Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  Despite all these signs of heat, the evening felt chilled now the sun had gone. She returned to the bedroom for a crocheted shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. She stepped from the verandah, walking towards the flames. She could feel the heat, hear the intense noise, hear the vermin shrieking. She could never have imagined such a thing. How could she describe it to her parents?

  She stopped at a small path between two fields. Only one side was on fire, burning in a patchwork. She heard steps behind her, running, and spun around. But there was no-one. Shrieking rats streamed from the burning field, across the path and to another maze of cane. She listened for the men’s voices, but there was no sound above the flame’s roar. Birds circled in the dark sky, their bellies brushed golden by the firelight. Had they been driven from their nest? She heard a voice. At the fringe of the light she saw someone moving away, into the dark.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she said.

  She turned and could see the men at the end of the path. Again she sensed someone moving and walked towards the men.

  A wind came out of the fire, sweeping the folds of her dress from her. The flames rose, arced over, a cathedral roof. She breathed but there was just heat. No air. No smoke. Heat. Nothing to breathe. And then the roof fell, as if it had never been there. But fires flared on the adjacent field. The flames rushed the lengths of cane, exploding the heads.

  The men had gone. She retreated but the flame caught the scythed grass of the path to where the men had been. She advanced in that direction, and the flame caught this path, a rain of ash and ember about her. She was surrounded. Her best option was to go into the part of the field that had just caught alight. Perhaps she could beat the flame before it advanced. But as she got closer to the side of the field, the intense heat pushed her back. She fought for air – hot, choking air. She took a fold of the shawl and placed it to her mouth. The sound pounded. She felt she would fall.

  ‘Help.’

  Her throat, dry from the heat, cracked with fear, crackled the word. No-one would hear. The smoke rushed past the stars like storm clouds, the maddened birds circling. She gasped. What a waste, to have come this far, that it had all come to only this – this rush, this clamouring, this lack of strength, this beating. A white wave washed over her sight. Her knees gave way. This was her end. She crumbled to the soft, heated and inviting earth.

  CHAPTER NINE

  She woke.

  She was lying. On a bed. The room flickered to a lamp. It wasn’t Italo’s house. She raised her head, perceiving a single bed with a metal frame, but immediately the wooziness made her spin. Her head ached. Where was she? It was only a small room: a table and one chair, a single door. She swung her legs to the floor. Black dots swarmed her vision. The room swung, afloat. She braced her hands on the bed. She could smell fire and held her breath to listen. She could hear the fire. Then she heard something moving outside the door. Her heart pumped. She stared at the door and heard a step, followed by another shuffle. Fergus. He stood in the flickering lamplight, holding a white enamelled cup in his hand. He smiled.

  ‘Tea,’ he said.

  She relaxed her shoulders, lifted her hands from the bed and sighed. What was she doing there? He smiled and moved the few paces to her but held the tea at arms-length. The enamel on the cup was chipped. She raised it to her lips but felt the heat and lowered it to her lap.

  ‘You fell,’ he said, miming the fall.

  ‘Yes.’ He must have been behind her, working with the men. She thought of what would have happened if he hadn’t. ‘Thank you.’

  He took a tin of tobacco from his pocket and with practised certainty rolled a cigarette. She raised the cup and blew the surface and then sipped it. It was bitter, without sugar or milk, but the beverage raised her spirits. No damage had been done. She’d been foolish. But she’d been rescued. She must get back to finish the men’s dinner. And hopefully without Italo knowing what had happened. He’d be angry. She put the tea on the small table near the bed.

  ‘I go,’ she said.

  She stood, but the rapid action caused white to flicker in her eyes, her head all dizziness. She sat back. Fergus came to her, to catch her again. She held a hand up to him.

  ‘I go,’ she said.

  He stared at her and then held out a hand. She was unsure, but realised she’d not get to the house without some help. She placed her small hand in his. His was rough, warm, but it was large and swallowed hers. She made to stand and felt the strength come into his arm. Once she was vertical, she resisted the urge to collapse to the bed. And as she stood, holding one of Fergus’s hands, the dizziness subsided.

