by Judy Nunn
‘But you can hear something, eh?’
‘And sometimes they talk,’ Freddie interrupted, nodding eagerly. ‘Not to me, they never talk to me. But some of the others hear them. Alwyn hears them. Don’t you, Alwyn?’
The Welshman nodded. ‘But no one hears them the way Evan Jones hears them. The rocks never talk to the rest of us the way they talk to Evan.’
It was crib time so they walked back along the drive to the plat where they would meet up with the other miners. There, they would sit on the benches carved in the rock, heat their billy tea with their candles and share their stories.
‘And do you know,’ Alwyn continued, ‘the man says he doesn’t believe it?’ He laughed but there was affection in his voice. ‘He says that it’s fanciful to think that the rocks are talking to him. He says that it’s the echoes that tell him what lies ahead. Just the sounds he hears when he taps the rocks, just that and nothing more, he says.’ The smile died on Alwyn’s lips and, in the gloom, his voice was deadly earnest. ‘But he’s wrong. It’s a whole lot more. And deep down, Evan knows it.’ Ahead, they could see the light from the oil lamps in the plat. ‘He knows that the rocks are talking to him. And, whether it’s fanciful or not to admit it, he knows that he listens to them.’
As they drank their tea, the miners exchanged stories of disasters, probably to impress the newcomer in their midst, and Giovanni realised that Evan had been right. Working in one of the big mines was a far more dangerous proposition than working one’s own lease for alluvial gold.
The explosives caused the most number of accidents. Anything could go wrong when one was dealing with explosives, he was told: one could be blown up, smashed to death by rock shards or asphyxiated by fumes. Then, of course, there were the cave-ins—many a man had been buried alive—and the accidents involving the main shaft and the cage. That was what had happened to Freddie’s predecessor, they told Giovanni. He’d leaned out of the cage and his arm had been crushed. He’d lived, but he’d lost the arm and could no longer work in the mines. And there was the shocking time when six men had been killed. The brakes had failed at the fifth level and the cage had simply plummeted to the bottom.
‘I remember that day,’ Alwyn said. ‘A Friday. A terrible Friday. It was the afternoon shift. Late in the afternoon. I’d long since finished work and I was at the pub when I heard the sirens. Those sirens make a man’s blood run cold. The whole town streamed up to the poppet head. No one knew who’d been in the cage when it crashed. There were twenty men under the ground and no one knew who were the ones who were dead, you see. They had to wait till they hauled them up.
‘The faces on the women as they waited, I’ll never forget it. Some screamed and some prayed and some just stood there, with their babies in their arms and their children clutching at their skirts. It was a bad day.’
The men were silent as Alwyn finished the story. They all knew of that black Friday six years ago, although none of them had been working at the Midas at the time.
‘There was talk that it was the winding-engine driver’s fault,’ Alwyn continued as he swigged at his billy tea, ‘but it was never proved. Thank the Lord.’ The men exchanged looks of complicity. It was rare for a death to be labelled anything other than accidental—the miners made sure of that. If human error was proved to be the reason, the mines did not pay compensation.
Six months after the investigation into the deaths, the engine driver had suicided. ‘He did the right thing, poor man,’ Alwyn said. ‘He waited until the case was cleared and each of the widows had received compensation.’
EVAN HAD DELIBERATELY teamed Giovanni with Alwyn Llewellyn. He knew that Alwyn would accept the good-natured Italian at face value and he knew that Alwyn’s acceptance would help to dispell any ill-will amongst the others. Despite the fact that a number of Italians worked above ground at the Midas, Giovanni was the first of his countrymen to be employed as a miner and Evan was aware that he might well be courting trouble. To his relief, however, there appeared to be relatively little discontent amongst the ranks. The odd remark came from the quarters which, if there was nothing to grumble about, would invent something anyway. Nevertheless, Evan decided that any such reaction should be nipped in the bud and that an open display of his personal approval might serve as a warning to the dissident minority.
‘You must come to dinner on Friday, Giovanni, I insist, and you must bring your concertina.’ Before Giovanni could reply, Evan continued. ‘Alwyn will be there. You two can learn each other’s songs.’
