by G S Johnston
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In glossy black ink, Amelia wrote at the bottom of the ledger: 15th of April, 1936.
The accounts were in the black.
Despite an horrific cyclone, the Wall Street Crash and the Great Depression, they’d prospered. The 1934 outbreak of Weil’s disease – an illness thought to be transmitted by rats and that left cane cutters with headaches and pains and fevers, at worst with bleeding to the lungs and kidney failure – had stressed the whole industry. But as Italo had always burnt the cane, their farm was unaffected. And despite the bans brought by the Australian Workers’ Union and the British Preference League, whereby no-one would handle Italian-grown sugar, the Italian consul general provided the Italian growers support and trade solutions.
Their financial position was less than her projections, well less, but it was black. Her mastery of the double-entry ledger maintained balance. Now she’d discovered this, she judged most of life’s situations in a similar debit–credit balance. She blotted the wet ink with a folded wad of blotting paper, her final figure mirrored on the sheet.
Over the entry, she splayed the fingers of her left hand. She’d not removed the wedding ring since it was put there by her brother in 1920. She lifted her hand, the desk lamp’s light catching on the apex.
What had it meant to her? A ticket to freedom?
She turned the ring with the fingers of her other hand.
Is that what she’d received?
She gripped it, eased it to the knuckle. If nothing else, sixteen years of cane farming had taken her fine fingers. She spat on the swollen joint, rubbed it around the skin, seized the ring and rotated and pulled. It came, rose to the crest and ceased. She screwed it, felt it budge and budge and budge and then come free.
A band was riven in the flesh, sunless white against her sun-olive skin. That was enough to remind her of marriage. Her hand felt new, light. She placed the ring on her palm, far heavier than she remembered. Wrought in Italy. Plump with gold. She smiled.
She looked over her large desk, over the piles of invoices, past the jumble of ledgers, into the view, golden in the narrowing light. The dark dropped like a curtain on a performance, none of the drawn twilight of home. At the end of autumn, her village held festivals to mourn the season’s passing. Could she really remember it anymore, the long, long stretch between day and night? This melancholy had grown stronger of late. She was unsure why.
Italo had been right; the view from this hill was the best in the valley. Spectacular. And how it changed, both day and night, night and day. When the rains swept through the valley it was one thing and when the sun shone with blue sky quite another.
And the house, built to her strict specifications, crowned the view. They’d had little choice but to start to build, in 1927, after Cyclone Willis strew the old house and their belongings over the fields. An ill wind blew no good. Curtailed by the Depression, they’d braced for the worst. But they’d prospered. The ledgers, years of them, lined the bookshelves, a history of the farm, of sorts.
Now the light had changed, the fields dark pools, biding their time to sprout canes. She sighed heavily, set the ring on the desk.
She caught a reflection in the darkened window. Someone had come to her office door, his weight immediately contrapposto to the left hip. Her heart rose, as it had a thousand times. She’d fool herself again: Fergus. He’d come back. With the light behind him, he’d not changed, not in sixteen years. But it wasn’t Fergus. It was her son, Flavio.
She turned on the chair. His hair, the same colour of dawn, hung over his forehead. And his eyes, darker than hers, absorbed everything they saw. Although she was his mother, it was as if she’d had nothing to do with his conception, not a trace of her skin, of her hair, of her temperament. All Fergus.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.
Even the timbre of his voice, now that it had broken, was Fergus’s. It took her moments before she could speak.
‘Where are the others?’ She always spoke to him in Italian, but he answered in English.
‘Mauro is reading. Marta’s helping Meggsy in the kitchen.’
‘A five-year-old should be in bed long ago, not helping the cook.’ She removed her glasses and stood. She’d no need to ask where Italo was, smoking his last cigarette and tending the horses he kept out of love, those no longer with a practical use.
‘What time tomorrow does Zia Clara’s train arrive?’ he said.
‘Midday.’