  ‘Walk,’ he said.

  She nodded. He scooted ahead of her, through the door. The cooler night air roused her spirits. She could smell and hear the burning cane and the men’s voices. He let go of her hand, walked some two or three paces and turned.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  She took one step, and then another. He walked ahead. She felt unsteady, her gait laboured and heavy. Fergus trod lightly on the balls of his feet, which made his bare calf muscles tighten and round, then slacken and relax. He made for a track into the rainforest. She followed, watching the motion of his calves. He turned back to her, caught her looking.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, stopping. He looked at the back of his legs.

  She felt hot beyond the dictates of the evening and looked away. ‘Much hot.’

  The land fell away at the side of the path. They were on a hill. She looked behind her. It was just a small hut with a fire outside. Through the forest, she could see the orange-glowing cane fields. The flames were low. She was relieved it was still burning; perhaps she could get home without Italo knowing.

  Fergus started to walk. She followed at a distance, the path rough but not overly so. She knew where they were, the hill on the far side of the property. Fergus continued ahead, turning back to check her progress. She kept her eyes on the path. The chilled forest air was humid, filled with shrieking birds she supposed had been disturbed by the fire. But the mosquitoes shared no fear and gyred around Fergus’s head. She caught his scent in the air. The path descended to the valley’s plain. She would make her own way from there. She’d been foolish to bother him. She hoped not to explain any of it to Italo, and if Fergus were there she’d have no choice, which would be embarrassing.

  ‘I go,’ she said and pointed towards the house.

  Fergus looked ahead and then said, ‘No.’

  ‘I go,’ she said, as firmly as she could.

  She searched for more words. She looked into his dark eyes and wondered if anyone had ever reached their depths. She made to move past him, and he moved away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  And he remained standing, watching her. A few paces past him, she stopped. Damn this language. She had no words to explain she wanted to stay but had to leave.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said. His face was blank, and then he forced an awkward smile.

  Why couldn’t she walk away? Why did she want to extend this moment? ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

  She heard the men’s voices at the fire, summoned her sense and started towards the house, only then remembering the stew and hurrying more. But the hearth fire had died, and it hadn’t burnt. She took a lamp and went to the bedroom mirror. Her face was covered in black stains, ash and char. The fire had singed one side of her hair around her ear, the ends fuzzy and uneven and smelling. She cut it away, squaring it as best she could. Her clothes too were stained and smelt of fire. But everything smelt of fire. And she’d lost her shawl.

  In the mirror, she brushed back the cut hair behind her ear. Her hand shook. Just the thought of what had happened unsteadied her.

  The men’s voices were around the barracks, laughing and joking. They’d finished their work. Once she’d changed her clothes, in the kitchen she washed her face and set to finishing the meal. Still woozy, she found the work made her concentrate. Italo came to the kitchen doorway. He was blackened.
He took off his shirt, the skin of his arms and chest still white.

  ‘The wind changed,’ he said. ‘The fire jumped to another field. But it’s under control.’

  She looked at him. ‘Thank God.’

  He went to wash. He’d not noticed any change in her hair. And nor did he later smell fire on her, as he pressed and pressed until he was done.

  Amelia rose with Italo, well before the dawn. In the kitchen, she stoked the fire to let it burn down, prepared them coffee and took some to Italo with a piece of yesterday’s bread. She stood on the verandah, staring at the slow smouldering. She’d not slept all night – the fire closed over her, the smoke entered her lungs. How close she’d come to death. And then, in another swathe of images, she’d seen her brother Aldo’s legs, similar to Fergus’s, though they’d never inspired such heat in her.

  ‘What time will the men be up?’ she said.

  ‘About six-thirty.’

