The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “Are you okay, Tiffy?” He unconsciously used Sigrid’s pet name in his concern for how she must be feeling.

  “Yes. A bit cold though, for this time of year.”

  “Do you want me to bring you a blanket?”

  “Give me a hug instead. That’ll keep me warm.” She snuggled against him as he put his arms around her.

  “Couldn’t you sleep?”

  “Too much to think about,” she replied.

  “Don’t let what he said bother you. It was just a stupid empty threat.”

  “Not empty. Not with him. But I’m not going to be frightened by it. It was typical Tommo. No doubt it made him feel better.”

  “I’m glad it didn’t upset you.”

  “No chance of that. It’s a long time before he gets out and by then I plan not to be here.”

  He tried to study her face in the moonlight, but she did not sound the least bit intimidated. “I suppose you’re right. It’s seven years away.”

  “It’ll be less than that.”

  “Less? Why would it be less?”

  “Because he knows the system.” It was a blunt reply. “He’ll behave well in order to get time off his sentence. He’ll respect the governor and the warders. You’d be surprised how good he can be. So let’s be conservative and call it five years, Carlo. By then the war must be well and truly over.”

  “My God, I hope so.”

  “Of course it will. You’ll be back in Italy. And I know where I’ll be. My solicitor, Ned Frost, says the money will be back in my bank account by the end of this year. And the moment the war ends I’m on a boat to a secure place in Britain, with a brand new passport and another name. So Tommo can bellow all the egotistical threats he likes, trying to look like a big man. That’s all it ever was in the courtroom, a typical fucking Tommo Thompson ego act.”

  For a moment Carlo was uncertain what to say. He’d thought he knew her, this young woman he’d enjoyed painting and made love to so many times, both soft and gentle lovemaking as well as wild and noisy without restraint. But this was a different Tiffany. Far tougher than he’d realised, with her future all planned, just like she’d planned the events that put her husband in prison. For a few moments, with soft moonlight caressing her face, it was like listening to a stranger with another voice.

  Days later he still remembered how she had sounded that night. Since then he’d done his best to keep some distance between them, not an easy task when they occupied the same bed. But now the court case was over and his presence as a witness no longer necessary, it was time to settle the matter of his own future. He’d mentioned it the next day, saying the POW Camp must soon expect him. They’d allowed him this long time and maybe the army here was different to those in Britain or Italy, but it couldn’t last much longer. Tiffany promised to discuss it with the Southern Command Army Headquarters and the following day she hugged him and said they might have another week. Maybe even more. She’d been told there was a likelihood of an appeal, so the military had agreed Carlo could stay until they knew for certain.

  “No point in you being dispatched all the way to Cowra, then having to be brought back a few days later. Isn’t that wonderful!”

  “Sounds too good to be true. If you’re sure?”

  “My darling, I’m sure. You’re not tired of me, are you?” she asked.

  “What a thing to say, amore mio. How could anyone be tired of you?”

  But even as he said this, he cringed, feeling it was a required reply. He needed time and detachment to get his mind in order, using the excuse of spending his days exploring and sketching the landscape.

  In fact it was an authentic excuse; he walked miles each day enjoying the vista that was now an empty space. The buildings and adjacent structures that had housed nearly a hundred POWs had all gone. The entire edifice, the timber village he’d called a prison on the prairie was totally removed, as if it had never existed. With spring rain and summer heat, the grass would soon cover all trace of what had been this experiment in private containment for Italian Prisoners of War. The idea might have been a modest success, had it been run with clarity and care. It had failed because of Thompson’s greed and malice.

  The need to get away and think became pleasure in his solitude. Carlo relished these long strolls across the bare land, at times carrying Tiffany’s camera or a sketch pad. He liked the sharp light and moods of the vast space, the colours soon after dawn, or images on the western sky when the sun was setting. Sometimes he even took the easel with him, and stayed to sketch until it was almost dark. Brought up on a compact vineyard where space was critical, he loved the width and breadth of these vast paddocks. The sheer size of the landscape was like gazing through the porthole across the Indian Ocean after his rescue by Ted Gallagher, wondering what was out there beyond the horizon. Australia gave him the same feeling, this vast land enthralled him with its magnitude. What lay over the crest of those hills? How far away did that creek begin? Acres without end, he thought, and wished he could capture the feeling of this immensity on canvas.

