‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Nak…Mr Nak…’ Betty tried, but she couldn’t get out his last name.
‘Ivan, please,’ he grinned.
‘I was just about to start on dinner,’ Betty told him. ‘I can’t offer you the traditional roast because we’ve all been playing around this weekend and no one’s done the shopping. But I hope sausages and vegetables will be okay for you?’
‘Let me go home first and change into something more presentable,’ Ivan said, looking down at his water-splattered T-shirt and shorts. There were grains of sand caught in the hairs on his legs.
‘No,’ laughed Vitaly. ‘You are presentable as you are. Anya’s the only person who still gets dressed up for “bangers and mash”. Being casual is the only aspect of Australian life she hasn’t adopted.’
Ivan spun around and smiled at me. I shrugged. He had hardly changed since Tubabao. His face had remained young with the same mischievous grin. The scar had faded a little with his tan. He still moved with his bear-like gait. When I recognised him on the beach, I ran towards him on impulse. It was only when he looked up and realised who I was that I remembered the tension of our last days together and became fearful. But there was a warm twinkle in his eye and I understood that somewhere between Tubabao and Sydney I had been forgiven.
‘Sit down, Ivan,’ I said, leading him towards the lounge. ‘We want to hear all your news. I thought you were in Melbourne. What are you doing in Sydney?’
Ivan sat down, with Ruselina and me on either side of him. Vitaly and Irina took the armchairs. We spoke in English because, in between cutting and boiling the vegetables, Betty would come in to catch parts of the conversation.
‘I’ve been here for a couple of months,’ he said. ‘I’ve been setting up a new factory.’
‘A new factory?’ repeated Ruselina. ‘What is it that you do?’
‘Well,’ said Ivan, resting his hands on his knees, ‘I’m still a baker of sorts. Only now I work in frozen foods. My company packages pies and cakes for supermarkets.’
‘Your company!’ Irina cried, her eyes wide. ‘It sounds like you are a success!’
Ivan shook his head. ‘We are a small company, but we grow substantially each year and this year looks as though it will be our biggest one yet.’
We urged him to tell us how he’d got his business started. I suspected he was being modest about his company being small. Many migrants had set up their own family businesses after their contract requirements had been met, but I’d never heard of anyone owning factories in two major cities.
‘When I came to Australia I was put to work in a bakery,’ he continued. ‘There was another New Australian working there, a Yugoslavian by the name of Nikola Milosavljevic. We got along well and agreed that when we finished our contracts we would go into business together. So that’s what we did.
‘We rented a place in Carlton and sold cakes, pies and bread. But it was always our cakes and pies that did best, so we concentrated on those. Soon people from all around the city were coming to our bakery. Then we got the idea that if we had more outlets, we could sell more pies. But even though our sales were good we couldn’t really afford to run another bakery. So we bought an old Austin and took out the back seat. While I manned the bakery, Nikola drove around delivering our pies to corner stores and coffee lounges.’
‘Was it just the two of you?’ asked Vitaly. ‘That sounds like hard work.’
‘It was,’ said Ivan. ‘That was a crazy year, but Nikola and I were so sure of our success that we worked every day of the week on no more than four hours’ sleep. It’s amazing how you can keep going when you are passionate about something.’
Betty placed a plate of buttered peas on the dining table and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You sound like Anya. She’s the only person who works as hard as that.’
‘Not as hard as that,’ I laughed.
‘What do you do?’ Ivan asked me.
‘She’s the fashion editor with the Sydney Herald,’ Irina told him.
‘Really?’ said Ivan. ‘I’m impressed, Anya. I remember the article you wrote for the Tubabao Gazette about the clothes in On the Town.’
I blushed. I’d forgotten about the article and sketches I did for the Gazette and all my gushing enthusiasm for New York. ‘Ivan, no one wants to hear about me. Tell us more about you,’ I said.
‘Well, my job doesn’t sound half as interesting as yours but I will continue,’ he said. ‘After we had been working hard at expanding our business for a year, a new supermarket opened up in a nearby suburb, so we approached the manager about selling our pies to him. He told us all about what was happening in America with supermarkets and frozen foods.