Giovanni, fully aware of the reasons for the invitation, had no option but to accept, although the thought of seeing Caterina was almost more than he could bear. For a month now he had worked hard at the Midas, rarely allowing his thoughts to stray to her. After the work day, he drank a moderate amount of beer at the Sheaf, played billiards in the backroom, and went home to a family dinner. Then he went to bed and the next morning rose early and repeated the entire exercise. Day after day. It was only in his bed, late at night or in the early hours of the morning, that the image of Caterina tormented him. The rest of the time, she was there certainly, but in the recesses of his mind, like a beautiful memory. Giovanni had control of his obsession. Until now.
‘HARLECH CYFOD DYFANERI,
Gwel y gelyn, ennyn yni
Y Meirionwyr oll i weiddi
‘Cymru fo am byth!’
Giovanni accompanied the men on his concertina. He had picked up the melody easily enough, it was simple march time. But the song was a stirring one. A battle song. ‘Men of Harlech’ they’d called it. And, although he didn’t understand the words, Giovanni admired the three-part harmony and the Welshmen’s voices and the power of the song itself.
‘Men of Harlech, lie ye dreaming?
See ye not their fulchions gleaming,
While their pennons gaily streaming
Flutter in the breeze?’
Evan Jones, Alwyn Llewellyn and Tony Prendergast, another Welsh miner from the Midas, were delighting in each other’s voices and the sound of their mother country. Evan had had several beers during the evening meal, just enough to loosen him up. It was rare for him to sing in the company of anyone other than his Welsh friends and tonight, not only was Giovanni there but Freddie too. Evan had decided that his show of support would be less blatant if he were to invite the three-man team rather than Giovanni alone. Freddie, thrilled beyond measure to be a guest in the boss’s house, was having the time of his life, clapping along to the music, a little off the beat.
During the meal, Giovanni had spent the entire time resisting the urge to look at Caterina. And Kate herself, unable to eat, had left the table under every pretext possible to spend as much time as she could in the kitchen. No one appeared to have noticed. No one, that is, except Giovanni. Evan was concentrating on being a good host and Alwyn, Freddie and Tony were too busy concentrating on the excellent meal.
When Kate had cleared the table, the men sat back and lit up their pipes and no one found her absence amiss as she retired to do the dishes. Then it was Briony’s bedtime and Kate had to read her a story. She read three stories, until the little girl was fast asleep. Then she sat on the bed for a further fifteen minutes. Now, as the men finished teaching Giovanni the melody of ‘Calan Lan’ and launched once again into their three-part harmony, Kate had run out of excuses and had no option but to join them.
She sat in the corner and watched the singers but, try as she might, she could not prevent herself from occasionally stealing a glance at Giovanni. She tried to concentrate on his hands as he played the concertina, tried to pretend her interest was in the music, but every now and then, her eyes flickered to his face. Such a fine face. He was the only one of the men clean-shaven—unusual for a miner. How she longed to touch that face … Quickly she forced her attention back to the singers.
Giovanni could feel her eyes upon him. He concentrated desperately on the music. A hymn. Haunting. A song of great beauty. Far more difficult to play than the march. He f
ocused on Evan who was conducting him through the melody.
‘Nid wyn gof am bwyd moethus
Aur y byd uw berlei man
Gofyd wyf am galon hapus
Galon Iwn a galon Ian,’
Don’t look at her, Giovanni told himself, don’t look at her. But even as his eyes followed Evan, he could feel her gaze.
‘I seek not of worldly treasure,
Gold nor pearls of any mart.
Give me a heart of joyful measure.
Just a guileless, honest heart.’
He could feel her. Caressing his skin. Her eyes flickering from his hands, as she pretended to heed the music, to his face.
It was because of Caterina that Giovanni had remained clean-shaven. They teased him about it at the mine. A bushy beard was the miner’s trademark. But Caterina had touched his face with her hand, and had caressed his face with her eyes that day they had exchanged vows. He did not want to change the face which she had said she loved.
As the men finished their third rendition of ‘Calan Lan’, Kate realised with relief that it was Paul’s bedtime. ‘Come along, Paul, time for bed.’ The boy didn’t need to be accompanied but she could use it as an excuse to leave the room.