  She walked towards him, her tread heavy from tiredness, and raised a hand to his forearm as she passed, some small gesture of their teamwork. He made no response. She heard his steps from the verandah towards the field, and she returned to the kitchen to make the vat of porridge. She’d measured it all the previous evening and placed the oats and water in a huge pot over the fire. While this was slowly heating, she mixed a mass of flour and water and baking soda to knead damper.

  Yesterday evening could have ended in disaster. She hoped Fergus would say nothing. But then she’d worried if it was wrong to keep something from her husband. And then it worried her more why she couldn’t tell him. Would he be angry she put herself in peril? Her father would be. Or would Italo just be thankful? She didn’t want to find out. But then it worried her why she’d want to keep her rescue by Fergus a secret, which she decided was at the heart of her dilemma. She placed the damper in the oven pot.

  She remembered the sensation in the field, of someone behind her. Had that been Fergus, or one of the other men? There’d been so much noise and smoke, could she be certain it was anyone?

  By six-thirty she heard the men talking on the verandah and took them the teapot. It was the first day, and she hoped all their planning would bear fruit. Some of the men wanted coffee, so she made this. She took the whole porridge pot to the table and let them serve themselves, offered them eggs and bacon, but none seem so inclined.

  Maria arrived before the men left for the day, with her kitchen hand, a runt of a woman, Meggsy, who spoke no Italian. Amelia doubted she’d be much help, but in no time, she’d set the spit to the side of the house and started a fire to burn to coals. Today they would roast a calf and carve it for lunch with boiled vegetables and roasted potatoes. Maria showed Amelia how to impale the beast on the long metal pole. Every fifteen minutes she had to rotate the carcass. If she forgot, the meat would burn and spoil, but if she remembered the meat would be cooked through by eleven, leaving it tender and tasty and with time to carve it for lunch. She’d use the rest of the meat for dinner.

  ‘What do you know of Fergus?’ she said to Maria. The moment she’d spoken, she realised the question was inappropriate and turned away, to hide the flood of colour.

  ‘Only what I’ve told you,’ Maria said. ‘They keep to themselves, mostly.’

  ‘Are they Irish?’

  ‘Their name’s Kelly. Fiercely Irish. His grandparents came during the famine. Oisin, that’s his father, was born in Ireland but Fergus was born here. He’s what you’d call an Australian.’

  ‘But that makes you Australian.’

  She looked at her sideways. ‘Perhaps it does. But perhaps there’s a different set of rules for us.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed the divide through the valley? The British Australians and the Italians? Just between us, they who were here first think they’re entitled to all the land and everything they can grow.’

  ‘Why did Italo ask Fergus to come for me?’

  ‘I told you, since he came back from the war he’s pretty useless. Shell-shocked, they call it. Italo couldn’t spare any of the Italian men, so he paid Fergus to collect you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He was such a lively lad when he was younger, always in trouble. But that look he had in his eye, and that smile; he would melt the hardest heart and get away with anything.’

  She’d seen such a look. That day in the truck when he’d acted to lick the sugarcane. But it was passing, flickering and gone.

  ‘He’s turned into a bit of a hermit,’ Maria said. ‘He lives on his own in a small hut. You’d best go and turn the calf.’

  Amelia nodded and walked out through the breezeway. She’d imagined the hut was just a place he went, but he lived in it. She turned the beast to the other side.

  ‘Why doesn’t he live with his family?’ Amelia said when she returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fergus.’

  Maria hesitated, as if she refused to gossip or she was too intent on the mound of potatoes she was peeling.

  ‘Oisin, his father, he’s a brute of a man. He never had much sympathy, and it ran out quick smart when Fergus returned. His mother, she’s a sweet soul. She tries, but he doesn’t seem to want any involvement with them. This used to be Oisin’s land before Italo bought it. Italo took pity on Fergus and lets him stay there.’

  ‘Does he work for Italo?’

  ‘Just odd jobs. Italo only wants Italians. And Fergus runs hot and cold.’

  Last evening, Fergus hadn’t been working in the fields. Then why was he there?

