He felt he’d asked a clumsy question, and regretted it.
She felt she had got it all wrong, but attempting to further explain would make it even worse.
Carlo had little sleep that night. What he did have was plagued by dreams. He felt troubled that his bouts of insomnia, fantasising about the fate of his letter falling prey to a Kamikaze, had brought bad luck and disaster to the ship. He tried not to imagine the Japanese boy— probably primed by drugs to give him courage if the rumours were true— steering his lethal craft into the vessel’s superstructure he knew so well. He found himself being shaken by his neighbour, who said he’d been shouting orders to either duck for cover or dive overboard.
That was when he apologised, got dressed and went outside. It was just 2am and the coincidence with the time of the breakout made him gaze across at the now empty compound. It was nearly four months since the violence, the roaring voices across the night bellowing BANZAI, on their way to smother the barbed wire fences with blankets and coats. There were still many speculations about the motive that night; a senseless revolt, a tribute to their God Emperor, or an escape from the shame of being a war prisoner. He could still remember, with a shudder, the line of dead bodies sprawled the length of Broadway, and those who’d met a brutal death beneath the night train.
He walked towards the studio passing several guards; security was far tighter ever since the breakout. One of them was new and did not know him, persisting with questions until another came by and said he was okay, just the POW Artist, probably off to splash some paint on canvas.
“Got your keys, have you?” he asked, and Carlo thanked him and said he had. Until then he’d intended to walk long enough to tire himself, but the query about keys sent him across the camp into the empty studio.
He took down the painting not yet wrapped for Julia, focussed a light on it, then sat and remembered that first morning on the ship. The sheer joy of a soft bed, the great bliss of the rising sun on the Indian Ocean, and his wish to paint this even then. It had remained in his mind ever since. Of course he could not burn it. That had been a cry of anguish, a moment Julia had recognised and swiftly taken his hand again.
He loved the feel of her hand, he felt how easy it could be to love the girl herself, but it seemed she just wanted to be friends. That had come as a puzzle. Some experience had hurt her deeply. The former boyfriend who caused it must be a total berk. That was a good old English word Herbie the British guard had taught him. A man of many parts was Herbie, who also knew his Bard of Avon. What was that famous line? For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings.
It was the right Shakespearian line for this cruel night, but nothing could alter what had happened. He had lost friends before. In North Africa, and in the prison camp after Sidi Barrani. But these three had been so different. Enemies according to the rules of war, pledged to be lifelong friends, part of a promise for when the war ended. His first realisation those on the opposite side could be mates. There was never a doubt they’d meet to renew companionship; their deaths at the hand of a boy steering a missile of explosives was the demise of those hopes. That was why today, in a moment of blind rage he had wanted to destroy the painting. He had been fortunate Julia was there to comfort him. Lovely Julia. There was a softness about her that had created such a close warmth between them the night before, and in the car yesterday. Lots of laughter in being lost and finding their way, as well as finding out about each other. It was surely not his imagination that it could have so easily become something else, but she had been explicit.
Sitting alone he tried to understand what had so puzzled him, the abrupt change in Julia’s arrangements to spend the last few days of her leave with him, then the warning they could only be friends.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Julia’s Great-aunt Winifred had a house on the outskirts of Cowra, where she’d lived since the death of her husband. He’d rushed to enlist in 1914, supporting England in the war against Germany, without knowing exactly why. He’d died on a day when the inane strategy of Marshall Haig had sent thousands to march in step while they faced machine guns. She’d never quite forgiven her husband for being swayed by the lies of politicians, or the martial music of John Philip Sousa that aroused men to join up at recruiting rallies.
She had no children and made up for it by lavishing affection on her niece Janet and then on Janet’s two children as they grew up and she grew old. Most of all on the great niece whom she called Julia because it had been requested by her favourite in the family. She’d watched as Julia went from success at school and university to a brief career in journalism before joining the WAAAF. She’d also surveyed all the boyfriends, her comments on them carefully discreet as she believed none were really worthy of her golden girl. But discretion gave way to straight dislike on arrival of Oliver Renshaw in Julia’s life. It was the one time the relationship suffered, as Great-aunt Winifred was unable to withhold her candid and full-blown opinion. As a result Julia had seen much less of her during that time and was now eager to assure her the bete-noir was no longer a part of her life.
“Thank God, my darling. You’ve come to your senses at last.”
“I’m not sure I have, Aunty Win.” They’d decided on that name, as both agreed Great-aunt Winifred was too much of a mouthful.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to take him back? Not again!”
“No, he’s gone. There’ll be no second or third thoughts,” she promised, “it’s just that something else might’ve happened.”
“Another one,” Winifred sighed.
“Perhaps. But quite different.”
“How?”
“Well, for a start he lives here in Cowra.”
“That’s new. Whereabouts?”
“At the Camp.”
“You mean he’s in the army?” When she nodded, her Aunt picked up her lorgnette and frowned at her over the rim of it. This was her preferred mark of disapproval. “Don’t tell me he’s a guard?”
“No.”
“Then what is he?”
“A prisoner of war.”
