Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  A man stumbled towards them, saying something. Amelia looked at Clara, but she hadn’t understood his meaning either.

  ‘I not know,’ Amelia said to him, in her brittle English.

  The man stopped walking and glared at them. He smelt of alcohol.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ Clara said, in Italian.

  The man’s red eyes swelled.

  ‘Dagos!’ He yelled the word, spat it. ‘Dagos. Dagos. Dagos.’

  Clara pulled Cristiano to her and they moved away. The man repeated the word and many more with much the same tone again and again until he began to laugh, leaving them to retreat towards the boat.

  Amelia felt unsettled; why was there a need to drink in such a manner? And why were there no police to stop such behaviour? And the man appeared angry with them. Why was he yelling? She’d not challenged him. But what could she say? Every defence she had was in Italian. She had no power. And with no common language, nothing would ever be understood. She vowed she’d never retreat again, and she’d master this upside-down tongue.

  Their voyage along the southern coast was without incident. At Port Adelaide, more cargo was unloaded. Melbourne was a true metropolis, its gateway a large working dock. Here, Frau Gruetzmann left the boat. Her son, a middle-aged man with her large eyes, came to meet her. Amelia cried as she remembered Frau Gruetzmann’s first kindnesses, and they promised to write long letters with every detail of their new lives. Without her, the cabin seemed large and excessive. They lost sight of the coast again until they passed Botany Bay and then moved north, entering the magnificent headlands of Sydney Harbour, which Clara thought missed only the Colossus of Rhodes. They were only a few days from Brisbane.

  ‘Zia Amelia,’ Cristiano said. ‘Will you and Zio Italo stay with us in Brisbane?’

  It was the first time he’d called her his aunt, and she felt she should correct him, but she liked the sweetness of his thought.

  ‘Only for a few days.’

  A gloom came over his face, and he withdrew into his thoughts.

  ‘Zia Amelia,’ he said again. ‘How will you know what Zio Italo looks like?’

  She smiled. ‘I have a photograph.’

  ‘Will he be with my father?’

  It warmed her heart that, to Cristiano, his father and Italo were already friends. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. ‘I’m sure your father and Zio Italo will be there together.’

  They sailed into Moreton Bay through a series of small islands on Friday, the twentieth of August, 1920. She wore a dress saved for the day, but it was woollen, too heavy for the heat, yet she had to make a good initial impression. The few remaining passengers crowded onto the deck, each having a position at the rail and a clear view. Amelia kept her eyes to the shore, her small portmanteau over her belly. Clara and Cristiano stood next to her.

  ‘You won’t be able to see him yet,’ Clara said.

  ‘Aren’t you excited?’

  Clara was silent. ‘I don’t know …’

  Amelia breathed deeply. ‘I’m scared, more than anything.’

  ‘Why fear?’

  ‘God knows what will happen. You’ll be so far away. I never thought to have another friend like Emma.’

  Clara’s eyes teared. ‘You’re a strong woman. You’ll overcome everything.’

  Amelia swallowed her tears. And the two embraced.

  Once the boat was tied, they made their way to disembark. Amelia walked but felt she was gliding. Once her papers were processed she waited for Clara and Cristiano. And there the three were, in a large arrival hall that thundered with names and benedictions and oaths, and replete with the smell of brine and the dust of travelling. Amelia looked at the crowd. Surely, Italo would be at the front and rush to her. She strained to hear her name. She should yell to him, ‘I am here. I am Amelia.’ But even her heightened condition couldn’t summon such disinhibition. There was no familiar face in this sea. And even so, as Cristiano noted, his face was unfamiliar to her.

  Clara moved forward, a few paces at first, and then stopped. A man was standing still, just staring at Clara. Amelia put her hand to Cristiano’s shoulder. Clara looked back at them, her face drawn tight, and Amelia urged her on. Clara stepped and then stepped again. As did this man, the sinewy man with dark, tight-curly hair who moved with grace and who could only be Paolo Sacco. They embraced, tight as they could, and stayed so for a long time. Amelia moved back from them, her arm resting on Cristiano’s shoulder. Clara’s body shook over and over. Cristiano called out to his mother, but she didn’t respond.

