The Olive Sisters

by Amanda Hampson

  A xx

  I trawl around the usual web sites to see what’s happening, check out the credentials of DGS Communications and read the profile of the contact Diane gave me. There was a time that I would read and write these sorts of communications every day, spout forth my theories about viral marketing and vertical communication. Reading this now, I have a dazzling insight. It’s a collection of carefully selected meaningless words crafted into a document that is purely cosmetic. All lipstick, no kiss. It dawns on me that this is not a productive insight at this point. I need to get myself back on track before that interview. I read it again. It’s a well-written, well-crafted, professional competency statement. Good. I feel better already. I ring and make the appointment. Step one of my escape plan in place.

  Six

  THAT GLORIOUS AUTUMN swiftly became a winter bitter with winds and driving rains. Jack had still not spent a single moment completely alone with Isabelle. If it were a conspiracy, he knew by now that she was part of it. She was as elusive as his dreams.

  Although she spent many hours in the olive grove, Isabelle was careful to protect herself with long sleeves and wide hats, and her pale skin gave the appearance of refined fragility. Jack longed to stroke the creamy smoothness of her slender neck. In so many ways she seemed untouchable, intriguing.

  When they sat side by side at the dinner table he imagined he could feel the warmth of her body radiate across the space between them. When their eyes met, she would hold his gaze for a moment and then glance away, as if afraid to reveal her most intimate thoughts. He longed to know what those thoughts might be.

  Over time Jack came to think of Rosanna as something of a rival for Isabelle’s affections. She had an intimacy with Isabelle he would have happily slain a dozen dragons to achieve. The older sister would often slip her hand into Rosanna’s or put a protective arm around her shoulders – as if she needed protection. Rosanna seemed largely unaware of these affections and would shrug her off as if discarding a garment that had suddenly become too hot or heavy. It was the way their bodies melded softly together in a love borne of complete trust that Jack craved for himself.

  On several occasions he had overheard them talking through the window of the room they shared and had been surprised to hear Isabelle chattering and laughing out loud in a way she never did in his presence. There were no secrets between the sisters and he wondered what they said about him in those languid moments before sleep.

  That winter Isabelle became his obsession. At first he enjoyed the sensations he felt when she was close to him; the breathlessness, the bracing pulse of sexual anticipation that made him feel alert and invincible like a hunter. Later he felt hunted. Sensations thudded through his body like voltage, leaving him dizzy and weakened in their wake. Even so, the farm was the only place he wanted to be. His own work was a distraction and he was aware that he was not taking care mistakes were being made. He also knew that, within weeks, his role in the current project would be coming to an end and the company would send him off to God-knows-where. Most likely up the north coast where Michael had been transferred several weeks before.

  Jack waited for his moment. He waited without any distinct thought of what that moment might hold or how it might redefine the terrain of his relationship with Isabelle. He waited for that moment of communion between two people, that moment of madness and clarity that scars or heals. He simply knew that he had to wait.

  Jack’s opportunity came not far from the location of their first meeting, although the day was very different from the white heat of that afternoon. High winds and torrential rain had swept over Duffy’s Creek for three endless days. The dredge operation had been brought to a standstill, leaving Jack no choice but to attend to outstanding paperwork. The streets were deserted as Jack parked his car outside the municipal buildings. He knew that Isabelle went often to Mrs Mack’s Fabrics and Haberdashery to buy sewing supplies. Brides and debutantes would meet her at the shop to select fabrics, beads and lace, and Mrs Mack would order special fabrics to be brought up from Sydney. The shop was less than a block from the council offices.

  As he left the council building Jack drove past Mrs Mack’s as he had done a dozen times before, just on the off-chance he would catch a glimpse of Isabelle. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was, standing in the rain outside the shop, sheltering under a flapping raincoat. He stopped the car, threw open the passenger’s door and called her name. In a moment she was beside him. Wet and slightly breathless, she had a faint blush rising on her cheeks from her dash through the rain. Rain hammered on the roof of the car. They smiled at one another and she shivered.