‘Nikola and I thought the concept sounded feasible. So we began to experiment with freezing our pies. Our first attempts were failures, especially with the fruit produce. They were probably as good as the items other frozen pastry companies were offering, but not good enough for us. We wanted our frozen foods to taste as delicious as the fresh ones. It took us a while, but when we got the balance of ingredients and technique right, we were able to get backers and open our first factory. And, if things work out in Sydney, Nikola will look after the Melbourne operation and I will stay here.’
‘We’ll make sure we buy lots of your pies then,’ said Ruselina, clasping his hand. ‘It would mean so much to have you here.’
Betty called us to the table and insisted that Ivan, as our guest of honour, sit at the head of it. She placed me at the other end, opposite him.
‘It’s an appropriate setting,’ laughed Vitaly. ‘The King and Queen of Australia. They are both foreigners but Ivan spends his free time pulling Australians from the water and she supports their fashion designers and sells cards at Christmas time to save the bushland.’
Ivan’s eyes flashed at me. ‘Perhaps we both feel we owe this country a lot, Anya?’
Ruselina patted Ivan’s arm. ‘You do work a bit too hard,’ she said. ‘All those hours at your factory and all those hours on the beach. Even in your free time you push yourself.’
‘Not to mention the danger of being drowned or eaten by a shark,’ said Irina, snapping a sausage in half with her teeth.
I shivered although she was joking. I glanced up at Ivan and a foreboding came over me that something too dreadful to imagine would happen to him. I couldn’t bear the thought that a passionate, kind man could just be snuffed out while he was at his peak. I calmed myself by drinking my water slowly and breathing into my napkin, hoping no one would notice my panic. They didn’t. Everyone was busy chatting about the storms that had churned up the beaches on New Year’s Day and asking Ivan about lifesaving techniques. My breathing slowed and my head became clear again. What a stupid thought, I told myself. Something too dreadful to imagine has already happened to him. What damage can the sea do to you that a human being can’t?
At eleven o’clock Ivan excused himself, saying that he had to be at his factory early in the morning.
‘Where do you live?’ Vitaly asked him.
‘I’m renting a house on the hill,’ he said.
‘We’ll drive you home then,’ said Vitaly, slapping Ivan’s back. I was pleased to see that the two men were getting along. They must both have been happy to have met another culinary male.
Ruselina, Betty and I stood on the pavement, waving, while the others piled into Vitaly’s car. Ivan wound down his window. ‘Would you like a tour of the factory?’ he asked us. ‘I can show you around next weekend.’
‘Yes!’ we all cried out together.
‘Where there are cakes, we will follow,’ said Betty, patting her hair.
I didn’t hear from Keith at work on Monday. Each time the copy boy arrived or my telephone rang, I jumped, expecting some word from him. But none came. I repeated the same pattern on Tuesday. On Wednesday I saw Ted stepping into the elevator in the lobby. ‘Hi, Anya. Great party. Glad you made it,’ was all he could say before the doors clanged shut. I went home with the glo
om of disappointment hanging over me. I had blown it with Keith.
It wasn’t until Thursday that I saw him again. The Lord Mayor, Patrick Darcy Hills, was hosting a lunch at the Town Hall for some of the Olympic athletes preparing for the games. Famous sporting personalities, including Betty Cuthbert, the ‘Golden Girl’ runner, Dawn Fraser and some members of the Australian cricket team had been invited. Diana was in Melbourne and couldn’t make it, so I was sent along with a staff photographer, Eddie, instead. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Dan Richards, but was quieter and followed me everywhere like a loyal labrador.
‘Who’s on our list today?’ he asked me when the driver dropped us off in George Street.
‘The Prime Minister is attending with his wife,’ I said. ‘But I think Caroline and her photographer will be concentrating on them. We should really be going after the celebrities to see what they are wearing. And there will be a visiting movie actress from America, Hades Sweet.’
