Kal

by Judy Nunn

  Enrico registered the rebuke and tried desperately to undo the damage. ‘I wanted to play you my song. With the words. To see if you liked it.’

  Solange’s irritation dissolved immediately. The boy was so earnest, it was impossible not to warm to him. ‘But you do not have your concertina.’

  ‘I could go and get it.’

  ‘No, no,’ she smiled. ‘I must visit my cousin.’

  ‘Tomorrow then. We could meet somewhere.’ She seemed uncertain. ‘The rotunda,’ he added hastily, ‘we could listen to the brass band and then we could go for a walk and I could play you my song.’

  She laughed. ‘Very well. The rotunda. At three o’clock. Goodbye, Enrico.’

  They met once a week after that, on either a Saturday or a Sunday. They would go for a walk and gather wildflowers, or they would take a picnic lunch into the bush and Enrico would play her his latest song. He couldn’t stop writing songs now; they poured out of him. And every once in a while they would go to the rotunda and listen to the brass band.

  Sometimes Solange would look at Enrico and think fondly that her young brother in Houilles would be close to his age now. It was good to have such a friend, she thought. Outside of the brothel, she had no friends. Few of the prostitutes did. They kept to themselves. It was better that way.

  FLAGS WERE FLYING in the streets of Boulder and lines of bunting stretched across Burt Street, the main thoroughfare. The Municipal Brass Band played ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and hundreds of sightseers lined the pavements as the Governor’s party and guests of honour arrived for the official opening of the Boulder Town Hall.

  The weather was not in keeping with the celebrations. It was a bleak, damp winter afternoon in June, but Paul Dunleavy was thankful as he watched the ceremony with the Kalgoorlie mayoral contingent and other select guests of honour. Paul had arrived on the goldfields in February and he’d thought the summer would never end.

  The official party was received by a guard of honour from the Goldfields Infantry Regiment and, as His Excellency the Governor Sir Frederick Belford opened the front door of the hall with a souvenir gold key, the crowds applauded vociferously.

  Inside the hall, Paul sat next to Kalgoorlie’s Deputy Mayor Harry Brearley and his wife Maudie and studied the architecture. It was simple but of a pleasing design, he decided, casting his eye over the high wooden-panelled ceilings and the heavy carved dress-circle balcony.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Maudie whispered, her mind numbed by the endless official speeches.

  Paul smiled. ‘More impressive than Mr Gribble,’ he whispered back as the Boulder Town Clerk concluded his speech. Paul liked Maudie. He wasn’t so sure about her husband, ‘Flash Harry’, although he’d agreed that the Midas Christmas party was to be held at Restaurant Picot. It was a whole six months away—he wondered how he’d allowed himself to be persuaded. But then, Harry Brearley was a difficult man to say no to.

  Paul had met Harry at Hannan’s Businessmen’s Club several months after his arrival and had accepted the Australian’s offer to dine with him and his wife at Restaurant Picot. After a superb meal of international standard, which had greatly surprised Paul, Harry had cross-examined him about the Midas.

  ‘Rumour has it the Midas is going to be closed down,’ Harry had said, leaning back in his chair and lighting up his Havana. He’d registered Dunleavy’s surprise at the service and cuisine and was proud of himself. He’d shown the American they had style here in Kalgoorlie. ‘Is it true?’

  It was certainly true that Paul’s initial impulse upon inspecting the mine had been to advise Lord Lionel Laverton and the London board of directors to cut their losses and close down the Midas, but he was hardly going to admit that to Harry. He was taken aback by the man’s presumption in questioning him so. Despite his conviviality, his tailored clothes and social flair, Harry Brearlely was crass, Paul decided.

  ‘No,’ he answered simply, ‘no, the Midas will not be closed down.’ He hoped that the brevity of his answer would terminate the conversation.

  ‘But the mine manager’s been dismissed,’ Harry insisted, ‘and workers are being laid off, left, right and centre.’

  Paul had indeed dismissed the mine manager, along with a number of employees in key positions. The manager had been the second appointed since the Laverton debacle and he and his predecessor had both been utterly incompetent. Not criminally so, but they had been incapable of repairing the damage wrought by Richard Laverton.