  ‘Others came back from the war with far worse than Fergus,’ Maria said, ‘and have got on with their lives.’

  Amelia thought back to the scars of war, men left without limbs, men without eyes, men with broken minds. Maria was too hard. She’d never seen the war. In Australia, it was a word, a world away. Fergus bore what had happened. And he had no-one to share this with. No-one had seen what he’d seen.

  ‘It’s time we took them morning tea,’ Maria said. ‘Then we’d better get a move on with lunch.’

  Once they’d made the tea, they loaded the truck and drove to the field. Amelia saw the narrow path in which she’d been caught. How foolish she’d been. The cutting was well underway, a large swathe of the first field toppled. The men waved to the women and downed their broad, particular knives, stretched out their backs and came to the truck. They all wore trousers to protect their legs. Shorts would have been cooler. Some had removed their shirts, wearing just their cotton undershirts. And they wore the most bizarre array of hats, some round and pulled down about their face, others with the side turned up like Fergus wore his, yet others with wide brims. All were blackened.

  The women filled enamelled cups with tea, and the men picked up huge pieces of Maria’s cake and sat in the rubble, the debris they’d cut from the cane. They talked and joked amongst themselves, ignoring the women.

  Once the men had finished, the women gathered the cups and took everything back to the house. Meggsy disappeared into the washroom. They put the potatoes on to roast and took the calf from the spit to the kitchen bench. Maria carved it with precision and speed.

  The lunch was a blur. The men came to the house, having washed to remove the Hairy Mary from their skin and changed their clothes. The table was set in the main room. One minute the food was there, the next it was gone. They drank wine, tea, water. They talked. And another sweet cake Maria had made vanished. And then the men were gone, to the barracks to sleep until the day cooled. When they were leaving, Italo came to thank her and asked how they were getting on. She had no words, just that she’d see them in the field for afternoon tea.

  The women had no siesta. Meggsy cleared the table to the washhouse. Amelia and Maria cleaned the pots and all the other parts of the kitchen. By three, she heard the men’s voices at the barracks. They took tea and the remainder of the morning cake to the field, an even greater swathe of the cane now cut.

  After this, Maria an
d Meggsy left but would return in the morning. Amelia started the evening meal. But while she mixed damper, she thought of Fergus. Her first impression had been he was withdrawn merely due to their lack of a shared language. She placed the damper in the oven pot and then in the coals. She turned the rest of the morning’s meat to an evening stew. But the more she heard of Fergus, she could see he’d suffered in a way perhaps people didn’t understand. She owed him her life.

  Once the damper was cooked, she made a parcel of food: some meat and damper and a piece of the morning’s cake. She wrapped it in brown paper and string. She left through the breezeway and found the path that rose steeply and then flat along the ridge. When the hut hadn’t appeared after some time, she thought she’d lost her way or had dreamt the hut. And then she saw it ahead, the single grey square in the clearing.

  ‘Fergus?’

  She waited but could hear nothing save the wind moving through the trees. She called again, edged closer to the door and knocked. When there was no response she looked around for somewhere to leave the food. But he might not be back for some time, and the birds or a kangaroo may come and take it. She pushed on the door, which opened, without any latch.

  ‘Hello?’

  It began to rain, the drops penetrating her clothes, heavy and large and warm. She pushed the door. There was no-one inside. She looked back to the clearing. No-one was coming, traipsing through the rain. She stepped into the hut, walked the few paces to the table and placed the food package on it. She looked for some paper and a pencil, thinking she should leave a note to explain where it had come from. There was a calendar on the wall, a single sheet of paper, the months printed in a grid. 1914. Six years ago. On the bench below, neatly stacked, were as many as thirty tins of Capstan Tobacco. She picked one up. It was empty. She replaced it to the order. The bed was made, the blanket drawn tight across the metal frame, the white sheet a starched collar. A folded shirt lay on the pillow. He slept in this shirt. Water dripped from her hair to the fabric.