by G S Johnston
She telephoned the bank.
‘There is no error,’ Mr McDonald said, immediately. ‘There are no funds.’
‘There’s a balance of two pounds, six shillings and four pence.’
There was a long silence. ‘We had to remit all funds of enemy aliens to the taxation department.’
Her breath slipped. ‘What?’
There was another long pause. ‘This isn’t something I wanted to do.’
The floor of the telephone cabinet fell away as if she was floating, falling.
‘We have no money?’ she said, finally, more as a declarative.
Again there was silence. ‘I’m sure once these arrests are resolved, the money will be reimbursed. I’ve written letters maintaining there should be interest.’
‘How am I to run a business?’
Still more silence.
‘What about the mortgage on the new land?’ she said.
She could hear him breathe heavily. ‘The repayments will need to be made.’
Frustration rose into her voice. ‘How am I to do that?’
Again, silence. ‘I’ve written a character reference for Mr Amedeo. I’ll leave it at the counter for you. Please, if there’s anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to contact me.’
She continued to stare at the telephone’s mouthpiece, although she knew Mr McDonald had rung off. It was only when she removed the earpiece that she realised the force with which she’d pressed it to her ear, the cartilage hurting as it buckled back to shape. She hung the earpiece on the brace.
They would be ruined. To not have money was one thing, but to have to make payments was completely another. For some time, she sat in the lounge. How were they to survive? This was unjust, grossly so. They’d worked so hard. She’d kept them well in the black. Their tax returns were prepared by an accountant and lodged on time and paid in full; she’d never wanted to draw the department’s attention. And now it was all gone. Was there no goodwill? How could she be expected to run a business? Without Italo. Without capital. And a business with an annual period of income and debts all year? Had the other women of the valley been reduced to this?
She took stock. They must survive with what they had. She’d survived with far less. At present, they owed Northern Builders Supplies and the mortgage. Lucia would have to go unpaid. She had free board and keep. This matter would be resolved in the next few weeks with Italo’s appeal. It couldn’t go on. She breathed. She’d kept a wad of cash in the house, bundled behind the shelves of her office. Her insurance. Perhaps she’d known this day would arrive.
The harvest was coming. She would try to book the mill a little earlier. If the crop was slightly immature, they may lose some of the yield, but they’d have some money. But the mill would pay by cheque, and if she cashed this it would surely be seized by the taxation department. How futile. More than ever, this harvest was their future. Then she found an answer – she’d open a bank account in Flavio’s name. They couldn’t touch him or a cheque in his name. As much as they may not like it, he was Australian.
This country wouldn’t beat her.
Two days later, she retrieved the mail at the post office. One of the letters was addressed in a hand she didn’t recognise. But she saw the postmark – Gaythorne. On the post office step, despite her trembling hands, she tore at it, a huge wrenching sound in the quiet of the office. A man glared at her. She ran to the safety of the car. It was written by someone Italo didn’t identify. He was at Gaythorne. Everything was all right and they were treated and fed well, although through the first few days of the internment they’d been housed like pigs. He was unsure how long he would be there. He’d received the two suitcases and thanked her. He knew other men in the camp. He was all right. She wasn’t to worry and must put all her time and thought into running the farm with the boys. His appeal against the imprisonment would be held soon, and all would be set right. He thanked her for the references she’d organised.
She reread and reread the letter. She had more errands to run, but she wanted to be at home and started the car. Despite the letter’s cheery tone, it worried her. Were these the words he’d spoken, or were they just what whoever had written the letter thought she would want to hear? And what could he say except that everything was all right? If he was such a risk to the country, the letter would be read by some official before it was sent. He could hardly list the faults of this Gaythorne.
Gaythorne. The sound of such a place. How could a thorn ever be happy? Such sarcasm.
She called Flavio and Mauro to the lounge room and read them the letter. They shared none of her concern regarding its authenticity and were pleased he was safe and well.
And the telephone rang all afternoon. Other women had received letters, theirs expressing similar sentiments. Perhaps she should trust the letter? But trust had been cast away, a blood-blotted handkerchief.
The weeks of his internment swelled to months. Clara went again and managed to see him. She confirmed he appeared in good health and, although extremely concerned and agitated, of sound mind. And he sent letters often, always in another unknown hand. Each letter said he kept well and affirmed she had to make whatever decisions she thought just.
‘Survival is all that counts.’
With so much else to do, Amelia fell behind with all the correspondence, a pile of mail on the side of her desk. At three o’clock one morning she sat to start work on that alone. The harvest was booked to go to the mill in mid-September. This was the easy part. This they’d done many times. The hardest part was going to be the cutting.
All the Italian men from the gang she usually employed had been arrested. She would have to seek other men, but the only available were British Australians. She resented this. Whilst all the men, including the Italians, were unionist, the Italian men had always done the job as quickly as possible. She was sure, if she could employ them, these British-Australian men wouldn’t be so helpful. They would work to rule, which would ultimately take more time and money, raising the cost of harvesting when they could least afford it.
