by Joy Rhoades
‘Is it all right?’ she asked, looking at the dog over the paper in her hands, but he ignored her. A bark floated in from somewhere down the creek. Puck probably gone off after a rabbit or a snake. She wondered where Luca was. If she were honest with herself, she’d come outside partly in the hope of seeing him.
She read the eulogy aloud again, trying not to rush, trying to speak up, trying not to panic. Halfway through, a lorikeet shrieked above her. She’d prefer a couple of black cockatoos flying east towards the coast, but a lorikeet was better than nothing.
Kate went back inside. She folded the pages into four (to distinguish them from a letter) and placed them in the middle of her father’s desk. For a flash, she thought she should not leave them in case he found them. Then her grief closed in around her again.
That night, she was sitting in the half-light of the dusk with a cup of tea in front of her and a piece of untouched toast. She had not been hungry since her father’s death. Footsteps interrupted her and she looked up.
‘Signora.’
Luca’s frame filled the doorway and Kate smiled, despite herself. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Sì, sì.’ Luca let himself in with one hand, a covered tin plate in the other, and flicked on a light.
Kate smelled something good, mutton-like. Luca lifted the top off the plate and a wisp of steam wound into the air from the food underneath. Pale-yellow strands lay coiled like smooth wool around the centre of the dish, with a dark-red sauce on top.
‘From Vittorio. Spaghetti alla Bolognese,’ Luca said.
Oh dear, Kate thought. She appreciated the gesture but couldn’t face any real food. She looked at him.
Luca grinned. ‘Is for you. For eat.’ He put the plate in front of her and she sniffed it gingerly. It did smell good – very good, in fact. Meat and tomatoes and heaven knew what else. Luca rattled through the kitchen drawers until he found the cutlery and handed a fork to her. She sat, motionless, looking at the fork in her fingers.
Luca took it from her. ‘Like this,’ he said gently. He stood her fork, tines down, into the spaghetti and turned it, the pasta wrapping around like thread on a spool. Then he held the handle towards her. But when she took it from him, the pasta fell off, almost missing the plate. She tried herself to catch the pasta, turning the fork as Luca had done, but it would not stay.
He laughed.
‘It’s harder than it looks,’ she protested.
Luca took the fork from her again, and twirled pasta quickly back onto it. This time when he held out the handle to her, he kept hold of the fork. With her fingers resting gently on his, he balanced the pasta and directed the fork towards her mouth.
‘Aprire. Open, Signora,’ he said.
With his eyes on hers, together they put the mouthful in, and then he pulled the fork out slowly from between her lips.
Conscious only of his closeness, Kate chewed carefully. She felt her eyes close as she savoured flavours she’d never tasted before. The pasta was thick and filling, the sauce savoury, the meat tender. She almost couldn’t recognise it as mutton.
‘Spaghetti. Pasta.’ Luca watched her, pleased.
‘It’s good,’ Kate said, surprised. ‘It’s very good. Peppery.’
‘Sì,’ he chuckled, ‘but …’ He took the hand towel from its hook and gently wiped away a spot of sauce from her cheek.
She was stunned. Luca reached down, squeezed her hand, and went out.
‘Buona notte, Signora,’ he called back, leaving her still in the kitchen, listening to his footfall across the lawn, willing him to return.
The next day, Thursday, Kate was relieved to see her latest caller off just before lunchtime. Mrs Nettiford had not stayed long, embarrassed to have come without an invitation. But Kate had thanked her warmly. Even in her fog, it meant something that people cared. Still, she willed the hours to pass, for the next day to arrive and for her dear father to be buried.
With Mrs Nettiford gone, Kate got her hat and gloves and went into the garden. The ends of her index fingers showed through the holes at the tips; still, the gloves worked well enough to protect the rest of her hand. Dropping her kneeling mat between the fence and the first bed, she wound a tomato vine tendril back around the trellis, and then started on the onion weed.
A few minutes later, Luca appeared at the gate and squatted to pat Gunner. Kate kept her head down.