‘Is she bringing Donata and Eugenia?’
‘They’re in boarding school.’ She looked at him. ‘She’ll be pleased you put off returning to school.’
Not that she approved. Her education had been abruptly ended and she’d not allow her children’s to be. He nodded.
‘Goodnight,’ she said.
She wouldn’t kiss him. She never did. He moved from the door.
She too was looking forward to seeing Clara. Amelia had been lonely, terribly, these last years, Babinda a man’s domain. She managed the farm and looked after the children and was always busy, but a grey melancholy was never far behind her; their connections with Italy were attenuating, fading. The children spoke Italian poorly, had sparse and fractured knowledge of Italy’s history, their attention torn and warped by the distance and time and Australia.
And six months ago, Paolo had been killed on a construction site, crushed by an inadequately supported wall. Such an horrendous death; she doubted Clara could ever get over it. She wasn’t working as a seamstress but the children – Cristiano, Donata and Eugenia – were nearly off her hands. This would be the first time they’d seen one another since those dark days around the funeral.
Amelia was keen to discuss a proposal that would suit both her and Clara; she wanted to open an Italian school in Babinda, with Clara as the teacher. Clara would come and live with them. She would have a job in her field of training, everything taught in Italian. Amelia had done the maths. Her budget was viable. She just had to find the right moment, the right mood, to broach the plan with Clara.
And in two days Signor Leandro Chieffi, the Italian vice-consul in Townsville, would come to the house to discuss the project. This struck fear and inspiration in her. She’d never met Chieffi, but some years back, in 1932, he’d attended a celebration in Babinda for the tenth anniversary of Mussolini’s March on Rome, organised by the Babinda Fascist Organisation. But Chieffi expressed concern there may be unrest from anti-fascists. In other towns, officials had been spat at. But the Babinda Fascist Organisation acted as other organisations hadn’t and beat the daylights out of any opposition and made promises of worse if the celebration was disturbed. But at the time, Amelia thought Chieffi’s need for such protection cowardly. Despite the number of fascist salutes he gave, was he unconvinced of the righteousness of the fascist cause?
She looked at the ring on the desk. Since Italy’s invasion of Abyssinia, the League of Nations had instigated heavy trading sanctions to curb and chastise Italy. The impotent League couldn’t fell the lion, Mussolini. She wrapped the ring in a sheet of tissue paper, placed it in an envelope she’d addressed to the Italian consulate in Sydney, with a letter she’d already written; gold for the motherland.
Living in a foreign land, she wasn’t required to do this, but she would send the gold back to where it had come from. These tiny bits of metal would bring a victory in Abyssinia and show the world Italy was a power, an empire reborn. It was an act of faith, a sign of their prosperity. She’d not miss it. She sealed the envelope, placed it on the desk with another letter to her parents.
A step to victory.
She’d go and find Mauro and Marta and put them to bed, one of the sweetest points of the day. Tomorrow, Clara would be there.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The damn train was late.
Though Amelia knew the others on the platform, by habit she stood apart from them. An Italian couple nearby, the Paduanos, discussed the train’s delay in very poor English. What made them so p
roud to speak English that made them sound like fools? Although vexing, it wasn’t unusual for a train to be late. A pair of British-Australian boys ran up and down the platform, yelling and tripping one another. Their parents, the Burkes, sitting on the only bench in the shade, were oblivious to the row. She’d have never let Flavio and Mauro behave in such a manner. And if she had, people wouldn’t have held back their criticism. She’d no doubt of that. Italian children were to be seen and not heard, but apparently not Australian ones.
The train was now a half an hour late. Curse them. She had it on numerous reports that since Mussolini had come to power, the Italian trains ran like clockwork. You could set your watch by them. For many years, she’d delivered food parcels to some of the poorer families of the valley, mostly the British Australians, and she’d promised a delivery that morning. Did she have time to do these and return before the train arrived?
