Kal

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Kalgoorlie, oui,’ Maurice nodded. He, too, wanted to talk about Kalgoorlie. ‘A Kalgoorlie les gens sont très riches. Solange est revenu riche aussi. Elle nous a dit qu’il y avait de l’or dans les rues.’

  ‘Gold, oui,’ his wife said proudly.

  ‘My parents are proud of the money I saved when I was working at the shop in Kalgoorlie,’ Solange hastily explained.

  ‘Shop, oui.’ Again her mother smiled proudly. ‘Gold.’

  ‘I brought some gold home with me, sometimes the customers at the shop would pay me in gold.’ It was true, her clients at Red Ruby’s had often paid her in small nuggets. Solange’s eyes were pleading with Rick. Don’t tell them, she was saying, don’t tell them.

  So that was why she was nervous. Rick could have laughed with relief. He sipped his coffee as fast as he could, the sooner they finished the coffee, the sooner he could suggest they go for a walk. ‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘it was a fine shop. Kalgoorlie is a rich town and there is much gold.’

  Solange smiled gratefully and translated for her parents.

  ‘Et cet argent va lui permettre de faire un bon mariage,’ Marie Bouchet added with pride. Her husband glared at her, offended, the insinuation being that the match he had made with Jean-Pierre, the son of his friend, was not good enough. But Marie continued chatting on, regardless. ‘Le fiancé de Solange est propriétaire d’une grande ferme.’

  Amidst the indiscernable gabble of French, Rick had heard the word ‘fiancé’. He turned to Solange. Her face was ashen and he suddenly knew the reason for her fear. ‘You are to be married,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her heart racing, fearful of what he would do. She had not answered the endless letters he had written, assuming that in time he would forget her. But his love was as strong as ever, she had known it the moment she had entered the room. The exquisite delight in his eyes as he’d jumped to his feet. Was there anger in him now? Would he expose her? Many men would. Solange was terrified. Her father would disown her. Her fiancé would refuse to marry her.

  ‘Do you love him?’ Rick asked.

  ‘He is a good man.’

  ‘Oui,’ her mother had understood. ‘A good man. Rich.’

  Rick wanted to get out of the room. Away from Solange. He couldn’t bear the plea in her eyes. She felt nothing for him, he realised, nothing but the fear of exposure.

  ‘Congratulations.’ He tried to smile. Then he drained his coffee and rose. ‘I must go. Thank you for the coffee, Madame Bouchet… merci.’

  ‘Mais il faut rester avec nous. Il est tard. Passez la nuit chez nous?’

  ‘She wants you to stay the night,’ Solange translated.

  ‘Thank you but no,’ he shook his head. ‘I must be leaving.’

  ‘Voulez-vous un autre tasse? Parlons de Kalgoorlie.’ Marie Bouchet loved having visitors.

  ‘No, no, thank you. It will be dark soon and I have a friend waiting.’

  They all accompanied him to the front door. ‘Would you like me to walk with you?’ Solange asked.

  ‘No,’ he answered brusquely. ‘I know the way.’

  ‘Goodbye, Enrico.’ She offered her cheek for him to kiss but he shook her hand instead.

  ‘Goodbye, Solange. I wish you every happiness.’

  They stood at the front door of the little cottage, all three of them, and waved him farewell.

  ‘WHAT HAPPENED?’ Jack asked, when Rick joined him at the inn. Obviously the news was not good-the man’s anguish was palpable.

  ‘She’s going to be married.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think I’ll have a drink. What’s that?’ Rick gestured to the half-empty bottle on the table.

  ‘The local wine. It’s not half-bad, I’ll get you a glass.’ There was nothing more to be said and Jack knew it but, as he wandered over to the wooden bar in the corner, he felt a touch of envy. For all the women he had slept with, he had never once been in love. He wondered what it would be like.

  ‘They’ve got a couple of rooms here,’ he said, handing Rick the glass, ‘but there’s only one left so we’ll have to toss for the bed.’ He grinned. ‘Or we could share it-so long as Tom and Snowy don’t find out.’

  But Rick hadn’t heard him. He was busy downing the glass of red wine. Tonight, for the first time in his life, he was going to get drunk. It was what heartbroken young lovers were supposed to do, wasn’t it?