  He knew of artists who’d managed this, even back in the convict days. Books in Tiffany’s house had been a rich source of material; names like Joseph Lycett, guilty of forgery and transported to New South Wales. His paintings, which had brought him little reward, were now treasured items in government galleries. Many of the other convict painters had found new life and inspiration in the colony with its gift of sunlight. Later on artists who were not convicts but emigrants like Conrad Martens, had come from the northern hemisphere to find a new stimulus in the luminosity, while those who were native born like Rupert Bunny and Arthur Streeton were household names. Streeton’s radiant landscapes were contained in one of the books he’d spent hours studying. Some days, invigorated by the light and his own ambition, Carlo wondered how it would be to live here and paint landscapes like Streeton or Albert Namatjira.

  But Namatjira belonged to this country. His red earth paintings captured the nation’s heart, his Aboriginality made him an integral part of the land he depicted. Carlo knew he was just a visitor in this country, and not by choice. He was a compelled visitor by arrangement with the stupidest of Europe’s dictators, the clown who’d declared war on the wrong day, the day that had slammed shut the Medici doors in Carlo’s face.

  Roaming so much of the time alone, his mind was full of these reflections. He could hardly forget Mussolini whom his father revered as a great man and who, according to a rumour he’d heard at the court while waiting to give evidence, had been put under arrest by King Victor Emmanuel. Carlo hoped it was true but dismissed all thought of the dictator; Mussolini was an unwelcome intrusion among these broad acres where Carlo felt like a guest. A guest he reminded himself, in territory still owned by Thompson, soon to be reclaimed by Tiffany. Her busy young solicitor had already set about the matter. He was an avaricious legal adviser who had no hesitation in pronouncing Thompson a fraudster, a charlatan and a cheat. Not a man to mince words, Ned Frost. In the solicitor’s opinion, Tommo was a fool to make murder threats in front of witnesses, including the circuit court judge. Frost was very concerned about his client and clearly disapproved of Carlo’s presence now the case was over. The solicitor, it seemed, had more than a professional interest in Tiffany Watson and her future.

  This coincided with Carlo’s own speculation. His required presence as a witness was no longer necessary. It felt unreal when Tiffany insisted they’d hear soon enough if the government wanted him. Sigrid said Tiffy had been lonely all through her marriage, and to please stay longer. He stayed because it was idyllic. He’d experienced nothing like this since the Blackshirts had marched him through the streets of Rome, since the desert war and the miserable years of prison camp in Southern England.

  Alone with so much time to meditate he knew it would have been an even worse existence here, had Thompson still run the camp, and for this reprieve he should be truly grateful to Tiffany. He owed her much more than gratitude, despite his disquiet of a w
eek ago. He could hardly dismiss the past two months, the luxury of being in a proper bed, served decent food, being treated like a human being, all of this and so many nights spent making love. To someone of his limited experience she had been like an excitement machine; willing to try anything, loving to experiment, nudging him awake at any time from midnight to dawn, tempting him into an erection and after that into a passionate climax. Every night had been like a sexual utopia.

  So what had happened since the end of the court case? On that one night there had been a brief glimpse of a side she’d kept hidden. Was there really a masterful manipulator behind the lovely face he’d painted? Was that it? Did he just feel misled, duped by a warm bed and the delirium that had come with the missionary position?

  He had once hoped, even imagined, that he might be left to remain here, overlooked by some chance. And so far there had been no summons to return to the confinement of another camp. But was that merely a fluke? All the other Italian prisoners had vanished, sent to the camp in Cowra. The case was now yesterday’s news and a week later he was still forgotten, alone in the huge homestead with Tiffany and Sigrid, who both knew what he’d done for them in the witness box. He’d even managed to cover his mistake about the vineyard with a lie.