  ‘Zia Amelia,’ Cristiano said.

  Amelia knelt beside him.

  ‘Is that my father?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Together they looked. ‘He’s rather handsome, like you, don’t you think?’

  Cristiano stared at the face with closed eyes resting on his mother’s shoulder, at the large hands dwarfing her back, and then nodded.

  Amelia looked away, not just because the moment was too intimate but also to find Italo. It was so noisy and full of people, and hot. And the air stirred, full of dust that caught the streams of light from the high casement windows. How was she to find Italo? Suddenly, Paolo released Clara and came forward. He reached out his hands and Cristiano withdrew into the folds of Amelia’s dress.

  Clara knelt to him. ‘This is Papa.’

  Cristiano buried his face in her chest.

  Paolo smiled, broad and generous. ‘He doesn’t know me from anyone,’ he said, his eyes moist and hurt.

  ‘It will take time,’ Clara said.

  Paolo smiled, a little dejected. He turned to Amelia.

  Clara stood and took her hand. ‘This is Amelia Amedeo. She’s travelled to meet her husband.’

  Amelia smiled at Paolo and nodded.

  ‘Can you see him?’ Clara said, drying her own eyes with a small handkerchief.

  Amelia looked from face to face, the near and far, the old and young, all the hall. She walked a few paces, returned and scanned the crowd the other way.

  ‘I can’t see him,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure he’s here. We’ll wait for the crowd to thin.’

  Amelia smiled and looked away. Clara, Cristiano and Paolo moved closer together, and she distanced a few paces. There were many men, but most had found who they were looking for. She thought she saw him, his thick, dark hair. She knew his height, 175 centimetres. She knew how tall that was and had drawn a spot on the wall and looked for men of that size. There were many, but some had grey hair and some were clearly not Italian, and Italo just didn’t seem to be there. Her belly gnarled. What could she do if he hadn’t come? He must come. It was all arranged. For months. Years.

  ‘Something’s delayed him,’ Paolo said.

  Amelia flashed a glance at him. Her panic was written on her face as the same expression ignited on Paolo’s.

  ‘He’s had a long time to prepare,’ she said.

  ‘We can wait with you,’ Clara said, looking at Paolo, who nodded.

  ‘You can stay at the hostel with us,’ Paolo said. ‘We can telegram him. But he’ll come.’ He smiled. ‘We can wait.’

  A wave chilled through Amelia. She recalled all of Signora Pina’s judgements – that she didn’t know Italo, that they’d never met. Was this the first of her curses? Did she know something of Italo that Zia Fulvia and Zia Francesca hadn’t admitted to?

  ‘He should be here,’ Amelia said, the scold clear in her voice. ‘Why has he abandoned me?’

  Tears came to her eyes. She closed in on herself, raised her hands to cover her face. Clara placed her arm around her shoulder and motioned for Paolo and Cristiano to walk away. Clara held her, pulled her to sit on her trunk.

  ‘Signora Pina was right. I have no idea who this man is.’

  ‘Please don’t say such a thing. There are a thousand good reasons … You’re just anxious and tired. You’ve come so far. Don’t doubt him now.’

  Amelia placed her chin on Clara’s shoulder, pressed her head
closer to feel her warmth. She breathed in. Clara’s scent – homely, like spun wool – and the dark of her closed eyelids brought a dash of calm. Clara was right. He was likely late for one of a thousand good reasons. It was a large country. She shouldn’t feel abandoned. She’d asked to stand on her own feet, and so she should stand. She’d courted this adventure. Thank the Lord for Clara.

  She opened her eyes, cast them around the emptying hall. There was no-one who fit his photograph, the few remaining people surrounded by trunks and tears. Clara made to pull away, but she grasped her. She wasn’t ready.

  Where was Italo?

  Perhaps she’d missed him. In her mind’s eye, she conjured his image and scanned the hall again. Everyone was occupied, all but one man who slouched against a metal pole to the far side of the hall. He had fair hair, almost blond but almost red. She’d never seen such a colour, almost giving off light. Even though he slouched, his weight thrown over to his left hip, he was tall, a smoking cigarette resting at his thigh. He wore short pants, khaki, cut to the knee, his solid calves bare. Despite his casual stance, his eyes darted about the hall as if he too were looking for someone. He looked at the hall clock. He looked back at a paper he held.