  Jack switched off the ignition. He reached into the back seat for the rug he kept there and laid it gently around her shoulders. Without a word he leant down and peeled off her shoes, removed his tweed jacket and wrapped it around her feet as carefully as if he were swaddling a newborn. As he straightened up he caught sight of her expression, a look so tender he felt giddy with sheer bravado. He gently tilted her chin towards him and kissed her sweet lips.

  For the next month Jack wore the look of a man who couldn’t believe his luck. Although in no way keeping pace with his imagination, his relationship with Isabelle had become more rewarding. She met his eye more often, returning his hungry looks with a shy smile, and there was the occasional flutter of kisses in the shadows and tender moments alone that only she could orchestrate.

  Isabelle accepted Jack’s proposal without surprise. ‘We will be married in the spring,’ she said firmly. Jack was impatient and would have been married that week had it been his choice, but the timing was important to the bride-to-be. Isabelle would not consider an engagement of less than three months. ‘And you must speak to Papa,’ she smiled winningly. ‘You’re so good with him.’ She laid her hand gently on Jack’s wrist and tapped her ring finger. ‘Then we must visit the jeweller and choose a ring to formalise our engagement.’ He nodded with uncharacteristic eagerness, momentarily bedevilled by the warm softness of her body as it brushed against his own.

  It was fortunate for Jack that Franco was ready to give up his dream of handsome Italian sons-in-law because he welcomed Jack’s proposal in a way he might not have in earlier days. Jack had a university education; a practical education as an engineer; he was young and strong and he was a Catholic. From Franco’s jaded perspective Jack was a good man in a place where good men were hard to find.

  Over the next weeks there was an air of industrious festivity in the house. Signora Martino seemed less sad than usual, busy helping Isabelle with the sewing of the gown and the creation of the bomboniere, wrought from tulle and ribbon. Occasionally Jack glimpsed a flash of white and heard the rustle of satin as Isabelle swept the dress out of sight.

  Isabelle seemed possessed of a new kind of confidence. She was a butterfly emerging from her chrysalis. Previously reluctant to speak Italian in his presence – despite the limitations of her mother’s English – she now regularly spoke rapidly to her mother in a low voice as they discussed the various arrangements for the wedding.

  Invitations were sent to Franco’s friends Luigi and Alberto, now living in Wollongong, as well as to his cousin Rocco, a barber who followed Franco across the world and found work in Sydney. Jack invited his parents and brother. His brother didn’t even reply.

  ‘Now I will have a son,’ Franco declared proudly more than once, as though his daughters were rendered superfluous by his new acquisition.

  ‘Gain a son, lose a daughter,’ commented Rosanna, perhaps a little too flippantly for Franco to take note.

  Three weeks before the wedding, which was to take place at Our Lady of Sorrows Church, Jack was given notice that he was to be transferred, as suspected, to the new site, 250 miles to the northeast.

  Jack thought Isabelle might be resistant and spoke to her about it at the first opportunity. He could see that whatever reservations she may have had, Austmine’s offer of a subsidised loan with which to buy a house of their own overro
de them. ‘A wife must go where her husband goes,’ she said primly. Jack wondered if she would have acquiesced so gracefully had it been Broken Hill.

  Several days later, Rosanna took him aside. ‘Papa won’t be happy about this – don’t expect congratulations. He’s over the moon about you helping him build his olive press. Try to let him down gently.’

  Jack nodded but there was a moment when he saw a flicker in her eyes and understood just how clueless she thought him.

  ‘It’s my work – at least it’s not Broken Hill,’ he said, sounding more defensive than he intended.

  Not knowing how to start the conversation with Franco, Jack let another week slip by. It was Saturday morning. Jack had arrived early to help prepare the garden for the wedding feast. He and Franco took their coffee and cigarettes out to sit in a bright lick of sun on the front steps.

  ‘Franco … you remember I told you Austmine moved me from Mount Isa to Duffy’s Creek to get the operation up at the lake started,’ began Jack as he sat down.

  Franco nodded. He lifted his face to the sun and gently blew a feather of smoke into the bright sky.