  ‘We will appoint a new manager in due course,’ he replied, wishing the man would shut up.

  ‘And the miners … dozens of men laid off I’m told.’

  ‘Harry!’ Maudie had recognised Paul’s reticence. ‘Stop pestering Mr Dunleavy,’ she said good-naturedly.

  Paul appreciated Maudie’s motives but the forthright way she expressed herself didn’t really help matters. He was, after all, Harry’s dinner guest. ‘It’s perfectly all right, Mrs Brearley, I assure you. We will, of course, be re-employing miners when further assessments have been carried out.’ He nodded gratefully to the waiter who offered to refill his coffee cup.

  Paul had quickly realised that his impulse to recommend the closure of the Midas had stemmed from his desire to return home—he had taken an instant dislike to outback Australia. But such an action would be cowardly. It was his duty to rescue the Midas, and to restore it to its past glory. It wasn’t as if there was a lack of gold to be mined, the problem was merely finding a cost-effective way of going about it. The fact that the underground manager, employed since the disaster of the previous year, had been dishonest hadn’t helped. Gold stealing was rife amongst the miners. He’d dismissed at least fifty per cent of them and set about finding a trustworthy underground boss.

  It had been Alwyn Llewellyn, the longest-serving employee at the Midas, who had recommended Giovanni Gianni.

  ‘An Italian?’ Paul had queried.

  ‘Yes, but he’s educated, he can read and write. He’s a damn good miner and he’s as honest as the day is long. Furthermore, he saved my life. He’s a man you can rely on, Mr Dunleavy, sir.’

  The injuries Alwyn had sustained in the tunnel collapse prevented him from ever again working underground. His femur had been broken and he still suffered severe bouts of pain in his left hip. In recognition of his services, however, he had been guaranteed full above-ground employment upon his recovery. Paul Dunleavy had immediately evaluated him as an honest man amongst the ranks and had looked to him for inside information.

  ‘Tell me more about this Gianni,’ Paul had said. ‘His private life?’

  ‘He married recently.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ Paul liked employing married men in positions of authority. He found them more stable.

  ‘And he supports two children by his wife’s previous marriage.’ Alwyn desperately wanted his friend to get the job—Giovanni needed the money, he knew it. ‘She was a widow,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Ah, I see … Two children. Good. Good.’ A man with family obligations, Paul liked that too. ‘Very well,’ he’d said. ‘I shall interview Mr Gianni.’

  As the waiter finished filling his coffee cup, Paul decided that brevity was perhaps not the way to put an end to Harry’s unwanted interrogation. Whenever there was a pause, the man fired another question. He must pretend to offer information without being specific. ‘Why, only the other day I employed a highly recommended underground manager,’ he nodded a thank you to the waiter, ‘and following our further assessments, we will appoint experts at every level. I assure you, Mr Brearley, the Midas will flourish once more, have no doubt of it.’

  ‘Harry. Please. Call me Harry.’

  ‘Harry. Of course.’ Paul breathed a sigh of relief. The questions were over. ‘And you must call me Paul,’ he added reluctantly. He would rather not have encouraged familiarity, but as Flash Harry was his host, he had no option.

  ‘So who have you appointed as underground manager, Paul?’

  Dear God, would the man ne
ver stop? As yet, no announcements had been made and Paul was damned if he was going to pass on any inside information to Harry Brearley.

  Maudie laughed loudly. ‘Harry,’ she said, ‘you’re incorrigible.’

  In her own way, Paul decided, Maudie was as crass as her husband. But there was something open, honest and eminently likeable about her. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, trying to evade the question, ‘I’m looking forward to meeting the families of the men I appoint.’ He directed his conversation toward Maudie hoping that, by engaging her, he would distract Harry. ‘It is a method very much employed in America, to involve the families of company staff. To form a bond, to improve morale. A mid-year picnic is the custom, or a Christmas party for all the families.’

  Harry was finally distracted. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘A mid-year party for the Midas families. Right here at Restaurant Picot. You could book out the whole place!’

  Paul had to admire the man’s eye for the main chance. ‘It’s a little early for that, Harry,’ he smiled. ‘We haven’t even appointed the principal players yet.’

