Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  Clara drew her face to question. ‘What did Italo say?’

  ‘He’s not noticed.’ She breathed out. ‘He wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘You’re playing with fire.’

  Amelia didn’t want to have this discussion. For some while, neither woman spoke, the night air heavy with the shrieking of the bats in the forest, the constant frogs of the fields.

  ‘Widowhood doesn’t rest well with you,’ Amelia said, by way of opening the discussion.

  ‘Yet by not wearing a ring you choose to feign it.’

  Amelia wouldn’t respond. Perhaps they should talk of the school tomorrow. Clara still had a sharp edge.

  ‘Does widowhood rest well with anyone?’ Clara said at last.

  ‘You need occupation.’

  ‘I have three children.’

  ‘Cristiano will soon finish university. The girls are nearly off your hands.’

  Clara raised her eyebrows. ‘Ahhh … You’ve been stewing something. What do you propose?’

  Amelia leant towards her. ‘I want to open a school.’

  ‘A school? …’ She sounded flabbergasted. ‘But there are schools here—’

  ‘An Italian school. Everything taught in Italian, to keep the language alive.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me … why?’

  ‘You’ve heard the children speak. Their Italian’s provincial. You’ve heard Mauro. Wouldn’t you like to teach again?’

  ‘Of course, but in Brisbane, there’s no opportunity.’

  Amelia leant forward. ‘Then move here. Bring the girls. Do what you were trained to do, rather than work in a factory as a second-rate seamstress. You and I are both lonely.’

  Clara said nothing. Had Amelia gained some ground?

  ‘Since Paolo’s death, I’ve felt lost,’ Clara said. ‘And you’re right; when I look to the future, just a few years, what am I to become? A grandmother?’

  ‘I’ve done some investigations. I’ve done calculations. This is possible.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’

  ‘Signor Chieffi, the vice-consul from Townsville, is coming tomorrow to discuss the idea.’

  Clara raised her eyebrows. ‘He knows of this?’

  ‘I wrote to him.’

  ‘Do other people know?’

  Amelia sat back. ‘I’ve told no-one.’ She wasn’t sure how the other Italians of the valley would respond, but the consulate had expressed some interest. Though even this had brought waves of uncertainty; she’d never dealt with someone in such a high position.

  ‘I’m not used to speaking to someone of his class,’ Amelia said. She rested. ‘The school’s necessary and possible. At least help me talk to him.’

  Clara was silent. They heard footsteps coming out of the dark. It was Italo.

  ‘It’s a touch cold,’ he said. ‘You two watch yourselves out here.’

  He said goodnight and went indoors.

  ‘You mean to do this,’ Clara said.

  ‘What greater thing is there than to keep the language alive? Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. He’s always sharp.’

  Clara laughed.

  ‘Now, what’s funny?’

  ‘Punctuality’s the newly formed passion of the Italians.’ Clara thought. ‘You don’t need my help to talk with him, but I’m happy to meet him.’

  Amelia smiled. ‘I can count on you.’

  Clara smiled. ‘And no doubt you intend to turn a profit with the school.’

  ‘Is that a crime?’

  Clara stood, shaking her head. ‘I’m tired. And I want to be up early to say goodbye to Flavio.’

  Amelia remained seated.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on Flavio,’ Clara said. ‘He’ll find his way.’

  She nodded. ‘Goodnight.’

  Amelia remained. She rocked slightly in the chair. She was glad of Clara’s support, but they would need much more than that for the school to come to fruition. She had no idea how the people in the valley would react to the school, but hoped they’d not turn their backs on it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At 10 am sharp, the vice-consul’s car came from behind the hill, approaching the front of the house. Amelia stood in the lounge room window. She looked to Clara, seated in an armchair. Amelia flared her eyes with excitement, and Clara raised her eyebrows and nodded quickly. Amelia moved from the window.

  ‘Why are you so nervous?’ Clara asked.

  Amelia smoothed the front pleats of her dress. She checked her hair, pulled back hard to a band at her nape.