  ‘My job there is coming to an end. They’re going to send me up to Elenora. Up on the north coast.’

  Franco shrugged. ‘Say to them you can’t go’. He sipped his coffee and gazed up into the sky as if the matter was settled.

  Jack laughed. ‘And then what? I have to go – this is my job.’

  Franco drained his coffee and crushed his cigarette butt underfoot. He stood up and stretched. ‘Then you leave job. We build press, we sell the oil. Is simple.’

  Jack stood. He was suddenly conscious of how much taller he was than Franco and aware of a curious tension building between them. ‘It’s not that simple, Franco. How would we live? Where would we live? This is your farm. These are your olives. I can help you, but they’re not mine.’

  Franco’s face darkened. ‘When your children grow they have the farm. They buy more land.’ He gestured in a wide circle around the horizon. ‘They plant more olives. Thousands of olives. We lay down seeds – that’s all. You stay with the family.’ He turned to walk away. Jack caught his arm.

  ‘Franco – this is your dream, not mine. It might never happen. I have a job that is certain. After we are married, Isabelle and I will be leaving here. We’ll be moving to Elenora.’

  ‘I say no!’ Franco’s eyes were as sharp and black as quartz. ‘You don’t take Isabella away. She stay with her mother. Is final!’ he thundered.

  The silence inside the house was palpable. The women’s chores were forgotten as they waited still and quiet, listening. Jack stood his ground as he had stood before his own father on many occasions. He had seen enough fights in his time to know that his expression must remain neutral. He held a theory that men were often spurred into action by the reflection of their own anger. In the mines he had seen men killed over less.

  ‘Isabelle’s place is with her husband,’ Jack said quietly. He saw an anger rising up in Franco beyond anything he had witnessed. Jack gave a slow shrug. These were not his rules; it was simply the way things were.

  Suddenly Franco turned and walked into the house. A furious stream of invective broke the silence inside. Jack could hear Signora Martino pleading with him, Rosanna shouting him down. He heard the same phrase over and over from Franco – ‘Brutta figura! Brutta figura!’ – and Jack understood that he had brought shame upon the family.

  Jack felt as though he had been slapped awake from a warm and peaceful slumber. Suddenly it seemed the world was falling down around them. The whole time Isabelle stayed quietly in the background, and it occurred to him that this was the final test of his worthiness; she had always known this was the way it would be if they left the farm.

  In the space of a few moments Jack’s status with the Martinos slipped from golden son to gangster, and he had no idea how to recover the situation. It was Rosanna who stepped in to limit the damage. She strode side by side with her father up and down the grove and Jack could hear their voices raised in battle as she fought for her sister’s freedom.

  Although Franco grudgingly accepted the inevitability of the situation, over the next few weeks he was moody and Jack did not feel welcome at the farm. The wedding plans were now discussed in hushed tones and the hem of the bride’s gown was stained with her mother’s quiet tears. Even the serene Madonna, whose image presided over every meal, looked a little unsettled at the turn of events.

  Jack headed north to find a cottage for the newlyweds. He imagined roses around the door but had strict instructions from Isabelle about indoor bathrooms and electric ovens. He found it good to get away. Guilt sent out its little shoots but he cut them back mercilessly before they found fertile ground. They would visit Duffy’s Creek. Franco would come around. Jack had other things to think about.

  Gusts of spring rain occasionally redeemed by bouts of brilliant sunshine provided plenty of weather talk for the wedding guests as they gathered in front of the church. Standing at the altar, Jack watched Isabelle, a sugar-spun confection in white, float up the aisle towards him and felt suddenly humbled by her beauty. She appeared in that moment as almost angel-like, and he could hardly believe she was his. But beside her, Franco’s bleak expression of resignation imposed a shadow over even that tremulous moment.

  The couple emerged from the church to clear skies and a storm of rice and, hearing Isabelle laugh out loud, Jack felt his spirits lift. Even his parents looked happy. His mother stepped out from the group and kissed him on the cheek. ‘She’s lovely, dear,’ and then under her breath, as if taking him into her confidence, ‘so lucky she’s not dark like the other one.’ She caught a glimpse of his irritation. ‘For the kiddies’ sake, I mean. Your father and I don’t mind, of course.’ Jack began to wish the day were over.

