‘I’m sure. Charlie and Mario will be waiting for me at the docks. At least, I hope they will.’
You tried sending a telegram to Charlie before you left, but you didn’t get a reply so you also sent a letter to the address Mario had for him, letting them know you’d arrive at the Sydney docks at noon on 27th November. You assume they received it while you were en route and will be there to meet you.
As you get closer to land, a medicinal tang fills the air. Frieda says it’s the smell of eucalyptus leaves – she’s used the leaves’ oil before to treat colds. You hear many odd bird calls. One sounds like a drunk zia about to fall off her chair, laughing! Another sounds like someone trying to gargle and whistle at the same time and is oddly beautiful.
You join the press of people at the railings scanning the crowd below for faces of their loved ones, but you don’t see Charlie or Mario. Your heart deflates just a little.
As the ship thuds against the dock, you gather up your suitcase, then you and Frieda find your way down the gangplank and through the crowd.
‘They’re not here,’ you say, dismayed. Did they get the wrong time? The wrong day? Did my letter reach them at all?
You suppose that if they don’t show up at all, the only thing for it will be to make your way to the address you have for Charlie’s farm, Sandford’s Rise, which you guess will mean finding a train out of Sydney. You feel queasy and lost.
‘Do you want me to wait with you until they come?’ asks Frieda.
‘No, it’s all right,’ you say bravely, although you want to grab her and say: Don’t leave me! ‘You have a train to catch to Canberra, and anyway, weren’t you going to go to the police station here first to help report Bob Dawe?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That creep deserves gaol time.’
‘Good luck,’ you whisper. There’s a lump in your throat, as you wonder if you’ll ever see her again.
She looks deeply into your eyes and smiles. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you,’ she says softly. ‘Thank you … for everything.’
You open your mouth to reply, but no words come. ‘Goodbye,’ you manage to whisper hoarsely at last, and you watch her walk away. She turns and waves every few metres until eventually she disappears behind a tall sandstone building.
Little by little, the crowd drains from the docks, but there’s still no shout from Mario, no warm hand on your back belonging to Charlie.
The biggest noise comes from two young men who are running around the docks like terriers. One has a camera and the other a notepad, and they are getting up in people’s faces and startling them.
‘Excuse me sir, you’ve just arrived? Don’t you speak English? Hey, why not, are you deaf? Sir!’
‘Madam! Why did you come here? What do you say to the locals who don’t want you here?’
When they aren’t harassing those who’ve just disembarked from the ship, the young men do on-the-spot interviews with passers-by from Sydney. When they interview a tall man in a hat close by to you, you listen intently.
‘Hello, sir, we’re from the newspaper Truth. Would you care to tell us what you think of all these dark-skinned migrants infesting our city?’
Dark-skinned? Infesting? You are horrified. Nobody warned you that some Australians might not welcome you. You are suddenly scared, as you listen to the man’s reply.
‘I think they should all get back on the boats and go home to where they came from,’ says the man. ‘They’re dirty – they reek of garlic, and they’re too thick to learn English. I think it’s a betrayal of the White Australia Policy.’
Your stomach curdles with dread. The what policy? This is supposed to be a land of opportunity and hope for new migrants. How could Charlie have spoken of his homeland so fondly if he knew it was so prejudiced? You remember how you very first felt about Frieda, based only on the fact that she is German, and how wrong you turned out to be about her. It is clear that this man in the hat feels superior to every person who’s just disembarked from your ship.
Your fear is turning to anger. With your heart pounding as if it wants to jump out of your body, you march up to the reporters. The man they were interviewing takes one look at you and flees.
‘What is the White Australia Policy?’ you demand.
One of them looks at the other and winks. ‘Hello, here’s a live one.’ He chuckles, and his friend aims his camera at your face and starts clicking.
‘So, this one can speak a little English, can it?’ goads the reporter, reaching out as if to pinch your cheek, but you slap his hand away. ‘Amazing what they can train monkeys to do these days.’