  ‘A Christmas party then.’ Like a dog with a bone, there was no way Harry was going to let go. ‘You’ll need Restaurant Picot for a Christmas party, my friend.’ Harry had so admired Gaston’s form of address that he’d adopted it himself. It was a pity he couldn’t actually use ‘mon ami’, but that would have been a little too pretentious. ‘It gets damned hot in Kal at Christmas. But here,’ he waved aloft at the huge ceiling fans, ‘here you’ll be as cool as a cucumber.’

  Christmas in Kalgoorlie. Paul shuddered at the thought, a brief image of snowmen in Copley Square flashing through his mind. How he’d hoped to be home for Christmas. But of course it would be impossible. It would take a full year to sort out the problems at the Midas.

  ‘Fine, Harry. A Christmas party at Restaurant Picot would be just fine.’

  ‘ALWYN LLEWELLYN SPEAKS very highly of you, Giovanni.’

  ‘He is a good friend.’

  Paul Dunleavy recognised the simplicity and sincerity of the man. The eyes were direct and honest, as were the answers to his questions. The records before him stated that Giovanni Gianni was born in 1872, but he appeared younger than his thirty-six years. Probably because he was clean-shaven, Paul thought. But the scar looked as if it were the result of a knife wound.

  ‘You’ve been involved in the odd fight or two I take it?’

  ‘Only when I have had to.’ It didn’t occur to Giovanni to lie.

  Paul respected him for it. ‘You’ve recently married, Alwyn tells me.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Dunleavy.’ The mere mention of his wife brought an involuntary smile to the Italian’s lips, his face glowed with a boyish happiness. ‘In February.’

  Caterina had refused to marry Giovanni until one year after Evan’s death and, during that year, no one had known of their affair. Regularly, on Sundays, Giovanni had visited Caterina and the children but he always left before nightfall. And regularly, in the veil of night, Caterina had visited him. They’d make love in the dingy little palace of his room and he’d sing to her and they’d talk and laugh and hold each other close. Then, before dawn, she’d quietly steal home.

  When they had married, the townspeople were happy for them. Giovanni had been so good to the family since Evan’s death. Why, the boy already thought of him as a father. Young Paul Jones was calling himself Paolo Gianni these days. It was a good thing for all concerned, they had decided. Kalgoorlie was no place for a widow with two children. Kate needed a husband.

  ‘And you have two children?’ Dunleavy continued.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. I like employing family men, men with responsibilities.’

  Giovanni nodded, his eyes never leaving Dunleavy’s. He knew the American was appraising him but he wasn’t sure what was expected of him. He’d anticipated questions about mining procedure, the duties of an underground boss, not enquiries about his personal life.

  When Alwyn had first mentioned the job, Giovanni had had some trepidations as to his abilities. ‘The rocks don’t speak to me, Alwyn,’ he’d said, ‘I can’t hear the rocks.’

  Alwyn had smiled. ‘We none of us know if we can truly hear them, Giovanni.’ Then, realising the Italian’s concern was genuine, he’d added, ‘But if the rocks are going to talk to anyone it will be to a man with music in him. That’s why they talked to Evan, I swear.’

  Giovanni decided to answer the questions as briefly and simply as possible. Mr Dunleavy was a clever man, educated, accustomed to command. He recognised also that, like most men in a position of authority, Mr Dunleavy enjoyed exercising his power.

  The interview did not last long. They shook hands and Paul said, ‘I look forward to meeting your family one day, Giovanni.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dunleavy, sir.’

  IT WAS A fine September morning, a Sunday, when the children were out playing with their friends and Caterina and Giovanni had stolen back into the bedroom to make love, that she told him.

  Curled, naked, her head against his shoulder, one thigh draped over his, she whispered, ‘I am going to have a baby.’

  Before that morning Giovanni had thought that nothing could make his life richer, fuller. He’d been wrong. His smile was one of pure joy as he smoothed her hair back and kissed her. Then he noticed the concern in her eyes. ‘What could be more wonderful?’ he asked.

  ‘Babies cost money, Giovanni, and there is the children’s schooling.’

  Although Giovanni had been employed as underground boss for nearly four months, their expenses had been substantial, particularly their move to a three-bed-roomed house. ‘Paolo will need his own room to study when he goes to the School of Mines.’ Giovanni had said proudly. ‘Just think, Caterina, we will have a scholar in the family.’