‘Signora,’ Luca said, his hat off. He crouched beside her and she could smell him, soap and sump oil and sweat. She wanted him to hold her again, as he had in the meat house.
‘OK?’ he asked.
She swallowed and turned back to the onion weed. He retreated and they weeded in a silence broken only by the bleating of hungry sheep.
He startled her when he spoke. ‘The wisteria – her flowers.’ Luca pointed to the vine on the verandah trellis. ‘You smell?’ he asked, giving her his half-smile, revealing a chipped bottom tooth she’d not noticed before.
‘In my village, it covers tree – a tree,’ he corrected himself. ‘Over all – a tree so big.’ He pointed at the California pine stretching its thirty feet into the bright sky.
‘Glicine,’ he said. ‘Her name.’
Kate closed her eyes for a second and breathed in the scent of the two wisteria vines. How had they both hung on despite the drought?
‘March and April at Grosio – that spring – is beautiful.’ He held his hands over his head and breathed in deeply. ‘A hat of perfume.’
‘My mother planted the vines,’ Kate said. ‘She loved the white one especially. She made me save the seeds every year.’
‘And my brother. He, he like. He say like neve.’ His face sombre, he fluttered his fingers down through the air, before turning back to his work.
‘I found the receipt for the sapphire, you know, in Dad’s coat.’
‘You find her? This sapphire?’
‘No, no. Just the receipt. The paper to show he bought it.’
‘Ah.’ He sounded disappointed.
Her thoughts went back to the eulogy. ‘I want to speak at the church, Luca.’
‘Sì?’
‘But the minister – the priest – says I can’t. He says it has to be a man.’
‘Ah.’
‘But there’s no one else. And I want to speak about my father. What do you think?’
‘No man to speak?’ Luca shrugged. ‘You speak.’
She felt comforted that he agreed. ‘And it will help me, to have you there,’ she said.
‘Sì. And, Signora. I tell you,’ Luca said. ‘Your papá. He is —’ He was struggling for the right words. ‘He is brave.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You understand?’
She nodded, slowly. He was brave. She turned back to her weeds but did not pretend to work, more tears on her face.
‘Signora, the family is good.’
She looked at him quizzically.
‘You have the husband. Good. It is good, this for you. This family.’ He searched for the words. ‘This is best. Best for you.’
He meant that she still had Jack but she felt no comfort in that. Even though they were husband and wife, she didn’t know Jack. And now there was Luca.
She looked down at the weed, already wilting in her fingers. ‘Best?’ she asked, her voice quiet. ‘You think it’s best for us?’
When he said nothing, she glanced up, shocked to see his face so drawn. ‘Sì. Best, Signora. For … for you.’ His voice was strangled. He ran his fingers along her jawline to her chin and touched her lips, then took his hand away. She stared at him. When a vehicle came too fast over the crest of the hill, Kate sat back on her haunches to look. She could see it was a grey Humber. Tony Biggs? Why would he be out here? The vehicle disappeared into the gully. She heard it slow, then roar up the incline and over the rise. Jack.
CHAPTER 31
Whilst a woolgrower new to the work might well privately seek the counsel of one or more of his peers – and such growers are usually in no way backwards in the
giving of their opinion – the buyer should first, and above all, before acquiring a stud ram, be secure of his own opinion, for it is he who must live with his selection.
THE WOOLGROWER’S COMPANION, 1906
Kate was sure it was Jack. Somehow he had managed to get home. A grand gesture. She felt a surge of dread. Abandoning her mat and the pile of weeds, she walked towards the house past Luca, who watched the approaching vehicle, hands on his hips.
‘It’s my husband,’ she said as she went inside.
In the bathroom, Kate pushed the plug into the hole and ran a little brown creek water into the basin. She closed her eyes, splashed her face with the water and felt for the worn towel on the rack by the wall.
A car horn sounded outside, one short blast. She looked at her face in the mirror and pulled a hand through that short hair. She should tidy herself up for him, put on some lipstick and comb her hair, what was left of it. To hell with it. The gate clicked and she went to the kitchen. She didn’t want Luca to see them meet. Kate brushed garden dirt off her new joddies. Soil had smudged the knees so she tied an apron round her waist, hurrying, fumbling with the bow, to cover the dirt.