‘Don’t touch me, or I’ll call the police,’ you say, trying to sound tougher than you feel. Clearly these men won’t tell you anything, or at least not anything intelligent. You remember Bob Dawe, his hand quacking like a duck’s bill – ‘You … speaky … Eeng-lish?’ – and you want to shout, I can swear in English too! and let them have it, but then you imagine what hideous headlines Truth newspaper would make out of that: Crazy Italian Girl Attacks Reporters!
You turn on your heel and walk towards the train station, thinking, I just have to find Mario, or Charlie, but the two journalists follow, taunting you.
‘Come on, sweetie, I thought you wanted to talk to us?’
‘Hey, I can tell you what the White Australia Policy is – it says that foreign dames like you have to kiss nice white boys like me!’
You whirl around and slap the journalist right across the face with a clean, satisfying crack, only to realise that his mate got a perfect photo of it. He crows with glee, waving his camera, while the guy you slapped curses and rubs his face.
Oh no, you think. You haven’t been in the country more than an hour, and now there’ll be photos of you hitting a journalist on the front cover of their stupid rag. Is it enough to get you into trouble with the police, or sent home?
You have to get hold of that camera, so you can destroy the negative. But how? You could challenge the journalist to a game of cards, with his camera as the prize – but is that too risky? You remember the gangster card player, Carlos, with a shudder. You don’t want things to get nasty if you beat them. Perhaps you should just grab the camera and run instead?
If you grab the camera and run, go to scene 17.
If you challenge the journalist to a game of cards, go to scene 18.
To learn more, go to Fact File: The White Australia Policy, then return to this page to make your choice.
You snatch the camera strap and yank it over the man’s neck. He stumbles forward and grabs at your arm, but you’re too quick. You clutch the camera to your chest, pick up your suitcase, and run.
‘Stop, thief!’ yells the reporter, and a dozen heads turn to look at you. Hoping to lose yourself in a crowd, you slip inside the train station. You can’t run quickly with the suitcase, so you’ll have to try to hide.
You duck down behind a wooden bench on one of the platforms, and your fingers fumble for the little catch on the side of the camera that will pop the back open and destroy the negatives inside. The catch seems to be jammed. You bang the camera against the ground. You can hear the shouts of the two journalists, but they haven’t seen you yet. Then you hear the rumble of a train approaching. Impulsively, you hurl the camera over the edge of the platform, onto the tracks.
‘My camera!’ you hear the cameraman yell, and to your shock, he jumps down onto the tracks. His mate runs towards you, looking murderous, but a shout from the tracks stops him. ‘Dave! Help me up – quick!’
The cameraman has retrieved his camera, but is struggling to leap up onto the platform. His face is pale and terrified, and you are seized by guilt. The train is hurtling towards him.
‘I’ve twisted my ankle,’ he shouts. ‘I can’t get up!’
Feeling a cold wave of horror rush through you, you sprint towards him, overtaking Dave, and grab hold of his arm. You pull as hard as you can while he scrabbles beneath you, his face twisted in pain. Dave grabs his other arm and
you both heave.
The driver has seen you: the brakes are screeching on the tracks. The buffer of air hits you just before the train does, like a big beast exhaling. You lose your balance, and tumble over the lip of the platform. The train hits you with a thud that shakes every bone in your body. You’re knocked out cold even before you hit the train tracks.
The front page of Truth will now carry a very different story tomorrow to the one you were worried about. You won’t be here to see it.
To return to the last choice you made and try again, go to the end of scene 16.
You look at the journalist’s face, with the scarlet imprint of your palm across his cheek, and decide that you can beat him.
His mate can’t stop laughing. ‘Oh Davey-boy, how does that feel? Taken down by a wog girl! Thank you. Thank you so much. This is going to be the story of the week. We’ll probably get a promotion.’
‘What does “wog” mean?’ you ask the photographer frostily. You’ve never heard this word before, but you have a feeling from the way he said it that he probably hasn’t used it as a compliment.
The photographer looks uncomfortable. ‘It means … well … um …’ he stutters. ‘It means a person from your country.’