“Good God!” Her Aunt rarely invoked the deity with this expression.
Julia watched as the lorgnette was put aside, and the eyebrows raised higher than she’d ever seen them. “You’re going to tell me he’s a German, and completely ruin my entire day.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Aunty. He’s Italian. I’ve only just met him.”
“And we’ve just finished fighting them,” she sighed “How on earth did you meet?”
“Through Mum and Dad. Particularly Mum.”
“How did he meet her?”
“Carlo had to report to Dad before being sent to Cowra. Mum rather liked the sound of him and invited him to dinner.”
“This gets even more weird. Didn’t Janet know he was on the other side? Or is providing a meal for the enemy a new trend at your house?” Julia started to laugh. It was family lore that when Aunt Win tried to make jokes the worst was over. At least Julia hoped so. Her Great Aunt could also be scathing in disapproval, and that appeared to be delicately balanced at this moment.
“You’ll like him,” she said.
“That remains to be seen. How much do you like him?”
“Quite a lot.”
“And how long have you known him?”
“Three, nearly four days.”
There was an ominous pause. “It doesn’t get any better, does it darling?” her Great Aunt lamented.
“No, it doesn’t,” Julia sighed. “I didn’t want to feel like this so soon.”
“But you couldn’t help it,” was the judgement delivered with another shake of the head and a lifted eyebrow.
“I just want you to meet him.”
“Am I being asked to give a second opinion?”
“I would like your view. Appraisal…whatever you want to call it. I truly would like that.”
Great-aunt Winifred studied her for a few moments. “Thi
s is serious, isn’t it, Julia?”
“It’s too soon, I know. Everyone will groan and shake their heads. Not Mum and Dad, they’re fond of him. But I need to know what you think.”
“You never cared what anyone thought before. Even me. You just went ahead with that ghastly last one, and to hell with our views on the matter.”
“That was a terrible mistake. This is different.”
“I can see that. It makes me very nervous, my pet. You want me to like him, but if I don’t, then what? I’m on a hiding to nothing,” her Aunt said, before adding, “Afternoon tea, my lovely. Dinner would be far too awkward if we don’t get on. Whereas at afternoon tea, he can make a quick exit or I can speed up the tea ceremony to get rid of him.”
“Disaster plan all worked out,” Julia said with a smile, but Winifred could tell it was a nervous one. So this clearly was serious.
“Don’t forget he’ll know he’s being paraded for inspection.”
“I suppose he will.”
“Of course he will if he’s bright. And if he wasn’t you wouldn’t give him a second look. So four o’clock, Julia. I’ll make scones.”
“Thank you, Aunty.” She hugged her fondly.
“Don’t thank me yet. And one more thing before you go to collect him.”
“What?”
“Do I need an interpreter?”
“Good heavens no! He speaks perfect English.” Being able to assure her of that felt very good. Like a minor victory.
“So she’s Janet’s aunt and your great-aunt, widowed since World War One. That’s a long time to be living alone. What else do I need to know?”
“After Mum and Dad she’s my favourite relative.”
“And she’s checking on who you’re travelling with.”
“Winnie likes the company of young people. She invites my friends to tea and makes scones.”
“Did she ever invite what’s-his-name? Oliver?”
“Only once. Couldn’t stand him,” Julia said, noticing his look of relief, although he attempted to conceal it.
“I’ll try to be on my best behaviour.”
“It’s not an inspection,” she said, regretting her clumsy reply. “I don’t see her much since joining up because of the distance, and she gets lonely.”
“How old is she, Julia?”
“We think ninety. She’s a fierce republican and says if she lives long enough to receive a token telegram from Buckingham Palace, she’ll mark it ‘return to sender’.”
Carlo smiled. “I think I like her already.”
Great-aunt Winifred seemed to like Carlo. She knew a great deal about him, which surprised Julia, who’d deliberately not revealed much of his background.
“I hear they call you the POW Artist,” were her first words after they met.
“I’m never sure if it’s a compliment or a curse, Ma’am,” Carlo said, “but I think I’m stuck with it.”
“No Ma’am by request, please. You’re Carlo, I’m Win, and she’s Julia. I told them at the time Juliet’s a pretty name for a pretty child, but the boys will all want to be Romeo. I must say, I was impressed by that painting of yours.”
Julia was startled by her knowledge of it. “You mean the portrait of Tiffany Watson,” she ventured.
“No, darling. The entry that should’ve won the Greenway. I sat in the garden to see those fireworks,” she said to Carlo. “Your painting was vivid and dreamlike. Most impressive.”
“Thank you, Win.” He was stimulated by her words.
“Hard to believe it’ll soon be New Year again. I swear the time goes by a lot faster at my age.”
She told Julia to show Carlo the garden while she took the scones from the oven. They went out to the ground behind the house filled with waratahs and acacias dwarfed by a towering Jacaranda. While Carlo was admiring them Julia went to the open kitchen window and asked her great-aunt a question, although she already knew the answer.
“Aunty Win, did you ring Mum to get all that information?”
“I needed to know things you didn’t tell me, darling. Trying to help.”