  Carlo knew he hadn’t intended to tell the truth in court. Had they asked the right questions and blocked his flippant answers, it might’ve been more difficult. A lot of interlocking events would’ve been re-examined. She might not be meeting with her solicitor to reclaim her deep pockets. Instead, she’d be defending herself against a conspiracy charge for the plot she’d weaved and the lies she’d told while batting her eye-lashes at the District Court Judge. If he’d been forced to tell the truth, Thompson’s high-priced barrister would’ve requested her recall as a witness and laid the blame on her to get his client a lighter sentence.

  But there were other ‘mitigating factors’ to his evasive answers.

  Misogyny would’ve reared its ugly head, which was one reason he had firmly denied Tiffany had any knowledge of what was camouflaged amid the grape vines. He’d also eluded answers to other questions, wanting to avoid uttering words that would allow Tommo to win, and able to continue treating war prisoners like dirt.

  And perhaps most of all, Carlo wanted to say nothing that would enable Thompson to resume cheating Tiffany of what was rightfully hers. He paused in his brisk walk to think about this. It was what Tiffany herself had said that night a week ago. Thompson had swindled her father then robbed and lied and threatened to kill her; she had every reason to make sure he’d never find her and no one, least of all Carlo himself, had a right to criticise her for it.

  But just as certainly he’d begun to realise he could no longer stay here. If he did, it would be on her tenure. He’d be totally dependent on her, reliant for a bed to sleep in, for food to eat—even for his freedom if the authorities ever came looking for him as they surely would. The wonder of it was, they hadn’t as yet. If the army did not come hunting him, her lawyer would find a way to bring them.

  He would miss her like hell, but the relationship could never last. Already there were changes apparent. She was naturally reverting to what she had always been, the rich girl spending her days arranging for the prompt return of the family wealth, and no longer was their love-making quite as eager or as passionate. He knew her well enough now to detect the difference.

  She had confided so deeply in him. Told him far too much, he’d always felt that. Now she was insuring his continued loyalty by reimbursing him with an extended stay and nightly sex. That was what had changed and it would never quite revert to the joyful innocence it had once been. He knew it was mutual survival that bound them now, but he’d made the mistake of believing it was love.

  The decision made, it was important to do things properly. He chose a morning when Tiffany had an appointment with her solicitor, taking Sigrid with her. There were documents to sign, the return of money appropriated by Thompson was proceeding and needed credence. She could hardly take Carlo to Leeton to be the witness of certificates at her bank.

  “Hardly,” he agreed, and kissed her tenderly.

  “Darling…” she said, and as though she had a premonition she looked at him carefully.

  “Don’t let her speed,” he told Sigrid, who smiled at the thought of her being able to prevent this.

  “You will be all right, caro mio?” She was fond of experimenting with affectionate Italian terms he’d taught her, and was still gazing at him.

  “Of course, my darling,” he answered, feeling uneasy.

  “You could come with us,” Tiffany suggested.

  “And do what? Hide in the car while you sign documents at the bank, then be taken to lunch by Edward—call me Ned—Frost? That doesn’t sound a load of fun.”

  “You’re being silly about Neddy. He’s just my solicitor.”

  “Of course he is,” Carlo agreed, but he didn’t say what he felt certain the lawyer would prefer to be. Sigrid was eyeing him, perhaps she had the same opinion about the legal eagle’s ambitions or else sensed the vibes. She was smart enough to guess this. He had a sudden feeling of regret at not being able to farewell Sigrid. In her memory he’d be the one who left without bothering to say goodbye.

  Meanwhile Tiffany was distinctly uneasy, he could tell. She kept glancing at him as if intending to speak, then deciding against it. She was dressed for a smart restaurant lunch with the lawyer and her banker, and looked superb. She’d catch the eye of every man in that town. When he saw her objectively like this, she was not only lovely looking but had real style. No doubt something she’d learned in London in the ‘gin and tonic days.’ She must have been the belle of Belgravia.