‘And which country might that be?’ you ask him.
‘Well, from … from Europe, I suppose,’ he says. ‘The south of Europe. Or the east. Or perhaps the Mediterranean. Or, uhhh, um, or the Middle East. Just … not from here, all right?’
You stare him down until he breaks eye contact. Then you say: ‘My cousin and I saved the life of an Australian navigator in the war. He was wise and kind, and I thought maybe all Australians were like him. I guess I was wrong about your people. Are you wrong about mine?’ The photographer’s face turns an even deeper shade of red. He looks at the ground, ashamed.
‘Davey-boy’ sighs. ‘Get going, then. Next time we see your face, it will be on the front cover of Truth. I wonder what the headline’s going to be …?’
‘Brave Italian Woman Stands Up to Rude Pest?’ you suggest, and Davey-boy chuckles in spite of himself.
‘Not what I was thinking, no,’ he admits, and as his anger at your having slapped him subsides, you’re surprised to notice he’s regarding you differently, with something like respect. This is my moment to strike, you think.
‘Do you play cards? For a bet?’ you ask, and they both guffaw incredulously.
‘Crikey, I wouldn’t mind being slapped around by an Italian wife sometimes if she were as much fun as this one,’ jokes the cameraman.
You give him another withering glance, and his face falls again. ‘If I win,’ you say to him, gesturing at his camera, ‘you destroy that negative.’
‘Ah, no way, that’s my day’s work!’ he protests.
But Davey-boy says: ‘Shut up, Chris. What do we get if you lose?’ He raises one eyebrow at you.
‘I’ll tell you everything that happened on the boat – things nobody’s reported on yet. There was a serious crime, led by a dangerous American man you should look into.’
‘The boss would be keen on a crime scoop,’ says Davey-boy. ‘The more scandalous, the better. Chris?’
They exchange glances. ‘All right,’ says Chris. ‘Where will we play?’
Davey-boy leads the way into a place called a ‘milk bar’ not far from the station, and Chris begins to shuffle a deck of cards he’s pulled from his bag while Davey buys some sort of hot, brown drink for everyone. You sniff it, but can’t bring yourself to take a sip.
Is this meant to be coffee? you wonder.
For a while, the only sounds are the jaunty tunes playing in the milk bar, and the slip, slap of cards. You concentrate until your eyes feel like burning marbles.
That’s six… plus a jack… he passed a two, so…
Your hands are slippery with sweat, but you don’t give anything away. I’ll show you, you think, as your concentration narrows to a single beam. I’ve got this.
Your hand gets better … you wait … and, finally, you allow yourself a triumphant grin as you slap your cards down for everyone to see. Chris and Davey-boy moan and howl like baboons. You’ve won.
You hold out your hand for the camera, and Davey-boy says: ‘Be a man, Christopher.’ Then you pop open the back of the camera, exposing the film to daylight and ruining all his pictures. Now the slap on Davey-boy’s face is just a memory; nothing can be proved.
But you will still give them the story. It’s not like you trust their journalistic integrity, but you want to get Bob Dawe into as much trouble as he deserves. You’re pleased when they challenge you to one last game of cards before you begin the interview and you thump them again, winning a handful of Australian money from Davey-boy’s pocket in the process.
Dusk is settling over the harbour by the time you finish your story, and Davey-boy has a full pad of notes. You’ve learnt that their newspaper is sensationalist and gossipy, not to mention anti-migrant – Truth is probably about as far from the truth as you can get. But Davey-boy and Chris do seem to have a drop or two of decency in them.
They show you to a back street that Chris says is ‘full of wog— I mean Italian boarding houses’.
‘Stop using that word, or I’m going to come back and beat you at cards again,’ you tell them.
‘You could never be that lucky!’ Davey-boy jokes.
But I used brains, not luck, you think. I outsmarted you bozos, fair and square.