  ‘Come with me to the door,’ Amelia said.

  ‘You’re the most capable person I know,’ Clara said, and laughed. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  The thought struck further anxiety. The car made a wide arc around the flat gravelled yard and came to a halt. She’d not cajole Clara anymore. She must concentrate. She opened the front door and stood at the centre. The car remained, no movement within or without. Should she go to the car? She smoothed her dress, brushed her hands over her hair. Her stomach bubbled. Never had someone of such station come to their home.

  The driver’s door opened. He was dressed in a grim grey uniform and marched to the car’s rear door. Leandro Chieffi stepped to the gravel. He was dressed in a suit, that sheen of finely spun silk, and, despite the heat of the day, wore a dark-blue vest under his jacket. He looked at the house, some twenty metres away, acknowledged Amelia with a dip of his head, and then began to walk. He carried a briefcase, a sign he meant business.

  ‘Good morning,’ Amelia said, venturing to the edge of the colonnade. Chieffi was still at the gate, some distance from the house, and possibly didn’t hear her, his eyes shadowed by his hat. She retreated from the morning light to the broad shadow of the house. How could she converse with a man of this calibre? She’d no experience of it. Despite her honest intention, she’d pushed too far. She may be capable with a ledger, but these credits and debits she couldn’t balance. She wished Clara had come to the door. She knew etiquette. He was only a few metres away. She put out her hand. He squinted, adjusting to the changed light.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘What a pleasure to meet you at last.’

  His hands were those of a bureaucrat, soft and spongy. They’d never felt a hard day’s work. Rome rang in his accent – education, status and government. She couldn’t reply, her self-consciousness lodged in her throat.

  ‘What a beautiful property,’ he said.

  He turned to the fields. Italo and the men were at work, the dust trailing behind the planting machine. He raised his flat palm above his eyes to shield them from the light. He was shorter than she remembered, close to her height. He returned his attention to Amelia.

  ‘We’re very proud of it,’ she said, disguising the taut strains of her northern accent. ‘Please, come in.’

  She walked ahead to the entrance hall. His eyes rose to the grandeur of the staircase. He smiled. She moved into the lounge room, on the right-hand side, and Clara rose from the armchair to meet him. He seemed startled by her, perhaps the widow weeds on such a young woman.

  ‘This is Signora Clara Sacco.’ Amelia’s voice quavered. She could draw air only to the top of her lungs.

  Signor Chieffi moved to take her hand, and Amelia motioned him towards the long, deep sofa. He waited until the two women were seated.

  ‘I see the harvest is underway,’ Signor Chieffi said.

  Amelia seized – what was he talking about? And then she realised his error.

  ‘The men aren’t harvesting,’ she said. ‘It’s the planting season.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The new crop will take a year to grow.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘We’re fortunate. Because of the heat. And the rain. The cane grows quickly. Further south, in New South Wales, it takes up to eighteen months. We can rotate a crop in a year.’ She still couldn’t breathe.

  ‘I see.’

  There was silence.

  ‘When did you
arrive in the area?’ Clara said.

  Bless Clara.

  ‘Yesterday. Babinda holds a special place in my affection.’

  Meggsy crossed the entrance hall with a tray of coffee and Florentine biscuits Amelia had baked that morning. She placed them on the table and Amelia thanked her, in English.

  Chieffi turned to her. ‘You don’t keep an Italian girl?’

  Amelia reddened. ‘There are no Italian women in the district to employ for such tasks.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  He sipped his coffee, winced and returned the cup to the table. From his briefcase, he took a small dossier. Amelia looked at Clara and raised her eyebrows. Clara raised her lips to a half smile.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s taken time to schedule this meeting,’ he said. ‘But it was with great interest we received your proposal for the Italian school. From Sydney, the royal consul general, Doctor Vita-Finzi, has instructed me to convey his enthusiasm for the project and to offer you all assistance necessary.’

  Amelia smiled, perhaps too broadly, and nodded.