  Now he laughed at her concern. ‘Why do you think of money when we are having a baby, you foolish woman?’ He continued to laugh as he rolled her around on the bed until, infected by his exhilaration, she laughed with him. They were still laughing as they made love.

  Later in the day, over lunch, they informed the children. Eight-year-old Briony was sceptical—‘Will it be a sister?’—but Paolo was happy, simply because his mother and Giovanni were happy.

  ‘Can I tell Enrico?’ he asked. Despite an eighteen-month age difference and a healthy rivalry for Giovanni’s affection, the two boys were firm friends.

  Giovanni looked at Caterina who nodded. ‘Yes, you may tell Enrico,’ she said and Paolo bolted from the table. ‘After you have washed the dishes.’

  But he was already out the door. ‘It’s Briony’s turn,’ he yelled over his shoulder.

  SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD Paolo was happier than he had ever been. For the first time in his life he felt a sense of identity. It was all because of Giovanni. He loved the way Giovanni called his mother Caterina—everyone else still called her Kate—and he loved the way Giovanni spoke of Italy. Now Paul Jones was Paolo Gianni and he was proud of his newfound identity. It gave him a sense of belonging, a completeness he had never experienced before.

  Paolo headed directly for the rotunda where a brass band always played on a Sunday afternoon and where Enrico was invariably to be found.

  A popular weekend gathering place, the rotunda was Kalgoorlie’s pride and joy. Picturesque and ornate, it sat in a small square park off Hannan Street in the very centre of town, the greenery of the park defying the surrounding countryside.

  Today Enrico was not in his customary position, tapping his foot and marking time with the band. Paolo looked about for him. A group of youths, several of whom he recognised, were milling in the far corner of the park and he walked towards them.

  ‘Bastardo!’ It was Enrico’s voice. A scream of rage. Paolo could hardly believe it.

  In the centre of the group, a fight had broken out. Paolo elbowed his way through the surrounding boys who were shouting their encouragement.

  Jack Brearley and Enrico Gianni were wrestling and it was
Enrico who had the advantage. His attack had come as a complete surprise and now he straddled Jack, his hands around the other boy’s throat. ‘Bastardo!’ he yelled as he smashed Jack’s head back hard against the ground. ‘Bastardo!’ And again Jack’s head was smashed against the ground as Enrico desperately tried to throttle the life out of him.

  For a moment, Paolo stood amazed. He had never seen such rage in his friend. He stepped forward to pull Enrico away but, as he did, the tide of battle turned. Neither Enrico’s element of surprise nor his rage were a match for Jack’s superior strength and weight. The Australian smashed his fist hard into the Italian boy’s ribs. Then again. And again. Enrico’s grip weakened and the two of them rolled together in the dirt, Jack punching and kicking as hard as he could until, seconds later, he was the one on top. Now it was his hands around Enrico’s throat. He held him down with ease, one hand only, as he scooped up a fistful of dust.

  ‘Have you had enough? Do you give in?’ he panted as he trickled the dust over Enrico’s face. The boy spluttered and twisted his head from side to side. ‘Go on,’ Jack sneered, ‘say it. Say “I give in”.’

  Enrico was choking now, the dust in his mouth, his nose, his eyes, but he snarled as he twisted under Jack’s weight. Never would he give in. Never.

  ‘Let him go.’ Paolo gripped Jack’s collar and tried to drag him off Enrico, but there was no budging him.

  ‘Not until he says he gives in.’ Jack didn’t even look up at the person who was intervening as he gathered another fistful of dirt. ‘Say you give in, dago.’

  Paolo stood to one side. ‘You’re a coward, Jack. You’re a bully and a coward.’ Jack didn’t release his grip on Enrico, but he did look up. ‘You’ve beaten him before,’ Paul continued, ‘where’s the competition? Why don’t you try me instead? It’d be a fairer fight.’ Paolo had never been in a fight in his life and he didn’t relish the prospect now, but he stood prepared.

  Slowly Jack got to his feet. Paolo was a good two inches taller than he was, although their weight was about the same. He knew he could beat the older boy, but he didn’t want to. He’d always liked Paul, always respected him. Paul was clever.