She worked this into her calculations. Even with this, they would at least cover costs and leave a small profit. But the mortgage on the new parcel of land was onerous. She cursed the money they’d spent in Italy. And for what? The time had been nothing short of a waste. Pina complained and demanded they send her more money each month to compensate for not having brought her grandchildren. The war broke out. But Amelia valued seeing her family, who were so old. Aldo and Giuseppe ran the orchard together with their own families. God knows how they made enough money to survive, and if she and Italo weren’t sending so much to Pina she’d gladly send them some.
She looked into the dark outside the window. Down by the road at the base of the hill, she saw a small orange light, just a pinprick that a less-sharp eye mightn’t have seen. It moved, swayed and disappeared and then ignited and danced again. Someone was walking along the road, smoking. Neither of the boys smoked, and as far as she knew they were both in bed. Who could it be? The thought made her shudder. Did people move about the house in the dark? It was the first time she’d ever thought such a thing. She’d grown used to the unlocked doors. But now she walked all the way downstairs and locked the front door and went to the kitchen and locked the rear door. But what good did that do? There were so many open windows. When she returned to her desk, she peered again into the dark. There was no sign of the smoker. But she must remember to check the doors last thing at night.
She returned to her work. Perhaps she should consider selling the newer parcel of land. Whilst not a perfect long-term solution, the lack of the mortgage would alleviate some financial stress. Italo would be horrified at such a suggestion, but he wasn’t there. It wasn’t his fault; she offered no blame, but it was the reality. She had to make decisions. But she wished she could discuss it with him. Perhaps Flavio would have some opinion. But Italo had told her to make the required decisions to survive. He would just have to accept that. But the land mean
t so much to them, and to the business. It was dire to consider selling it. She would think of this more, but there was no-one left in the area whose counsel she trusted. Perhaps the boys …
Outside the window, the dark night was replaced by the first seeds of the new day. What was that – in the distance, at the far edge of the field, in the remaining dark? She stood. She was sure of it – flame, orange and bristling, a straight line along the field’s edge, like a cane gang would light. Why would they light the field now? The harvest wasn’t for another month. The boys knew that. The cane would rot if it was burnt and not harvested. But as she watched, the fire gathered pace, tore along the northern boundary in two directions, as if pushed by a dry, hot wind. And then it came to the eastern boundary and began to move along it. To the west, the same happened. And then, under some unseen power, the golden light flared along the aisles between the fields.
She turned from her desk, knocked over her chair, which thudded on the floor. She ran to the landing.
‘Fire,’ she called out. ‘Fire. Fire.’
She ran down the stair, tore at the locked door, and dashed to the front gravel yard. Soon Flavio was beside her, dressed only in pyjama bottoms, his eyes as wide as buttons.
‘What the hell’s happening?’
She looked to the sky. Although it was written over with smoke, it was blue.
Mauro came from the house. They stood in the gravel yard on the hill, the whole field in front of them alight. The ash, golden and joyous in the air, rained around them.
‘What can we do?’ Flavio yelled.
There was nothing they could do. The fire was dispersed. They could only watch.
‘It won’t get to the house,’ Flavio said. ‘But it might get to the barn. Mauro, come with me.’
Flavio started down the hill, and his brother fell in behind him, disappearing into the opening day and the amber fire. Flavio was wise to do this. With petrol being rationed, the horses were valuable to the farm.
‘Lucia,’ Amelia yelled to them. ‘Wake her.’
Her hut was near the barn, and she slept like a stone.
Amelia turned back to the house. She wasn’t so sure the fire wouldn’t reach that far. The grass on the hill hadn’t been cut, and a small spark would flare. She ran upstairs to Ilaria’s room. The fire’s stink had permeated the whole house. Amelia swept the sleeping child from the bed and, with her still half asleep, continued higher into the tower. She sat Ilaria on the office floor.
‘What’s happening?’ Ilaria said, perplexed.
‘Just be quiet, darling. We have to leave the house.’
Amelia went to the bookshelf to the side of her desk and squeezed her small hand behind it. The purse was there, with what remained of the cash. She pulled it free. At her desk she looked at the blazing field, which undulated and seethed, waves of heaving flame. Had it all come to this?
She picked up Ilaria and ran to the lower levels of the house. The child jarred in her arms and started to cry, and she tse-tse-tsed in her ear as soothingly as she could, out into the gravel yard, but Ilaria now sobbed. Lucia strode up the hill, dressed only in a long flannel nightdress, her grey hair unpinned and tangled, a madwoman.
‘We should leave,’ Lucia said.
Amelia handed her the child and stepped forward. Flavio and Mauro led the five horses away from the stable, towards the main road. Spooked, they shook out their manes, one raising its front feet from the ground. If she got Lucia and Ilaria to the main road, they would be safe. It was wise to leave while they could. She looked back at the house.
‘Come,’ she yelled, waving them towards the car. They drove from the house, around the curve of the hill. Once on the straight road, she could see the boys and the horses ahead and slowed, not to scare the horses any more. At the main road, the boys tethered the horses. Lucia and Ilaria remained in the car.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ she said.
Flavio looked back towards the field, an orange glow catching on the belly of the clouds.
‘There must be something,’ he said, and started back to the field. Amelia commanded Lucia to stay in the car with Ilaria. If the fire came closer, they were to walk towards the village.