Paul protested. ‘But we haven’t had a song of Giovanni’s yet.’ He turned to his stepfather. ‘Evan, you promised, remember?’
‘Paul’s quite right,’ Evan agreed. ‘I promised him we would teach each other our songs.’ He turned to Giovanni. ‘I have been selfish. We’re so used to singing unaccompanied, you see, it is a treat to have a musician play our songs for us.’
‘They are fine songs,’ Giovanni said.
‘Now one of yours. Sing us one of your songs, Giovanni.’ Evan pulled up a chair and sat alongside his wife. ‘Let Paul stay up a little late tonight, my dear. There’s no school tomorrow.’
‘All right, all right,’ Kate laughed and surrendered. ‘I give up.’
‘You must sing with me, Paul,’ Giovanni insisted.
The boy looked at his stepfather and Evan nodded. ‘Of course. Paul sings with Giovanni’s family,’ he explained to the others, adding with pride, ‘he knows all the Italian lyrics.’
As he spoke, Evan recalled how uneasy he’d felt in the company of foreigners—not so very long ago either. How self-conscious he was—and how over-protective he’d been of his wife’s background. He’d been foolish, he now admitted to himself. They should all be singing each other’s songs and sharing each other’s heritage. Particularly here, in Kalgoorlie. They were brothers under the sun, after all. He wondered whether it was the beer that was bringing on this rush of bonhomie, or whether it was the glow of national pride and brotherly love which ‘Calan Lan’ always inspired in him.
‘What shall we sing, Paul?’ Giovanni asked.’ ‘Funiculi Funicula?’’
‘“Torna a Surriento”.’
He should have known. It had always been the boy’s favourite. Giovanni hesitated for only a fraction of a second and then he played the opening chords.
‘‘Vide ’o mare quant’ e bello …’ ’
He did not give himself up to the song. He did not dare. He concentrated on Paul instead, encouraging the boy to sing the lyric.
Kate couldn’t help it. Like a magnet, her eyes were drawn to Giovanni. He was smiling at her son. She studied the warmth of his smile … the fullness of his mouth … the curve of his lip … It was only for a few seconds, but her concentration was so total that she wasn’t aware of Evan beside her. She didn’t register Evan turn towards her; she didn’t register his shock. She dragged her eyes away from Giovanni and looked down at her hands, noticing for the first time that her fingers were interwoven and her knuckles white. She regained her composure and looked up, and it was only then that she saw her husband watching her.
She smiled at him. ‘It is a beautiful song, isn’t it? And Paul sings it very well; he certainly knows all the words.’
Evan made a show of watching the boy as the song concluded, but he wasn’t listening to Paul. He was trying to analyse what he had just seen. The rapture in his wife’s eyes as she had looked at Giovanni, surely he had imagined it. He had drunk more than he was accustomed to, and alcohol always went to his head. He wasn’t a heavy drinker like most of the other miners. That must be it. He must have imagined it.
For the remainder of the evening, Evan continued to rationalise what he’d seen and, by the time the men finally departed well after midnight, he was more or less convinced that it had been the beer. So why was he left with a vague feeling of presentiment? He needed to go to bed, he told himself. He needed to sleep it off.
Kate had said a general goodnight and retired to the kitchen to wash the coffee mugs. She could hear the men at the front door, congratulating each other on a fine evening. She leaned over the washbasin and put her head in her hands. Guilt overwhelmed her. She knew that as she had looked at Giovanni tonight, she had wanted him. May God forgive her. She had sat beside her husband and wanted another man. She felt sick with remorse. She must never see Giovanni again, she told herself. Never.
As he walked home, Giovanni, too, felt wretched. Evan had helped and befriended him. The man had invited him into his home and the whole night all Giovanni had been able to think of was making love to his wife. It had taken every ounce of self-control Giovanni could muster simply not to look at Caterina. If their eyes had once met, he knew his desire would have been readable to every man in the room. He must never see her again. She must remain the beautiful memory in the recesses of his mind. He must satisfy his lust elsewhere.
When he had reached the southern outskirts of the town, Giovanni did not head north. He turned into Hay Street and headed for Red Ruby’s instead.