‘She’s the one who’s shooting the movie up north, isn’t she?’ asked Eddie. ‘The one about the aliens and Ayers Rock?’
‘I’m glad you know that much,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t find anything on her in the files.’
Eddie and I clipped on our press passes and an official waved us past the line waiting to get into the hall and through a side door. I was surprised to see Keith was already inside with Ted, standing near the buffet table and scoffing down praline cream scones, then I remembered it was a sports-related event. I debated whether I should walk up and say hello or whether that was being too forward in Australia. After all, he was the one who hadn’t contacted me after our date. I lost my chance anyway when Eddie tapped me on the shoulder.
‘There she is, our movie star,’ he whispered.
I turned around to see a blonde woman enter the room. She was surrounded by an entourage of people dressed in designer hats and dresses. Hades wasn’t as tall as I was expecting. She had a round face and skinny arms and legs. But she had a large bosom and thrust her chest out, slinking forward on her high pumps. I felt like a giant when I sidled up to her. I introduced myself and asked her the questions readers liked to know about visiting movie stars.
‘Do you like Australia, Miss Sweet?’
She chewed her gum and pondered the question longer than I would have expected if her publicity trainer had done his job.
‘Yes,’ she said finally, in a sugary Southern accent.
I waited for her to elaborate but when I saw that wasn’t going to happen, I asked her about her outfit. She was wearing a flapper-style dress but the bust was cupped rather than flattened.
‘It was made by the studio designer, Alice Dorves,’ Hades said, her voice stilted as if she were reading lines for the first time. ‘She makes the most fabulous dresses.’
Eddie held up his camera. ‘Do you mind if we take a photograph of you in it?’ I asked. Hades didn’t answer me but a change swept over her face. Her eyes opened wide and her lips formed into an alluring smile. She threw her arms up into the air, as if she were about to embrace the camera. For a moment she looked as though she was going to soar off into the sky, but when the flash was over she shrugged and resumed her lacklustre air.
Connie Robertson, the women’s editor for the Fairfax newspaper, circled in like a Dior-scented shark. She was respected in the industry and good at getting what she wanted, though she never liked her opposition. She nodded to me and clasped Hades by the elbow, guiding her in the direction of her paper’s photographer. I felt a squeeze on my shoulder and turned around to see Keith.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Ted wants you to introduce him to your friend.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
Keith nodded his head at Hades Sweet. Connie had her backed into a corner and was firing questions at the movie star on the true meaning of Hollywood and what she thought of women in the workforce.
I turned back to Keith. He was smiling and didn’t seem upset or hurt at all. ‘Does she play any sports?’ he asked. ‘We have to invent some excuse so Ted can take a picture of her.’
‘He doesn’t need any help,’ I laughed. ‘Look!’
Ted had jumped into the line of photographers waiting to get a picture of Hades. When his turn came, he directed her into two side poses, two medium shots and two full body shots. He was about to guide her to the balcony for an outdoors picture when he was stopped by an irate female reporter from the Women’s Weekly who shouted out, ‘Hurry up! It’s not a swimsuit shoot, you know!’
‘Listen,’ said Keith, turning to me, ‘if you’re still willing to go out with me after Ted’s birthday, can I take you to the pictures this Saturday night? The Seven Year Itch is showing and I heard it’s pretty funny.’
I smiled. ‘That sounds good.’
A door opened and the mayor entered the room followed by the guest athletes. ‘Better go,’ said Keith, signalling to Ted. ‘I’ll give you a call.’
The following Saturday Vitaly and Irina picked us up in their car to go to Ivan’s factory in Dee Why. It was a hot day and we opened the windows to let in the breeze. The northern beaches suburb seemed to be a city in itself, with rows of Californian bungalows with Holdens, surfboards strapped on top, in the driveways. Most of the gardens had at least one palm tree. Many of them had shell-mosaic letterboxes or the number of the house screwed to the front wall in giant cursive letters.
‘Ivan was smart to set up his factory here,’ said Vitaly. ‘If it works out he can move to Dee Why and have surf clubs from here to eternity. Curl Curl, Collaroy, Avalon.’