  The reception feast was held at the farm. Trestle tables and metal folding chairs had been borrowed from the town hall and set up under the trees. They were covered in cloths so white as to dazzle the eye.

  Franco had slaughtered Petalo, the fattest piglet, earlier in the year to provide salame and prosciutto for the family and he selected the very best from his tiny cellar to serve to his guests. He cooked chicken, goat and spare ribs on a slab of flat rock over the fire. There were bowls of olives and baskets of bread with oven-roasted potatoes, parsnips, aubergines, tomatoes and onions, stuffed zucchine, salads of rocket, basil, soft lettuces and tomatoes from the garden, all accompanied by Franco’s own vino rosso.

  The guests slowly took their places at the table, seeming a little uncertain of what was required of them. Jack’s appetite vanished as he noticed his mother’s disdainful glance over the laden table and heard her comment to his father that she wasn’t hungry.

  ‘Mum, sit beside me, here,’ he said brusquely. He pulled out a chair for her. She plumped herself down sulkily. His father ignored her but sat down beside her. ‘What if it rains?’ she said in a stage whisper.

  ‘We’ll get wet,’ said Jack, and turned away before he had to deal with the tears that would surely follow.

  It was odd to have his wife on one side of him and his mother on the other. Franco and Adriana sat beside Isabelle with Rosanna. At one end of the table sat Michael, Jack’s best man, and Snow. Both had already discarded their jackets, their ties a little askew like schoolboy truants. Opposite them were Dot and Marge Roland, the plump, pink-cheeked, elderly sisters from the neighbouring farm. Marge, the flirtatious one, dimpled coyly when she noticed Jack’s gaze upon her.

  Mrs Mack from the haberdashery and her husband sat next to them. Mrs Mack looked as proud as the mother of the bride. ‘What a day!’ she exclaimed from time to time, addressing the table in general. ‘Isn’t the bride divine?’ All the while she built a pyramid of food on her husband’s plate; finally satisfied, she laid his napkin on his lap. Jack thought for a dreadful moment she was going to cut up his food for him too, but Mr Mack came to life like a clockwork toy once his plate was full and silently put his back i
nto the job of clearing it.

  Luigi and Alberto were as excited as children. Luigi had brought Lorraine, his Australian girlfriend. She wore a white dress clinched hard at the waist, her blonde hair in a salon coiffure. She fingered the brittle flicked-up ends and looked bored.

  At the other end of the table sat Rocco and his wife, Erminia, who spoke no English. Their son, Joseph, was a handsome boy with thick black curls worn a little long for Jack’s thinking. This must be the fellow whose twenty-first birthday the Martinos had attended in Sydney some months ago, Jack thought. The table became noisier and noisier as the stack of green bottles under the tree grew higher.

  Rosanna and her mother cleared the table and carried the dishes inside to the kitchen. Erminia helped. She and Signora Martino hadn’t stopped talking since the moment they sat down. Jack had never seen his mother-in-law so animated. He was relieved to see her sorrowful expression of the last few weeks transformed, at least for today.

  The wind had spent itself and a gentle breeze now wove its way through the trees. Feeling a little drunk, Jack leaned back in his chair. He noticed young Joseph’s attention was drawn towards the house and he turned to see the women returning across the lawn, his mother-in-law proudly bearing the tiered wedding cake. The light spun on Rosanna’s emerald-green satin dress as it lifted and flattened against her body, caressed by the breeze. Her lips were blood-red, her hair loose and wild, and her eyes black as olives. She looked gypsy-dangerous.

  The cake was placed in the centre of the table to exclamations of delight and a sprinkle of applause. But Jack noticed Joseph’s eyes were only on Rosanna. He licked his lips.

  ‘Evviva gli sposi!’ cried Alberto, as he raised his glass.

  ‘Hurrah for the newlyweds!’ translated Rosanna. The Italian contingent clapped and cheered madly, building momentum as the other guests followed their lead.