With Mauro and Flavio she ran to the field. What the boy thought he could do she had no idea, but she’d not dampen his confidence. Once at the barn, he stopped, his hands on his hips, glaring at the fire as if he dared it. The air was unbreathable, laced with smoke and ash and heat and crackling.
‘If it crosses the road, we can try and put out the spot fires.’ He ran into the stable and returned with some hessian bags he threw into the horse’s trough. ‘We’ll be able to smother it with these.’
It would gain them some time, moments, but they couldn’t keep the fire from the house for long. The first fire flared some seventy feet back up the hill, and Flavio sprinted to it, slashed at it with the bag until it died. Another erupted near Amelia, and she did as he’d done until it was gone. Mauro too began. But soon it was clear the fires were lighting quicker than they were being exhausting.
And then God answered her prayers – a drop of rain on her cheek. The boys felt them too and turned to her. She looked to the sky; the smoke was so thick she couldn’t see it, but the rain – large, heated drops – fell to her face. The rain had come. The single thing she hated most about Babinda had saved her again. She would never curse it. It gathered pace to a downpour. They walked to the fields. The water hissed and spat as it hit the ground. Together, for some time (who could measure it?) they stood and watched. When the flame had subsided, Flavio waded into the fields.
‘It was savage,’ he said. ‘How would it have started?’
She described what she’d seen, the flame speeding along the borders. ‘It was unnatural, the way it spread.’
‘Someone’s used petrol,’ Flavio said, ‘but they spread it all over the field.’
‘But who?’ Mauro said.
God bless his innocence. Amelia had no idea who it was, but knew it was linked to the arrest of the Italian men. Another form of castor oiling.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘The crop was nearly ready. If we can harvest in the next few days, there’s no real harm.’
‘But we’ll need men to do that,’ Flavio said.
‘And the mill,’ Mauro said. ‘They won’t take it. It will rot.’
She breathed deeply. They’d taught the boys well. She would have to offer the mill more money to take their crop early. She would find a gang. Even if she had to pay more. Amelia eyed the sky. The rain set in. Sheets of water fell, unusual in their ferocity for that time of year.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Flavio reported the fire to the police, but it was late morning before they came to look at the smouldering mess. They agreed it may have been arson.
‘It was probably the blacks,’ the policeman said, writing something in a notebook.
‘I saw someone,’ Amelia said, ‘from my office.’
The officer looked at her.
‘When?’ Flavio said.
She told them she’d been working, around four in the morning. She pointed to the window. ‘I saw the glow of a cigarette,’ she said. ‘Someone moving along the road.’ She pointed to the edge of the field.
The officer turned to Amelia. ‘What did he look like?’
‘It was dark. I just saw he was smoking.’
The policeman smirked. ‘The blacks smoke.’
Flavio shook his head.
The officer wrote something more in his notebook and said they’d look around the field but doubted there’d be anything to identify anyone. But they would also ask the other farmers in the area if they’d seen anyone unusual moving about, if anyone else had had a fire. They would report back to them.
After they’d gone, Amelia telephoned the mill and explained a fire had gone through the main crop, and she wanted to shift the milling forward.
‘We’re fully booked,’ the man said.
She thought he answ
ered a little too quickly, and far too bluntly.
‘Kelly’s crop starts today,’ he said. ‘It’ll take the next few weeks. Then you’re booked.’
Her skin prickled. ‘Perhaps he’s delayed.’
‘He’s on schedule. He’ll burn today, start cutting tomorrow.’
She could contact Fergus, ask him to hold off. It wouldn’t harm his crop to wait. But they’d hardly parted on good terms. And she wanted nothing to do with him.
‘I’d be prepared to pay considerably more,’ she said.
‘It’s not a question of money,’ he said.
He stopped at that. She left the silence ringing.
‘You know how it is,’ he said. ‘It’s just how it’s booked. Do you want me to keep your booking?’
‘We will have the cane from the new land. It will be on schedule.’
If there was any change he’d be sure to let her know, but he doubted there would be.
What was she to do? When had it not been a question of money? She flushed with anger. The mills had shuffled in the past. It was to everyone’s advantage to run as smoothly as possible. But the outbreak of war had brought such swift change, the collegial, the communal, gone.
She gathered her options. If she didn’t harvest the crop immediately and mill it straight away, it would rot. And if she took a gamble and paid men to harvest it, and then it couldn’t be milled, it would rot. There was nowhere to store it undercover. And now it was raining, it was wet. It would be a substantial loss to pay to cut it and then let it spoil.
But if she left it in the field, ploughed it all back into the earth, she’d have at least saved the money needed for the cutters. They’d lose the major part of their income, though, having only the little from the new land for another year.
The thought appalled her. She couldn’t just let it rot in the field. It was a waste. She telephoned to organise the cutters, but hardly any were available, and those she could get weren’t available until a week later, when it would be too late. And at short notice, they were double the price. The unions, so strident on a minimum wage, had no opinion on a maximum. She simply couldn’t afford to harvest without some assurance it would be milled. Through all these negotiations, it rained.