  He nearly changed his mind, tried to persuade himself he was wrong; what they still had was close enough to love and they could live here in safe obscurity until the war was over. The bloody war had to end sometime, he tried to argue with himself.

  She waved as they drove off and he waved in reply. He kept waving, not sure if it was with sadness or relief, but knowing it was truly over now.

  PART THREE

  COWRA….AND THEN

  TWENTY-ONE

  The previous night he had written her a note and left it where she would find it, trying to explain why. There would inevitably be an enquiry soon, the army always did a head count at some stage. After their blissful weeks together it could cause them both some quite serious harm. He’d be in whatever lockup they had at Cowra for those guilty of being absent without leave and it might mean she’d wind up back at the police station for some questioning that could bring her trouble. It could even put a hold on the present legal progress of regaining her father’s estate.

  Having managed to justify himself, if not feeling morally virtuous, he packed his few belongings and faced the first hurdle, the half-mile walk to the entry gates and from there the meandering track to the main road. That was before the forty mile trudge to Griffith. He knew it would be a long hard slog, most of the day on foot to the township, but at least Griffith was in the opposite direction to Leeton. There would be no chance of them meeting, unless her feeling of premonition made her turn around and come looking for him.

  He shook his head: that wasn’t going to happen.

  An hour later in the increasing heat of a December day he heard the sound of a vehicle on the road behind him. It was not Tiffany’s MG, but a utility truck that drew alongside and a familiar voice called a greeting.

  “Strike a flaming light, if it ain’t you,” said the friendly driver who’d met them on arrival at the station. “Bit bloody warm for a route march. If you’re heading to town, hop in mate.” A relieved Carlo was soon sitting beside him, aware of his glances in prelude to the impending question. “So how come you got left behind? We shifted your mates long ago. Did you take part in the big court case?”

  “Only as a minor witness.”

  “Didn’t see your name in the paper. It was all Tommo or Tiffany. But it ended last week. So w
here’ve you been since then?”

  “Waiting to hear if there’d be an appeal. I had to stay until we got word from Miss Watson’s lawyer.” It was a cover story he’d worked out in advance, feeling sure he’d need one, as well as trying to protect her name.

  “Bet you don’t miss bloody Tommo.”

  “Not a lot,” Carlo replied.

  “So no appeal from the big bad bugger,” the driver grinned knowingly. “Word is they’ve pulled the site to pieces. Nothing left. So you must’ve stayed with her in the homestead, eh? Just you and young Tiffany,” he added slyly.

  “And the German girl, of course. Sigrid. ”

  The driver’s knowing glance dismissed her. “You and her ladyship with the deep pockets. I saw the picture you painted, front page. She looked like she really belonged there. A great piece of skirt, that sheila. So strictly between us old mate—did you get a bit?”

  “A bit of what?” Carlo did his best to look blank.

  “A bit of the other. Don’t play dumb, I bet you did. They reckon she bangs like a dunny door in a southerly buster.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Carlo did his utmost to look puzzled by the slang. The driver just laughed at this.

  “I can tell. You painted her picture and you’ve been there, sport. Plain as day. Clear as that row of gum trees over there on the river bank. I bet you had more roots than all them Eucalypts put together.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “Of course I am,” the driver smirked. “Still…you wanna be Mister Nice Guy, do the right thing and protect the fair lady’s good name, eh? That might be hard with all the stories going around.” He grinned. “Some of ‘em must be true…eh…eh?”

  “Bugger this,” Carlo told him, “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  “You’ll go troppo, mate.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “Not worth it. This hot midday sun, without a hat.” After a moment he said, “I was only having a joke. Okay, let’s change the subject. No point in you getting on your high horse and ending up with sunstroke. So where are you off to now? It sure as hell won’t be home to Italia.”