Jack took the kitchen steps one by one, rather than with his customary single stride, and stopped just inside, holding the gauze door behind him to prevent the bang. He was in uniform, his khaki slouch hat in one hand. It was many months since she’d seen him, and then only for a few hurried, awkward days. She’d forgotten how tall he was, a head taller than her, with the same solid build as Captain Rook, coiled energy under the khaki. He smiled at her with a closed mouth – she’d forgotten that too. Tanned, his face showed some fine lines now and his hair was very fair from the sun. He came round the table to her, kissing first her cheek, then her mouth. He pulled away and stared, touching the ends of her hair at her neck.
‘I cut it.’
‘You did,’ he replied evenly. ‘You did indeed.’ He took a step back, still holding her hand and staring at her hair. ‘You like it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, realising only then that she did.
His eyes moved down. ‘Joddies?’
‘I help in the paddocks now.’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘And there’s a bloody Eye-tie in the garden.’
‘We’re short-handed. They do a lot.’
He rolled his eyes, unconvinced.
‘They let you come home,’ she said.
‘I told im it were just you left. My bloody CO musta took pity, for once. Took some doin t’get here, though.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry about your old man.’
Her eyes filled with tears – they were quick to do that now – so she turned away. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Tea,’ he said as if the idea was novel. ‘Please.’ He leaned against the kitchen counter, and spun his hat on his left hand. But it was a lumpy spin; that gammy hand now healed but not perfect.
She filled the kettle at the rainwater tap. ‘Are you all right? I feel so lucky that they haven’t posted you to the islands, lucky you’re whole.’
‘Whole?’ He laughed. ‘I suppose. Cooling me bloody heels like a big sook.’
‘You still with the 9th?’
‘Only on the books. I’m on transfer, though. Been training bloody wheelbarrows for too bloody long.’
The joke was old now. She smiled in commiseration.
Jack switched on the wireless. A dance tune filled the kitchen with brass and rhythm. The noise surprised Kate; she hadn’t turned the wireless on since her father’s death. Jack flicked it off. He sat down and stretched his legs under the kitchen table. Then he stared at her again. Kate grew embarrassed and she could feel her face flushing. She took the dented tea canister from the counter and paused, deciding between the silver teapot she used for visitors versus the everyday china. She chose the silver one. She put two of the good tea cups and saucers on the table next to Jack and poured the boiling water into the teapot. Jack leaned back and interlocked his fingers on his lap. ‘Is it at St John’s tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Father Popliss.’
‘He’s still alive, the poor old bugger?’
Kate turned the teapot three times, counter clockwise, letting the tea leaves drift to the outside, then poured two cups, giving the second to Jack. He liked it strong. A silence settled between them. Kate sipped her tea. Jack’s sat untouched, and Gunner whined outside.
‘The wake at the Returned Servicemen’s Club?’
‘No. I’ll have people back here afterwards,’ she said. ‘It’s —’
‘Cheaper.’
‘Yes.’ The kitchen clock ticked on. ‘When do you think you might be home for good?’
‘Who knows? Not soon. They reckon they’ll need fresh troops for a bit yet, for the mopping up, eh. We’re gunna train em, like all the others.’ He shrugged and looked about the kitchen. ‘Daisy up the duff, is she?’
‘It was Ed.’
He shrugged. ‘They’re all the same. You sent her back?’
‘Yes. The baby will be raised in the Home. But if it’s pale enough, it’ll be adopted out. Poor Daisy. Poor baby. I wonder if I should have —’
‘No. You did the right thing, sending her back. Give us a bad name otherwise. Mind you …’ He stopped.
‘A bad name’s coming anyway? With what Dad did?’
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘Maybe. I have to tell you, I thought something was up when I was back here last time.’ He turned the tea cup in the saucer in front of him but did not drink. ‘I reckoned then that the old man had a kangaroo loose in the top paddock.’