  ‘WHATEVER HAPPENED TO the Princess?’ Rick asked. It was only an hour later but the unaccustomed wine had gone straight to his head and he was enjoying the conversation. Although he and Jack Brearley had formed a friendship of sorts they had never once spoken of the past. The only time they mentioned Kal was when letters arrived from home. Now they were speaking of their childhood, and it was good.

  ‘The Princess?’ Jack smiled at the memory of the old white mare. ‘She was thirty-one when she died. Only five years ago it was. She’d been a bit crook and Dad kept saying he was going to put her down but Maudie wouldn’t let him. Not that she was in pain,’ he added quickly, ‘Maudie wouldn’t have that. But she was an old horse, her time was up. Then, one morning, Maudie went into the stables and there was the Princess, lying on her side, unconscious, breathing heavy, and it really cut Maudie up, seeing her like that.’

  Jack poured another glass of wine from the fresh bottle, their third so far, and shook his head in admiration. ‘I’d never seen Maudie cry before, but I’ll swear there was a tear in her eye that morning when she came in to get the rifle. I offered to do it for her. Dad did too of course, but she wouldn’t have it. She made Dad and me wait outside while she went into the stables. We listened for the shot, but it didn’t come.’

  ‘Well, go on, what happened?’ Rick urged as Jack swigged from his glass.

  ‘When we went inside, Maudie was sitting in the hay with the Princess’s head in lap. The old mare was dead, but Maudie seemed really happy. She said that when she’d come into the stables and raised the gun, the horse had lifted its head and looked at her. She couldn’t shoot it like that, of course, so she sat down and put its head in her lap and the old mare just closed her eyes and gave a bit of sigh and died. Maudie reckoned that the Princess had picked her own time to die and she’d just been waiting to say goodbye.’

  ‘Good way to go,’ Rick said, staring vacantly down at his empty glass.

  ‘Too right.’ Jack poured him another. ‘Hey, remember the time you fell off the Princess and busted your finger?’

  ‘’Course I do.’ Rick held up the crooked finger. ‘How could I forget?’

  They both heard the words then. ‘That makes us brothers,’ Jack had said. And the oath they’d sworn as children had been as solemn as an oath could be.

  ‘It’s bollocks, isn’t it?’ Jack said a moment or so later. ‘This fight between your dad and mine, it’s just a load of bollocks.’

  ‘Yep,’ Rick nodded. The world was starting to swim a little.

  ‘Stupid old bastards. When we get back to Kal we’ll sort them out, eh?’

  ‘Too right we will.’

  They downed their wine and it wasn’t long before Rick was nodding off to sleep. Jack half carried him up the narrow stairs and dumped him on the bed.

  Typical Gianni, the man couldn’t handle his drink, Jack thought as he happily passed out on the floor.

  Paolo was worried. Giovanni was not well. It wasn’t just the deepened grooves in his cheeks and the silver-grey in his hair. That was simply the passage of time. Or so Paolo had initially thought. It was four years, after all, and people aged in four years. Why, little Rosalina was at school now, and Briony, no longer a rough-and-tumble tomboy, had blossomed beautifully into womanhood. Giovanni had simply grown older.

  But on the first night, after supper when they had gathered around to sing to the piano accordion, Giovanni’s voice could not be heard above the others.

  ‘Why are you not singing, Giovanni?’ Paolo had asked.

  ‘My voice is not what is was,’ Giovanni smiled, e
vading a direct answer, ‘and it’s best to let people remember you at your finest, do you not agree?’

  That was when Paolo first became suspicious. Nothing stopped Giovanni from singing. Something must be wrong.

  Several days later, when he awoke in the very early hours of the morning, Paolo went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and heard a muffled sound from the back verandah. He opened the flyscreen door and saw Giovanni sitting on the verandah steps, coughing. A deep rasping cough, and he held a rag to his mouth to muffle the sound. It was then that Paolo knew.

  ‘You’re ill,’ he said.

  When the coughing spasm was under control, Giovanni looked up and nodded. ‘Miners’ complaint,’ he said, his voice husky.

  ‘How long?’ Paolo sat beside his stepfather.

  ‘A year or so,’ Giovanni shrugged, ‘maybe two. It’s worse early in the morning, when I’ve been sleeping.’

  ‘Or when you sing?’ Paolo understood now.