I’m sure you were, Julia thought, but the word will be out. They were a family with few secrets, and within days this news would do the rounds. The cousins would have a new topic of gossip, and their parents would warn their kids to be careful in their choice of partners. ‘Don’t you let what happened to Juliet happen to you,’ they would say.
So be it, she decided. There’d be a new round of chatter, but in a week’s time she’d be in far off Longreach, driving cars for the Wing Commanders in the cause of winning the war against Hitler and Tojo. A war her father felt sure would end next year, and after that there was a job waiting for her back at Fairfax. If her life was a mess, at least she was a keen journalist. And it would all be clear-cut and simple—with no love affair to get her in any strife again, provided she was not in love with Carlo Minnelli. But that was the key word. She already felt a growing attachment, and was not at all sure she could control what was happening.
“She’s really charming,” he said, as Julia drove him back to the camp. It was much later than they’d expected, but the scones had been delicious and the welcome so warm that it would have been bad manners to leave sooner. He thought Julia had been edgy, quiet a lot of the time and not always involved in the discussion. But Winifred’s had been a remarkable life, and Carlo had greatly enjoyed hearing about it. She was a child when the Empire was still marked in red on each school atlas and Britain ruled so much of the world.
She had married her husband before the colonies had sent their leaders to London with a document to be signed and brought home. January the first, 1901, the pair had been among the thousands in Centennial Park where the first Governor-General had proclaimed: “One people, one destiny, one flag”, and Australia had become a nation.
Great-aunt Win had told all this in a simple and quiet way that excited Carlo. He could visualise the pavilion in the park, the moment of history, the convict colony proud of its achievement.
“I could have listened to her all night, Julia.”
“I know. She’s a marvel. I grew up feeling privileged to be in the same family. That she seemed to like me.”
“She loves you,” Carlo said. “Loves you, and worries about you. Is that because of ‘him’ as Win calls him?” Julia just nodded. “He obviously caused you a lot of trouble.”
“He did. But he’s gone. If he ever starts phoning or following me again, there are laws…”
“Was it that bad? I didn’t realise…”
“It was that bad and worse, but it’s finally over. Dad wanted me to ask for police protection…while I just wanted him out of my life and the whole thing ended. Ended very badly, but it did end.”
He could feel the sudden tremble in her voice, and see tears on her cheek, as she rapidly steered the car to the roadside, switched off the engine and began to cry. When he put his arms around her, she clung to him and sobbed until there seemed to be no tears left. He held her gently until sure it was over, then from his pocket took a handkerchief and used it to carefully wipe and dry her face.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to smile. He kissed her forehead and after a moment she took the handkerchief from him and frowned at herself in the car mirror.
“I look an absolute mess.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Stop being so nice to me, Carlo.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Because…look, I need time to work out how I feel. In the past I’ve made mistakes. Rushed things. This has felt so quick, and I don’t want it to go wrong and ruin everything. So can we wait, be friends until we’re sure?”
“That’s what you tried to ask me yesterday. I thought it was your way of saying forget it. Tell me honestly, was that what you meant?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Did it mean let’s get to know each other better?”
“Yes.”
“See each other as often as we c
an, and then…”
“Find out if we both feel the same.” She put her hands each side of his face, and softly kissed his lips. “I do really need more time. There are things that won’t be easy. Queensland is for six months and we can’t meet with that long distance between us. And when the war’s over you’ll have to go home.”
“That sounds like a list of reasons why it could never work.”
“I want to make a list of why it might.”
“Then let’s do that,” Carlo said. “Not many days before you leave.”
“Only five now. Till Saturday.”
He tried to be positive, and not shocked by the length of time they’d be apart in contrast to this brief period. “Can we spend those days together?”
“Is it possible?”
“I’ll try to make it possible. Walt can run the studio. The hours I’ve put in, a few trips to sketch local scenes won’t be a problem. Will you also let me paint your portrait, so I can look at you each morning until we meet again.”
“Send me a copy,” she smiled.
“I promise.”
She drove him to the gates at the entrance to the camp. It was getting dark and the lights were already bright along Broadway. In the car he took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“Sogni d’oro, Julia.”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“Golden dreams,” Carlo said.
Five days were never going to be enough. It was fortunate Julia had packed an overnight bag with changes of casual clothes, for it was a summer heatwave. They walked to places like the heritage Mill, then Woodstock, as well as watching a sunset across the Lachlan Valley. They took notes of all these places for his sketches, then photos of the European arrival site in 1815, and lots more snapshots of each other.
No matter how they wanted the days to last, time became an enemy. Carlo wanted to introduce her to his closest friend, so they drove out to the dairy farm on the second last day. Alice was showing the early signs of pregnancy, and told them she was due to give birth in May but by her own estimation it would be April or even March. Not that dates of birth mattered now, for Gianni ran the farm in partnership with his mother-in-law. Joe had been caught in bed with one of the land-girls who worked there and Cynthia had always owned the controlling interest in the farm her father had started. She was in the process of divorcing Joe and the lucrative farm would then be owned by a trio of Cynthia, Alice and Gianni.
The Last Double Sunrise Page 29