Kate stared at him.
He looked away, chastened. ‘Sorry. Bit rough round the edges, aren’t I? Anyways, how’d he do it?’
Kate did not want to have the sight fill her head. ‘He … he used his old revolver. It was in the meat house. I think he went in there to make the mess easier for us to clean up.’
Jack shook his head in admiration. ‘Jeez, he was a tough old coot, wasn’t he?’
She felt tears well again in her eyes. ‘Now Amiens will be sold up.’ Her voice cracked. She put one hand to her mouth, the other arm she wrapped about her waist.
‘Yeah. What’d he do with the money?’
Her breathing was uneven and tears wet her cheeks. ‘Dad borrowed a lot to buy Binchey’s in ’39, and he was doing all right, so far as I can tell. Then Mum died, and apparently he just stopped paying the interest.’
Jack looked down at his hands in his lap. ‘You should be able to get out of that hole, eh?’
‘Except that then he spent a whole lot, most of the overdraft, on that sapphire. And that’s what’s killing us.’
Jack exhaled. ‘Why’d he buy it, ya reckon?’
‘For me. For a rainy day, apparently. He didn’t trust the bank with our cash.’
‘But that was borrowed money he used, wasn’t it?’
‘He didn’t realise that when he bought it. He wasn’t … making sense.’
Jack shook his head in disbelief. ‘So we’re broke.’
‘Yes. We’re to be put off the place next month – the 12th October is when the bank says it’ll come in.’
‘You’ll go before then, after the funeral. Before you’re shoved.’
‘But I still might find the sapphire.’
‘In fourteen thousand acres? Needle in a haystack. The old man stitched us up, even if he never meant to, with the money and then doing himself in. Jesus.’
‘Could you … Do you think … Could you ask your family to help?’
‘I already told you no.’
‘I know it’s shameful to ask, but if it saves Amiens —’
‘He won’t do it, Kate. Orright.’ His voice was angry. ‘I spoke to my father. No bloody way.’
She swallowed.
‘Look,’ Jack started. ‘The show’s over. We’ve got to get you away, somewhere no one knows you. Or knew your father. New Guinea, maybe. Bougainville. They’ll be after plantation managers soon, like I said.’
‘What about Longhope? We could move into town.’
He laughed noiselessly. ‘And never look anyone in the eye again, like that poor bloody Binchey fella?’ He frowned. ‘No. That’s not for me. We’re going. I’ve worked it out. You’re to go to my oldies in Perth first. You can camp there for a bit.’
‘Perth? That’s two thousand miles away. And your parents have never met me.’ Kate stared at him.
‘Well, they will soon, eh.’ Jack stood up, frowning, and placed his chair squarely under the kitchen table. ‘The old man’s brandy still in the sideboard?’
‘I don’t need it,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
He laughed again, scratching the cleft of his chin. ‘It’s not for you, you numbat.’
‘What? But it’s two o’clock.’ The words were out before she thought.
‘It’s two o’clock orright, and I’m getting a drink.’
CHAPTER 32
In rut, rams will fight others for dominance of the herd and privileges over ewes.
THE WOOLGROWER’S COMPANION, 1906
Kate sat unmoving at the kitchen table, her tea cold, her breath uneven. She could hear Jack rifling in the sideboard in the dining room. Movement in the garden caught her eye. Luca stood, a pair of clippers in hand, looking towards the kitchen. She turned away, confused, her head aching. She wanted to stop thinking, to get outside, to go to Luca, if only for a moment. The faint smell of cigarette smoke floated in. Jack always had a cigarette when he had a drink. One went with the other, he said. Her parents had never allowed smoking in the house.
Kate stood up and got down the wire egg basket from the top of the fridge. With the basket in one hand, the scrap bucket in the other, she walked through the garden and out the gate, eyes front, avoiding Luca’s pale-eyed gaze. Bloody Jack. He was his same ramrod self. She remembered that now, that there was a steel to him. He was different, too, though. Maybe she was different. She felt her anger resurfacing at him telling her what to do.