‘Apparently one of his Victorian employees drowned,’ said Irina. ‘She was an elderly lady from Italy and didn’t realise how unpredictable the sea down south could be. That’s how he got interested in surf clubs.’
‘Is Ivan married?’ Betty asked.
We were all silent, wondering who should answer that question. The car tyres rattled over the seams in the concrete road in a steady rhythm.
‘He was,’ said Ruselina eventually. ‘She died in the war.’
Ivan was waiting for us outside the factory gate. He was wearing a navy suit that had obviously been tailored for him. It was the first time I had seen him dressed up. The factory’s newness compared to those on either side of it was given away by the unblemished bricks and mortar. A stone chimney towered above the roof with the words ‘Southern Cross Pies’ on it. There were a dozen trucks in the delivery yard with the same lettering on their sides.
‘You look good,’ I told him when we piled out of the car.
He laughed. ‘Being told that by a fashion editor will go straight to my head.’
‘It’s true,’ Ruselina said, taking his arm. ‘But I hope you’re not wearing it just for us. It must be close to ninety degrees today.’
‘I never feel the heat or the cold,’ Ivan answered. ‘Being a baker working with frozen foods means I no longer feel the extremes.’
Near the reception area was a changing room where Betty, Ruselina, Irina and I were issued with white smocks, caps and nonslip shoes. When we came out we saw that Ivan and Vitaly had donned similar protective clothing.
‘He didn’t tell us he was going to put us to work today,’ grinned Vitaly. ‘Free labour!’
The main area of the factory resembled a giant aircraft hangar with galvanised-iron walls and windows running the length of the room. The machinery was stainless steel and hummed and whirred rather than clanked and creaked as machinery did in the factories of my imagination. Everywhere I looked there were louvre vents, butterfly vents and ventilating machines. It was as if the motto of the factory was ‘Keep breathing’.
Ivan’s Saturday staff numbered about thirty. Those at the conveyor belts were mostly women in white uniforms and shoes. Men in white coats pushed the trolleys stacked with trays. From their complexions they seemed to be migrants, and I thought it was a nice touch that as well as having the company name printed on their top pockets each one had their name embroidered on their hat.
Ivan started the
tour in the delivery area where we watched men stacking sacks of flour and sugar, while others carried trays of eggs or fruit to the enormous refrigerators. ‘It’s like a kitchen, only a million times bigger,’ said Betty.
I could understand why Ivan had become immune to heat when we walked into the cooking area. I was awestruck by the size of the rotating ovens and, although dozens of fans spun in their metal cages, the room was hot and the air was thick with spices.
Ivan led us past the conveyor belts where women were packing the pies into waxed boxes and then on to the demonstration kitchen, where the chef had prepared a table of pies for us to try.
‘You’ll be pied out by the end of the day,’ said Ivan, gesturing for us to be seated. ‘For mains we have potato and meat, chicken and mushroom, shepherd’s or vegetable pies. And for dessert there is lemon meringue pie, custard and strawberry tart or cheesecake.’
‘These pies have been prepared, cooked and served in their foil containers,’ said the chef, carving up the pies of our choice and serving them on porcelain plates with the Southern Cross Pies logo stamped on them. ‘Enjoy.’
Vitaly took a bite of his shepherd’s pie. ‘This is as good as the fresh, Ivan.’
‘I’m sold,’ said Betty. ‘I’d give up cooking and have these any day.’
After lunch we could barely walk back to the car. ‘That will teach us for being greedy,’ laughed Ruselina.
Ivan had given us an armful each of whatever had been our favourite pies to take home with us. Vitaly opened the boot and we lined up to put our goodies inside.
‘The pies were delicious,’ I told Ivan.
‘I’m glad you could come,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t really work every weekend.’
‘I try not to,’ I lied.
‘Why don’t you show Ivan where you work?’ suggested Betty.
‘I would like that,’ he said, taking the pies from me and stacking them into the boot with the others.
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