  ‘That man,’ Amelia said.

  Clara pulled away and looked at her. ‘What man?’

  ‘Over there.’

  Clara looked at him. ‘I can assure you that isn’t Italo.’

  ‘He’s the only person who hasn’t met someone.’

  Clara looked. She nodded. ‘But …’

  Amelia stood. With each step, she felt odd, woozy in her thoughts but not quite faint and yet somehow quite alive. He saw her and straightened, a little more with each step, until she stood in front of him, about thirty centimetres shorter. He pulled on the cigarette, rolled thick, so unlike those her brothers smoked.

  ‘I am Amelia Durante.’ Why did she still think of herself as that? ‘I am Amelia Amedeo.’

  His eyes were dark, strange pools that absorbed all light. He said something in English, his voice thin and sad. She couldn’t make it out. He repeated it. His hair, the soft wave curved over his brow, the colour, as if the first morning light of a day rested there. Clara came to her.

  ‘I can’t understand him,’ Amelia said.

  The man looked from Amelia to Clara and back, and again said something. Clara shrugged her shoulders. Amelia turned to him and smiled.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Paolo said, coming across the hall towards them, carrying Cristiano. Paolo said something in English, and the man raised his open palms. He handed Cristiano to Clara. The women stepped back.

  ‘Who is he?’ Amelia said.

  Paolo said more and he replied. He fumbled for something in his jacket pocket and handed an envelope to Paolo.

  ‘He’s Fergus Kelly. The letter’s for you.’

  Amelia stared at Paolo as if he too were saying things she just didn’t comprehend. The letter hung between them. She lifted her hand to it. Her name – Signora Amedeo – was written in Italo’s hand. She finally summoned the courage to open it.

  My dearest Amelia,

  Welcome to Australia. Your new home. Our home.

  I’m sorry I can’t be there. This is not the meeting we’d planned. The cane is ready to cut and must be delivered to the mill on time. I’ve sent Fergus for you. I’m sorry I cannot be there. But it’s only a small delay. You’ll be here soon. Fergus will travel with you.

  I must go now. The harvest calls. We’ll be together soon.

  Your loving Italo.

  She held the letter to her belly and her hand to her mouth. She felt faint. Her eyes welled with tears. Clara stepped towards her.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Clara said.

  She managed to smile and handed her the letter. The lilt of his words was familiar. The anxiety lifted but her relief was rapidly salted by disappointment.

  ‘How could he do this?’ Amelia said. ‘Our plans are destroyed.’

  Paolo spoke more to the man, this Fergus Kelly.

  Clara returned the letter. ‘He’s a good man. He’s sent someone.’

  ‘You have to hurry’, Paolo said, ‘to catch a boat to Cairns. From there you’ll go to Babinda.’

  Fergus left to find a trolley for her trunk. It was happening so fast. She didn’t want to leave Clara, not now, not like this, in such a hurried and forced manner. She fought for breath. Clara embraced Amelia, held her tight. Cristiano wrapped his arms around her legs.

  ‘Everything will be all right,’ Clara said.

  ‘Will it? This wasn’t how it was meant to be. This isn’t what I want.’

  Clara pulled away from her. ‘Don’t despair. It’s only two more days till you’ll see him.’

  What was there to say? She’d no choice but to go with this man whom Italo had sent. She knelt to embrace Cristiano, but her legs shook in such a manner she thought she would topple.

  ‘Is this Zio Italo?’ he said.

  ‘No, darling. It’s a man who’ll take me to him.’

  ‘When will I see you?’

  Amelia hugged him again to soothe her uncertainty. ‘Soon.’ She stood up.

  ‘I’ll write a letter,’ Clara said.

  Fergus said something to Paolo, who urged her to hurry.

  ‘Keep busy,’ Clara said. ‘It keeps ill feeling at bay.’

  With one last glance, she followed Fergus from the hall. He pushed the trolley. There were no words, just gestures and glances. After a long walk to another part of the port, they arrived at a boat, a small ferry with a huge funnel. She was taken to a cabin.