  ‘Yes, if I sing the big notes,’ Giovanni grinned. ‘And what is the point of singing if you don’t sing the big notes, eh?’

  ‘Why do you keep it a secret, Giovanni?’

  ‘The girls would worry.’

  ‘And Mamma?’

  ‘Oh, your Mamma knows. From the very beginning she has known, you can never hide anything from your Mamma.’ He nodded, unperturbed. ‘It is good that she knows, there are never secrets between Caterina and me. At first she wanted me to stop working underground,’ he smiled, ‘but she knows I cannot do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Paolo asked. ‘You’ve proved your loyalty to the Midas. They’d give you a job above ground.’ Giovanni looked away, he didn’t want to continue the discussion. ‘They would, Giovanni,’ Paolo urged. ‘You know they would.’

  ‘And what would I do?’ Giovanni rose and, hands on hips, stretched his back. His chest was aching, it always did after a coughing fit. ‘I am no good at facts and figures. I can barely write a letter.’

  ‘But there are many—’

  ‘And I would never earn the wage that I earn underground.’ Giovanni knew that Paolo meant well but, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. ‘You will say nothing to the girls of this.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you will speak to no one else, Paolo. Men are laid off when it is known they have miners’ complaint.’

  Paolo knew only too well of the fears associated with miners’ lung disease. At Harvard he had read and learned far more about the problem than Giovanni himself would know. For years miners’ premature deaths from lung disease had been diagnosed as pneumonia. More recently, it had been proved that the deaths were a direct result of constant dust inhalation and, if the rock being drilled contained silica, then a miner’s years were definitely numbered.

  The common fear amongst the miners was not lung disease, however, it was the fear of being made redundant should their illness be discovered. The South African mines had recently implemented compulsory medical testing in an attempt to fight the spread of lung disease and there had been vague talk of a similar system evolving in Kalgoorlie. But the unions were set against the idea-no miner wished to be made redundant, especially not a family man.

  ‘I understand, Giovanni,’ Paolo agreed. ‘I’ll speak to no one …’

  ‘Good. Now go back to bed, there’s time for sleep, it’s barely dawn.’

  ‘… except Mamma. Is it all right if I speak to Mamma?’

  Giovanni laughed. Not too loudly, he didn’t want to risk another coughing fit. ‘So long as the two of you do not join together and nag me.’ He embraced his stepson. ‘It is good for your mamma to have you home.’ Then he took Paolo’s face in his hands. ‘She is very proud of the fine young man you have become. And I am very proud of you too.’ Giovanni kissed Paolo on both cheeks. ‘Now go back to bed.’

  It was barely two hours later when Paolo sought out Caterina. She’d waved goodbye to Giovanni as he left for his early morning shift, carrying his crib which she’d carefully packed with his favourite Italian sausage, bread and cheese. She’d fed Briony and little Rosalina and then farewelled them from the front door as they set off for school. And now she was tackling the weekly washing in the large tin tub on the back verandah.

  ‘You slept in,’ she said as the flywire door slapped shut behind him and he stood at her side.

  Paolo nodded. He hadn’t slept in at all. When he’d left Giovanni, he’d gone to his room and sat on the side of his bed deep in thought. He’d heard his stepfather leave and he’d heard the family breakfast noises and the girls’ customary dash for school, and it was only then that he’d gone in search of his mother.

  ‘I know about Giovanni, Mamma.’

  Caterina barely paused as she scrubbed fiercely at the collar of one of her husband’s work shirts with a wooden scrubbing brush. ‘I didn’t think it would take you long to guess.’ She stopped scrubbing and started to squeeze the shirt dry.

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Paolo took it from her, squeezing the excess soapy water into the bucket which always stood by the old wash table on the back verandah. Leftover bathing and washing water was saved to nurture the little front garden.

  ‘At night I put eucalyptus oil on his pillow to help ease the congestion,’ she stooped and took another shirt from the basket at her feet, ‘and in the mornings he goes outside to cough so that the girls will not hear.’ Caterina shrugged as she started once more to scrub. ‘But Briony knows. She asked me only the other day and I had to tell her. Giovanni doesn’t want her to know, but she is a bright girl, she can see for herself.’

  ‘So we’re all to pretend that there’s nothing wrong?’ Paolo asked.

  She nodded. ‘That is the way Giovanni wants it.’