Flavio walked along the platform from the stationmaster’s office. ‘He says another half-hour.’
She sighed heavily. Flavio spoke in English, but she replied in Italian. ‘Damn them. I have many things to do, work to finish.’
‘Do you want me to take you home?’ he said.
‘We might miss her.’
A British-Australian man glared at her. ‘Bloody well speak English,’ he said, not to her, not directly, but loud enough for her to hear. And then he moved out of earshot. Was Italian so offensive? These small exchanges, though petty, were numerous and profoundly bittering. Like water drops on stone, over the years they’d increased and were wearing. She recognised it, had fought against it, but resigned to the breach between the communities.
She unfurled the morning’s Cairns Post, turning to the Babinda Notes column. Amongst the piffle was another celebration that a British Australian had bought a stretch of land. Why did they never report the Italian land purchases? As if she didn’t know.
Flavio raised a hand. He strained his ears and then leant and touched the track. ‘The train is coming.’
She stepped back. She could hear it. The fool stationmaster had no idea when it would come. The train rounded the bend, a large plume trailing. Its horn blasted. In the strain of metal and steam and smoke, it squealed to a halt. The carriage doors swung open, and a host of porters scuttled over the platform.
At some distance, Clara stepped down and walked a few paces. They’d not seen one another since those horrible weeks in Brisbane after Paolo’s death. She still wore black and had lost more weight. Clara caught sight of Amelia, waved and moved towards her, dodging the people crossing the platform.
‘Welcome,’ Amelia said.
They embraced.
‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ Clara said. ‘We shouldn’t allow so many months to pass.’
Amelia held her but pulled back to search her face. There were dark circles and new lines etched about her eyes, her cheekbones far too pronounced.
‘You need to eat more,’ Amelia said.
Clara looked over Amelia’s shoulder. Amelia turned. Flavio walked towards them, that same economical gate.
‘I swear, you’re taller still,’ Clara said.
He came to her. Amelia released Clara and stepped aside. Flavio beamed and kissed her cheeks.
‘But you should be away in boarding school,’ Clara said.
‘I put off returning, to see you.’
There’d always been a bond between them. Clara liked his free spirit. He picked up her portmanteau, and the three started along the platform towards the car.
‘Where’s Italo?’ Clara said.
‘It’s planting time,’ Amelia said.
‘And the children, how are they?’ Clara asked.
‘Mauro is still taller—’
‘Not as tall as me,’ Flavio said.
‘Marta is full of words, overflowing with them. A handful. She just doesn’t sleep, but such a joy. They’re both anxious to see you.’
Flavio drove the car. Amelia and Clara sat in the back, their talk inconsequential, small snippets of her trip, news from home. Amelia’s mother had written, and Aldo’s wife had had another baby. Clara spoke of Brisbane and Cristiano, Donata and Eugenia. Amelia skirted anything that might lead to Paolo, a subject she suspected still too raw.
On the way to the farm, they delivered the parcels of food to Betsy Taylor, who lived on the outskirts of the village. Out of the blue, her husband had left her and three children under the age of five and gone to Adelaide. She had no money, no job and no time for one, but she had a fine stitch, and Amelia paid her for alterations and recommended her whenever she could.
Betsy came to the door of her shack to meet them.
‘This is my best friend,’ Amelia said by way of introducing Clara.
Even Betsy’s smile was weary and drawn, one of her front teeth missing. Clara shook her hand. A little girl, two or three, barefoot and wearing a patched dress, came down the hall. Her hair had been washed and combed and pulled back from her face. Clara bent down and picked her up, which made her giggle.
Flavio carried the parcels through to the rear lean-to, which served as a kitchen. The parcels contained some milk and eggs, bread Meggsy had baked that morning, some fresh vegetables from the garden and a large container of chicken soup.
‘You’d best eat that today,’ Amelia said.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Betsy said.
Amelia looked at her. The woman was worn out. Mussolini cared for the poor. If only such care existed in Australia.