  ‘In this rich epoch, the motherland awakens,’ Signor Chieffi said. ‘At first glance, at this great distance, Italians living abroad are denied the joy of involvement in Italy’s glory. Some, the children of immigrants especially, are disconnected, separated from traditional forms of Italian life and, perhaps more importantly, the new Italy. But you have rightly identified your role in the celebration of the regime: support and promotion of our cause abroad. The notion of education is at the heart of the fascist movement. A community first, but made of individuals.’

  Such words, so fluid and complete, as if they’d been rehearsed, caught her breath.

  ‘What easier way is there,’ Amelia said, ‘to keep the Italian language and culture alive than a school?’

  ‘Quite. What has the interest been from the local community?’

  Amelia tightened. ‘At this stage, I’ve not sought that directly. But I’ve heard many say they despair their children can’t speak Italian correctly.’

  ‘And you’ve devised a schedule of fees?’

  Amelia lifted a paper. ‘I envisage a fee of five shillings per pupil per month.’

  Chieffi wrote the figure.

  ‘And how many pupils do you hope to entertain?’

  ‘To start, about twenty.’

  Chieffi wrote more and then looked at her. ‘But that’s only an income of five pounds a month. You won’t pay a teacher for that, let alone other expenses.’

  Amelia glanced at Clara and wished she’d briefed her fully on the financial intricacies, so she could help.

  ‘To start, I was considering only opening one day a week,’ Amelia said. ‘Clara would be our teacher.’ She looked towards her. ‘What would you consider just payment?’

  Clara moved slightly in her seat. ‘It’s hard for me to suggest what should be paid.’

  ‘And yet you’re a qualified teacher?’ Signor Chieffi said.

  ‘In Italy,’ Clara said. ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to work in Australia.’

  Chieffi regarded her. ‘But even so, there’s a substantial shortfall.’

  Amelia’s breath rushed to the depth of her lungs. Clearly, this man hadn’t apprehended the subtly of her letters.

  ‘I would like the Italian consul to match the funding,’ she said.

  Chieffi’s eyes grew large. ‘To pay half?’

  ‘In other words.’

  ‘I see.’

  The idea rocked between them.

  ‘I have other support,’ Amelia said. ‘Signor Giuseppe Luciano has promised Italian grammar books. I’ve looked at locations in Babinda and have secured quotes for rent. We may be able to use rooms at the Italian Club for free.’

  ‘I support any patriotic work,’ he said.

  He returned to his notes. Perhaps she’d misjudged him.

  ‘To be able to assist and protect your effort,’ he said, ‘it would be necessary for the school to be administered by an Italian women’s fascist organisation.’

  Amelia hesitated. ‘No such organisation exists.’

  ‘Then form one.’

  Amelia grappled. ‘There’s an Italian Women’s Association. Last year we donated over two pounds to the House of the Italians Abroad in Rome. We’ve also sent money directly to the Italian Red Cross in Abyssinia.’

  ‘The Italian government appreciates your support.’

  ‘Perhaps this existing organisation could be pressed to this service?’ Amelia said.

  ‘I’m sorry. To support your school, the women’s fascist organisation would have to be controlled by the central power in Italy, Fascists Abroad, governing all such groups around the world, under the direct control of Rome. We must move away from the parochial, regional clubs and societies. We are a united Italy. We must have a consistent identity, intent and process. This can only be achieved, especially amongst the diaspora, if things are controlled by a central body.’

  She looked at Clara, whose face stretched tight with concern. These direct links to fascism would disturb her. Amelia hadn’t envisaged this. And to have other women involved in a committee would exponentially complicate the issue.

  ‘To organise such a group of women would take months,’ Amelia said. ‘And then to have it endorsed by the central authority in Italy – this could take many more months. It would delay opening the school … a full year, at the least.’

  ‘The Italian government won’t support anything less.’

  Amelia breathed out. ‘I see.’

  ‘And we would demand that first and foremost, fascist ideology is taught.’

  ‘Of course,’ Clara said. ‘As an ideology—’

  ‘Not just as an ideology. Italian culture and art would be secondary to this.’