  She’d had no luxury to find her land legs, let alone soothe her heart.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The engine strained. The boat vibrated and lurched. From the deck, Brisbane was fading before she’d even had a chance to know it. They were headed further north. This was no large ship, and it pitched and wandered, though they stayed within sight of land. Fergus was nowhere to be seen. She felt flints of anger and disappointment. Four men from various regions of Italy spoke in Italian, canecutters returning to Far North Queensland. She withdrew to her cabin. The disappointment at not seeing Italo was a physical blow, as was saying goodbye to Clara in such a hurried manner. Who knew when they would meet again? She curled to a ball, touched her wedding ring to remind herself this was real.

  She took her evening meal in the small dining room. There was no sign of Fergus. Perhaps he’d missed the boat, but he’d come on board with her. Perhaps he was taken ill by the motion. Dinner was a large piece of mutton with potatoes and carrots. After she’d eaten a small part of it, she retired to her cabin. She had no need of company. The engines throbbed all night.

  She woke early. She’d never slept in a room on her own before and liked the solitude. She dressed and went to the deck, the day fine but already humid. They were far from the coast, although she could just see it on the horizon. She saw Fergus, standing in the aft, staring at the boat’s wake. He was smoking, each exhalation swirling around him until it was no more. Her spirits lightened.

  ‘Good morning, Fergus,’ she said, in English.

  He turned to her. While his features were generous, his lips full and almost red, his cheekbones high and carved and proud, he appeared stern. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. She doubted he’d slept. He raised his hand to the wide brim of his hat, made of some type of felt. The cigarette shook in his hand as if he were nervous. Without meeting her eyes, he turned and left. She watched as he walked away, dressed again in his khaki shorts hemmed at the knee, his legs spread wide to counter the boat’s motion. Perhaps he was uncomfortable they couldn’t speak. Perhaps the boat’s motion made him unwell. Perhaps he just didn’t like company. But whatever he felt, it was definite.

  She looked at the boat’s wake. How was Clara? Her first night with Paolo. Poor Cristiano had looked so lost and confused. A tide of despair pulled at her. If Clara were there she’d have walked the deck, so Amelia completed one circuit in less than a minute and then ano
ther till she was bored. The minutes clicked slowly, the vessel small and noisy. She passed time in her cabin, studying her grammar and reading a novel Clara had given her by Federigo Tozzi.

  The following morning was hotter and more humid. She put on a long-sleeved white cotton dress, the only one she had. They were to arrive in Cairns around nine that morning. Italo would be waiting for her, and the white dress would provide coolness and a hint of their wedding day. She stood on the deck. Though it was only morning, the light was harsh. If Clara thought Fremantle was small, she would have laughed out loud at Cairns. They approached the wharf, and Amelia could barely see a building amongst the thick vegetation hugging the shoreline. The air was clammy. The sun bit. People on the wharf waved at the boat.

  She searched for Italo and hurried down the gangplank to the wide wooden wharf, her heart beating hard and her breath short. There was a whirl of voices and movement, but no-one came to her. The heat dried her throat and she dusted flies from her face. The sea churned under the wharf’s slats. People peeled away until she was standing on her own. Where was Italo? Her heart hollowed. The anxiety welled to tears, but she bit down on them. Only then did Fergus appear with another man, who helped carry her trunk while she carried the portmanteau. He said nothing, his face stern. He began to walk.

  With no words, she followed him to an old truck, with a large cabin and a long tray, some distance from the pier. What had happened to Italo? How could she ask? And even then, how could she understand? She took stock. Clearly, Fergus hadn’t been expecting him. Only she had. How foolish. The wrack of anxiety crushed her. The two men lifted her trunk to the tray, and Fergus opened the passenger’s door, on the other side of the vehicle compared to Italian cars. But then why the hell wouldn’t it be? Everything else was around the wrong way. The truck had no colour, save the baked-on layers of red dust. Fergus made no salutation to the man who’d helped him, leaving her confused. She had no words to offer him except to dip her head in appreciation. Fergus looked drawn and tired.