‘A better way is coming,’ Amelia said.
‘We’d not survive but for you,’ Betsy said.
‘I’ve some mending, the boys’ trousers. I’ll send them over.’
A small light of thanks ignited in Betsy’s dulled eyes, and she nodded. Flavio returned from the rear of the house, and Amelia turned back towards the car. Clara carried the young girl outside and then let her slide down her hip to the ground. The little girl laughed.
‘It’s very good of you,’ Clara said, once the car was moving again.
‘It’s nothing to have Meggsy cook a little more,’ Amelia said. ‘No-one else looks after them. Not the state, not even the church. She just needs to earn an income. The trouble of the matter is there are so many people like this in the valley. I can’t feed them all, and even then, many have now rejected my help.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m Italian.’
They drove on with careless chatter until the car arced the small hill on the property and the new house revealed itself.
‘Oh my God,’ Clara said. ‘You’ve added the second storey.’
Amelia smiled. Clara had last visited some three years ago, and only the lower level had been finished, the large area partitioned into temporary rooms. She’d purposely not told Clara it was complete, the surprise bringing joy to her face, something scant since Paolo’s death.
‘The verandahs are so broad,’ Clara said.
Flavio stopped the car on the flat gravelled area on the lower front side of the house. Clara bounded out, hands clasped to her mouth.
The house sat in the high lee of the hill. Once the land was cleared, Italo dug the foundations with his own hands. He’d not have his new house blown away. Constructed on a concrete slab, the first storey had cement brick walls. People had snarled at Amelia’s design, Maria even saying it was absurd to build directly on the ground. But, just as Amelia imagined, the large verandah, over two metres wide, cast broad shadows across all the external walls and windows, keeping the house just as cool as any midair suspension. And they were on a hill; it was hardly likely they’d be flooded.
But at first glance the house did appear much larger than it was, the perceived bulk created by the verandahs, collaring the wooden second storey, a colonnade along both levels. And the height was impressive, made more so by a block tower crowning the centre front façade, which held Amelia’s office and an upper observation deck.
Clara’s eyes filled with wonder. Amelia took her hand, and they wal
ked through the wide front door and stepped back, inviting Clara into the expansive entrance hall. At the right-hand side, a wooden staircase began a lazy ascent in three sections, first up the right-hand wall of a huge lounge room, then the rear wall and finally the other side wall of the dining room.
‘It’s so grand,’ Clara said.
Amelia smiled. ‘Let me show you upstairs.’
They mounted the stairs to the landing, which curled around the staircase with various doors leading to rooms.
‘This is your room,’ Amelia said.
The room was in the rear corner of the building, and contained a bureau, a double bed, a large cupboard, a washbasin and jug, and a walnut desk at the window.
‘I told you not to toss the children from their rooms,’ Clara said.
‘And I haven’t. This is the guest’s room, built for you.’
Amelia led her to the window and the vast view of the Bellenden Ker Range. Flavio came with her luggage.
‘Let me show you something special,’ Amelia said, and reached out her hand. They walked back across the landing to large French doors that opened to the front verandah, as broad as its lower counterpart. Below the rail was panelled, but above the rail the northern sun could be further expunged by a series of plantation shutters Amelia drew across to demonstrate.
‘I had them made especially.’
Once they were slid shut, the shutters turned to closed, the sunlight and heat were all but gone.
‘The house is beautiful,’ Clara said. ‘You must be proud.’
‘Proud? I don’t know …’ She pushed back the shutters. ‘Just pleased we finally have somewhere safe to sleep. Come, let me show you my office.’
They walked back to the rear of the landing. A door opened onto another smaller staircase, which rose another level to Amelia’s office. Clara ran her hand along the edge of the desk, looking out over the fields.
‘How can you work in front of this view?’ Clara said.
Amelia took her hand and led her higher to the flat roof of the tower, a type of viewing platform.