  ‘But surely the Italian language is the priority,’ Clara said. ‘How can children be expected to understand the subtleties of fascist ideology if they can’t speak Italian?’

  ‘They’ll learn Italian through studies of fascism.’

  ‘Why polarise art and politics?’

  Clara looked to Amelia for support, but Amelia had set her face to silence this discord. Clara demurred, slumped back into her chair. Her question hung in the air. If this was to be rescued, the argument had to be Amelia’s.

  Amelia looked directly at Signor Chieffi. ‘If this structure is the will of the Italian government, then it’s just. My concern is only the delay.’

  Chieffi smiled broadly. ‘I can assure you, in modern Italy, Rome can be built in a day, should a commitment be seen.’

  Amelia was unsure how easy the task would be. There were other women in Babinda who’d been more outspoken in their support of Mussolini and the fascist government. Elena Moretti made it well known she’d donated a five-lire gold coin, along with her wedding ring and other gold jewellery. Amelia didn’t have such luxuries to give.

  Amelia smiled. ‘It’s an exciting time.’

  ‘The correct instruction of children is paramount to the empire. On this, Il Duce is sanguine. They’re the fascists of the future. And those abroad are under immense pressure to assimilate to their new countries, effectively to disappear.’

  Signor Chieffi gathered his papers, signalling the end of their time. While he did this, he reminded the women of what they needed to do; start a women’s fascist organisation, gauge the community interest and plan how the school would be structured.

  ‘And raise some money,’ he said. ‘That will demonstrate commitment. Once this is done, we can proceed.’

  Clara said goodbye. He took her hand.

  ‘You have something in common with Il Duce’s mother,’ Chieffi said.

  Clara’s face contorted, querulous.

  ‘She was a poor schoolteacher who struggled to provide a good education.’

  Clara removed her hand, lowered her eyes, said nothing more and turned back to her seat by the window. Amelia accompanied him to the front door.

  ‘I’ll not keep you from your sweet business
any longer,’ he said, as if this clumsy pun were quick.

  He clicked his heels, and she thought he may give the fascist salute. But he turned and walked away. The driver appeared from the side, opened the gate, and they all but marched to the car. He turned before he swung into the vehicle, dipping his hat to her before the car accelerated with that flawless movement of expensive mechanisation.

  Amelia remained at the front door. Any work of this nature involved compromise. She’d have to find a way to approach the other women. She returned to the lounge room. Clara was at the window, holding something in her gaze. She made no move to acknowledge Amelia.

  ‘You thought it went badly,’ Amelia said.

  Clara turned. ‘He’s stated his terms. Quite clearly.’

  ‘You think they’re unjust?’

  Clara considered this. ‘Not really. Not surprising. But I think he stated something else much more clearly: they just want control.’

  ‘We want the same outcome.’

  Clara turned back to the view. ‘Why are you so supportive of this?’

  ‘You’ve heard the children speak. They need to improve their Italian.’

  ‘You could instruct them—’

  ‘I have no time.’ She said this too sharply and moved closer to Clara. ‘Don’t you see? With the school, you could come and live here, bring Donata and Eugenia, work at your profession.’

  ‘You know how attractive that is to me.’

  ‘And to me. Then why are you against it?’

  Clara made no move to answer. Amelia could bear this no more and walked from the room, through the entrance hall and dining room to the kitchen. Clara’s attitude peeved her, but she had no desire to cause any discomfort or grief. Meggsy was at the stove, preparing lunch for the workers. Amelia asked her to clear the morning tea, but only because she wanted to be alone.

  Why was Clara dour on this matter? It was an offer of employment and to live in Babinda, which was much cheaper than Brisbane, she would wager. Did she want to be like Betsy Taylor, endlessly dependant on handouts? She could find none of Clara’s usual zeal.

  Clara came to the kitchen. ‘I appreciate your idea for the school.’

  Amelia gathered herself. ‘At first it will only be small but with time and support, it will grow. To have you living close …’