YOUR SELF-SATISFIED SMILE fades as you enter the front door of the boarding house you’ve found. It’s too late now to try to travel on to Charlie’s farm tonight. The walls are mouldy and flecked with gobs of brown and grey mould. Something scuttles out of sight – Was that a rat? – and the whole place smells like sour socks. The floorboards creak beneath you. Gingerly, you knock at a ground-floor door off the entrance hallway, on which is tacked a note in Italian: For all enquiries, knock here.
As the door opens, a much better smell wafts out to greet you: someone is cooking a rich sauce with garlic, tomatoes and oregano. It smells like home.
The family who run the boarding house, the Espositos, invite you in.
‘There’s no room in the boarding house, but why don’t you stay with us tonight?’ the plump Signora Esposito asks.
‘You can sleep on the couch. It’s too dark for you to be knocking at more strangers’ doors now,’ agrees Senor Esposito, who is wiry and stooped.
You accept gratefully. While you are enjoying your second plate of spaghetti alla napoletana, the Espositos’ son, Federico, finally arrives home. His parents embrace him and pile his plate so high he can barely see over it.
You learn that Federico is here on a very brief holiday from his job as a tunnel-driller in the Snowy Mountains.
‘They’re building a hydro-electric scheme,’ he tells you. Splashes of red sauce stand out vividly on his slightly grubby face.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a way of making electricity. They’re damming some rivers up there to make enormous lakes, so they can send the water down pipes to turn a kind of wheel that makes electricity. In a few years, everyone in New South Wales will be getting power from us!’
Federico tells you that his job is tough and dangerous, but the pay isn’t bad, and he enjoys the mateship – the workers there come from all around the world. ‘You should think about coming up,’ he tells you. ‘They need women too, as secretaries, childcare workers, cleaners …’
‘What about as engineers?’ you ask, and everyone at the table hoots as though you’ve just made a joke. You clench your jaw. You weren’t trying to be funny.
‘I can’t go anyway,’ you say curtly. ‘I’m trying to find my cousin, Mario. He’s working on a farm out near Wollongong, I think.’
‘Mario who?’ asks Federico, his mouth full. ‘I’ve met a few Marios there.’
‘Mario De Luca,’ you say, ‘but he isn’t there, he’s—’
‘I think I know the one!’ cries Federico. ‘Tall, funny guy �
� he’d do anything for a dare.’
That does sound like Mario, you think. But it’s impossible.
‘Are you sure it’s Mario De Luca?’ you ask. ‘He has kind of a big nose, very thick dark hair … and a really daggy moustache?’
‘Yeah, could be, could be – I know a Mario De Something, anyway. He’s not in my team. But I’m sure it’s De Luca. Or was it De Rosa … or De Santis …’
Federico trails off, and you get a sinking feeling. This is a big country, with thousands of new Italian migrants, you think. If Mario’s not on Charlie’s farm, then I’m totally lost. You stare at your dinner, feeling uneasy. But Mario must be on Charlie’s farm, you reassure yourself. I won’t be alone for long.
‘I’m going back on Monday,’ says Federico. ‘Come back with me and see if it’s him, if you’d like – you’ll be able to get a job there if you want one. I’ll look after you.’
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Federico’s parents nudge each other and smile. You bet they’re looking for a ‘good Italian girl’ for their son.
Husbands, marriage, babies, ugh.
‘I don’t need anyone to look after me,’ you tell Federico. ‘I’m sure Mario is on Charlie’s farm. Charlie wrote and invited him.’
‘Yeah, but you know, things don’t always turn out as you expect,’ says Federico. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’
You lie awake on the couch later that night, wondering: Is Mario really in the Snowy Mountains? Is that why he wasn’t there at the docks to meet me – because he never got my letter? But if so, then where’s Charlie? Should I go to Sandford’s Rise, as I planned, or should I change my plan and look for Mario in the Snowy Mountains?
Your whole body feels shivery. There’s no one here whose advice you really trust. What if I’m not as brave as I thought I was? you ask yourself. What if I’m not smart enough to work things out for myself?
You decide that you’ll sleep on it tonight, and make your decision in the morning.
Move the Mountains Page 7