  ‘Is there no chance of convincing him to get a job above ground, Mamma? It would be possible.’

  ‘No. I’ve tried Paolo, believe me. But he is a miner, he says, he will live and die a miner. I have no right to demand he do otherwise.’

  There was mischief in her eyes as she lifted the wet shirt from the tub. ‘I could, you know. I believe my Giovanni would do anything for me. But he’d be unhappy. It would break his spirit to work in a clerk’s office or behind a shop counter.’ She handed Paolo the wet shirt and selected another from the basket. ‘Giovanni is a true miner, Paolo, he loves his world below the ground.’ She smiled. ‘He loves his world above the ground too, he’s proud of the fact that he provides well for us.’

  His mother looked happy, Paolo thought, content. And yet it was unlikely her husband would live for more than a few years, particularly if he insisted on working below ground; did she not know that?

  ‘Dear Giovanni,’ Caterina said softly, ‘he wants no more than to see us all happy, singing along to his accordion …’ She paused briefly. ‘… It’s a pity he no longer sings in company, he worries that it might bring on a coughing fit and that people might guess. But, oh Paolo,’ her blue eyes shone and her smile was radiant, ‘when we’re alone, my Giovanni sings to me. So gently … such love songs …’

  Yes, he realised, she knew. They both knew, she and Giovanni, that their time was limited.

  How beautiful she is, Paolo thought. Unlike the others in Kal, his mother had not changed, his mother was as splendid as ever—in his eyes anyway—and Paolo’s pride in her was as fierce as his love for her. He was glad now that he’d made his decision. As he’d sat on his bed listening to the household’s morning bustle, he had not wanted to make such a decision, but his sense of duty had told him that he must. Now he was glad.

  ‘I am not going to join the army, Mamma,’ he said. ‘I will apply to one of the big mines here in Kal. Not the Midas. That could present difficulties if Giovanni’s illness is discovered, but one of the other big mines, the Lake View, the Boulder, the Perseverance …’

  Caterina looked up from her washtub.

  ‘I may have to do a year’s field work underground,’ he continued, ‘but after that I could have my pick of positions. Why, I c
ould be General Manager—I have the qualifications. And then, Mamma, the money I’ll make! I’ll look after the family, I promise.’

  ‘You had your heart so set on going to war, Paolo. It was your duty, you said. Your duty to your birthland.’ Caterina was studying him intently. ‘What about the letter you had from Enrico in Gallipoli? Enrico is not even Australian and yet he is fighting for this country—that’s what you said to me.’

  ‘Mamma, what’s the matter with you?’ Paolo was bewildered. ‘You begged me to think about it. You told me not to do anything and not to tell anyone until I was absolutely sure of my decision. You begged me! Well I haven’t done anything and I haven’t told anyone, and I’m sure of my decision.’

  ‘Oh Paolo, my darling.’ Caterina dried her wet hands on her apron and pushed her unruly curls back from her face. ‘I’m happy this is your decision, I don’t want to see my son go to war; dear God in heaven, what mother would? But if you’ve changed your mind because you feel obligated, then I won’t allow it. It’s your life, Paolo, just as Giovanni’s is his, and you must live it the way you wish.’

  ‘How old was I when you married Evan, Mamma? Five? Six?’

  ‘Nearly six,’ Caterina nodded, surprised by the non sequitur.

  ‘I didn’t want you to marry him. I suppose I was jealous, it had always been just you and me. But you said we needed a man to look after us. And I said, I could look after us, do you remember?’

  Caterina smiled. ‘Of course I do.’ That solemn little boy, she thought, with his big grey eyes. So earnest.

  ‘I know it was a foolish thing to say. I knew it then. But do you remember what you told me?’

  ‘Yes. I said, “One day you can look after us, Paolo, one day when you are grown-up”.’

  ‘I’m grown-up now, Mamma.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And I want to look after you. … One day you will need me to look after you.’

  She looked away. Was she crying? he wondered. Had he upset her? He didn’t want to, but she must confront the future. She was a woman with two daughters.

  Caterina was not crying. She could have shed a tear, for pure joy, but she dared not—Paolo in his seriousness would misunderstand. ‘With all your education,’ she said, picking up another shirt from the basket, ‘you would choose to stay in Kalgoorlie?’