HARRY BREARLEY REINED in Black Bess and checked his fob watch. He was ten minutes early. He sat back in the trap and studied Jeanne’s house. It was one of the most elegant houses in Kalgoorlie. Set back from the street, wide, airy verandahs, large windows, with wooden shutters to keep out the harshness of the sun. And a garden. Shrubs and flowers. Hardy shrubs and homely flowers. Geraniums and sweet peas and the like. Nothing pretentious and nothing that could be accused of water wastage. Jeanne was a woman of great taste in every sense of the word.
Harry jumped down from the trap, patted Black Bess and walked about. He didn’t really need to stretch his legs but he was too restless to sit and wait.
His double-breasted wool suit was far too warm for the autumn afternoon, but it was in fine check and of the very latest style and he hadn’t been able to resist wearing it.
‘Harry, you’ll bake,’ Maudie had laughed.
‘Madame Renoir is a very elegant woman, Maudie, and if I’m to work with her I’ll need to dress accordingly.’
Maudie smiled to herself. He had returned from Perth with a complete new wardrobe, announcing that this was what they were wearing in London and this in Paris—at least, according to Gaston, and he should know.
Maudie was delighted with the lightweight travelling coat he had bought her and the several hats, particularly the one with the sheerest gossamer veil. And she was delighted by the childish enthusiasm with which he handed out the many presents he’d bought for each member of the family. Soft, cuddly toys for the twins. A double-breasted suit for Jack. His very first.
‘Hell, Pa, where am I going to wear that?’
Maudie didn’t admonish the boy for swearing. She smiled instead. ‘A funeral maybe?’
‘One is never too young to develop a sense of style,’ Harry said defensively and Maudie, realising that he was a little hurt, came to the rescue.
‘We’ll have afternoon tea at the Palace on Saturday and he’ll wear it then, won’t you, Jack?’ She winked at the boy and he grinned and nodded good-naturedly. He’d do anything for Harry, even if it meant dressing up like a toff. It was good to have his Pa back. ‘And he’ll look so handsome that all the girls will stare at him,’ Maudie teased. Jack crossed his eyes at her.
But it had been Harry himself who ha
d delighted Maudie more than anything. ‘I’m sorry, Maudie,’ he’d said. ‘And I’m going to make it up to you. You’ll be proud of me, I promise.’
Maudie knew, deep down, that Harry would never really change. But she also knew that she loved him. She hoped that this partnership with Gaston Picot would keep him on the straight and narrow path. It certainly sounded as if it would.
‘Monsieur Brearley. Do come in please.’ Jeanne smiled and stood to one side and, from somewhere in the house behind her, Harry could hear a clock chiming. ‘You are exactly on time.’
‘Madame Renoir.’ He lightly kissed the hand she offered him and she nodded her approval.
‘I admire punctuality,’ she said. She had seen him arrive early and watched him as he waited. ‘And you must call me Jeanne. I may call you Harry, oui?’
She was wearing a two-piece afternoon dress in pale grey and pink silk. The high-necked lace bodice accentuated her neat waist, the extended lace cuffs highlighted her neat, perfectly manicured hands. Her abundant light brown hair, secured in a soft chignon, had not a strand out of place. Jeanne Renoir was a neat woman. Which somehow made her even more seductive, Harry thought, as he followed her along the hall, noting the soft sway of her hips and the subtle rustle of her petticoats.
‘This is my secretary and companion, Miss Emily Laurie,’ Jeanne said as she glided into the main drawing room.
Behind her, Harry quickly averted his eyes from her hips, hoping that he had not been caught out. ‘Miss Laurie,’ he said.
The Englishwoman rose from the hardback chair in which she’d been sitting. ‘Mr Brearley.’ She did not proffer her hand as Jeanne had done, but Harry was not offended. He had heard that Jeanne Renoir’s companion was English and Englishwomen did not proffer their hands. Besides, her smile was welcoming.
‘Do please sit, Harry.’ Jeanne gestured to one of the elegant carvers and when the ladies had seated themselves, Jeanne on the divan and Emily once again on her hardback chair, Harry did as he was instructed.