on a whim. His leaving was calculated and planned.

  She scanned the room. His calendar, jammed on 1914, was still pinned to the wall. Still the neat stack of empty Capstan tins, silent, waited for a new task. To the side of the bed hung the photograph of him in Egypt on the back of a mule. She wanted that moment, the slice of time where he was smiling and happy despite the torment the war would bring. What did this mean that he’d left these things? That he’d return? She raised herself from the bed. With one hand she held the edge of the photograph, with the other pulled the pin from the wall. The joy on his face reminded her of the heights of Emma’s joy. She had no photograph of Emma. But this was her happiness. She stole the photograph, these organised shadows and light of him, these mere marks on paper. She hurried back to the safety of Italo’s house and pressed the photograph into the folds of her dictionary.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Her silk blouse lay heaped at the bottom of the wardrobe. She grabbed it, but as she raised it the fabric flowed through her fingers like granulated sugar, the remnants falling to the floor. She looked up at the hanger – the shoulders and collar still hung, pressed and buttoned, the cleave across the chest ragged and torn, the long, disembodied sleeves unable to raise a protest.

  Had Italo done something to it? Some mistake? No. He never opened this wardrobe. The mauve fabric had dark spots, like ink had been flung at it. She smelt her fingers. Mildew. The humidity had soured the silk.

  She sat on the bed. She couldn’t stop herself and started to sob. She’d only been here … How long was it now? A little less than four months. The shirt had cost considerable money and was a gift from her mother, and she’d never even worn it. She couldn’t stop the weeping. Had she been reckless, not cared for the shirt? But she couldn’t have known this would happen. These fine threads connected her to her mother and to home, and now they were gone. And she had no clothes with any hint of refinement.

  She raised a hand to her mouth, drew and held her breath. This was irrational. The blouse was Italian. She’d left Italy. Babinda, with all its heat and humidity, had eaten it. Babinda was her home. She should stop her crying.

  That afternoon she drove to the village and at the draper bought enough plain white cotton to make herself and Italo new shirts. She went to the butcher, the general store and then the post office to mail three letters and retrieve their mail, which included the first letter from her mother. She opened it there, quickly read it, filled to overflowing with small news of her brothers, her father, and everyone else in the village who had done something that had come to her mother’s ear. They were all well; they missed her; the economy was worse. There was no real news, nothing of her mother’s feelings. All she needed was to see her mother’s hand. But most importantly, the letter contained seeds, three cranberry-swirled borlotti beans. How precious. Not enough for a crop, but enough to grow the seeds for a crop. Once she was home, with great happiness she pressed them into this foreign earth.

  She spent the next day making patterns from an old shirt of hers, and one from the shirt Italo had worn to their celebration. She cut the cotton fabric, stitching the sections together, both a plain design, no artifice save an embroidery of two, small-crossed sugarcanes at the outer edges of the sleeves. She hung hers in the wardrobe, dusted out the remains of the silk. She folded Italo’s, placed it in a drawer. Christmas was only a few weeks away. She’d keep the shirt a secret for a present.

  The new shirt brought a lightness, marking the end of her journey. She was no longer at sea. She’d found her home, her purpose, her place. With this spirit, she prepared the evening meal. She told Italo of the silk shirt, of what she thought it meant. He didn’t seem prone to see it a
s symbolic, but he smiled and laughed at her story.

  ‘I forgot,’ she said. ‘There’s a letter for you, from Melbourne.’

  Italo picked up the letter. ‘Who do I know in Melbourne?’

  She turned to him, shrugged her shoulders. She picked up the dinner plates and took them to the kitchen. When she returned to the main room, the letter lay on the table, still unopened. Italo had left. She cleared the rest of the table.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ she said when he returned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The letter.’

  ‘Oh … maybe later.’

  ‘Italo …’

  It was only then it occurred to her. When she’d arrived, there wasn’t a single book in the house. The only ones were those she’d bought or borrowed from Maria. And he never looked at the newspapers she bought. She’d never seen him read. But how could she ask such a question?

  ‘Would you like me to open it?’ she said.

  He looked at her. ‘If you like.’

  She put the plates on the table, brushed her hands across her apron and took the letter.

  ‘It’s from Angelo Rada.’

  Italo looked at her. ‘Angelo Rada …’ He repeated it again. And then his face opened with happiness. ‘Angelo … I’ve not heard of him since I left Italy.’ He came to look at the letter. ‘And the letter is from Melbourne?’

  She checked the return address and the stamp and nodded.

  ‘What does it say?’

  She opened the envelope and unfolded a single page. The writing was sparse, the hand rigid and slow, childish. To herself, she read the letter.

  ‘Your mother gave him your address. He’s arrived in Melbourne and he’s having trouble finding work and wants to know if you’d go and see him in Melbourne.’