by G S Johnston
They’d come to the edge of the forest. He looked at her from under his heavy brow. Their pleasure beat, raw and brass, those moments as the water babbled in the smooth pool, his pressure on her thighs, the warm rain on her face, his exertion breathed on her neck. The milk ribbon shot between them, gyred in the water, and was gone.
She wanted that again, to see him naked. She wanted that. She walked the paces to him. She leant and pressed her lips to his, chilled and uncertain. She wanted only this. And she would take it. She pulled away. Walked away. She would count the hours until she saw him again. She would have him, again and again.
Despite the heat, she took her dinner in the main room rather than on the verandah, wanting to be hidden. There was a light knock at the door. She ran to it, unnerved and pleased by Fergus’s boldness. But Ben stood in the breezeway. He had never come to the house before, not at night, not like this. He said something, his speech slurred, his mouth restrained by the tight scars on his cheek and neck. He said it again and then she understood – the horse was gone.
She stared into his grey eyes. Italo had asked Ben to care for the horses, and the one she’d ridden to Fergus’s hut was still there. How stupid not to have brought it back. There was nothing she could do at this hour.
‘In the morning,’ she said, ‘I look.’
Ben stared at her. What did he know? Had he seen her and Fergus leave on the horse? She wouldn’t be scrutinised like this.
‘In the morning,’ she repeated.
She closed the door, leant back to secure it. There were some moments. And then she heard Ben’s laboured step across the breezeway. She felt cold. So soon the outside world had cut. How damn foolish they’d been. She would go in the morning to retrieve the horse, leaving the saddle and bridle with Fergus. She’d tell Ben she found the animal in the forest. She hoped that would put an end to it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What little sleep she took was fitful, dotted with dreams of Italy – Zio Franco’s olive oil, so rich it set solid at the first sign of autumn, the gentle sunlight in the morning, so soft it came from a different sun to Babinda’s. In one dream she spoke to Emma, the two sneaking a siesta in the far corner of the orchard. She told her all about Fergus. Then the sadness swelled, swirled around the bed, threatening to drown her.
And she dreamt of Fergus, too-vivid images, his body pressed to hers, relentlessly pressing into hers. Even in her dreams, this pleasure lived. He lived. The realisation caused fear, and, against all rational thought, she rose from the bed and searched the house for Italo, concerned he’d returned to find her dreaming of someone else. It was before the dawn, but her day had begun. She’d go and retrieve the horse. She made herself coffee, which she took to the verandah. She heard the cows lowing as they walked the ridge. Ben was about. She’d lost her opportunity to return the horse. He would see her. To her surprise, Ben came to the verandah.
‘Horse is back,’ he said.
She breathed out. Fergus must have brought it during the night. She was unsure what to say to Ben, how to deal with someone reporting to her. She nodded.
‘But ma’am—’
‘It all right.’
Ben pulled back. She’d spoken too loudly, but she had no answers to the questions he was going to ask.
Ben regarded her, then acquiesced and turned back to the cows.
Fergus had been near her as she dreamt. How close had he come to the house? Had his scent wafted on the breeze, amplified the intensity of her dreams, acted on her while she slept? Maria said he never slept. Did he roam the whole night?
But had Ben seen him return the horse? And if he had, what would he say? Would Italo mind if Fergus had borrowed the horse? Probably. The horses were his pride and joy. One thing was clear: they would have to be more discreet.
The rest of the day was exhausting, staving off or striving for the moment when the sun descended and she could go to his hut. But as she worked in the garden, she realised the danger she was in. This was folly. It had to stop. She felt a swell of sadness at the loss. But this prospect was right. She was married. Despite any anger she felt for Italo, this was unarguably wrong. She would end it.
Once it was dark, she made her way from the house along the ridge to the forest. She carried no torch, walking slowly to keep on the path. Her heart raced at the cries of birds and thumps and calls from unknown animals. Fergus rose from the fire as soon as she entered the clearing.
‘I thought you weren’t going to come,’ he said.
He walked towards her with his hands extended. He wore only his cotton undershirt and shorts. Her eyes caught on his, alive yet with a hint of doubt. She went to protest but knew she couldn’t stop. At the sight of him, she was already lost.
On Christmas Eve she heard Maria’s truck. She’d not seen her for many days and was thankful she was there to greet her. But perhaps Maria had come while she hadn’t been there and would ask questions to which she had no easy answers.
She braved the best open smile she could muster. Maria handed her the mail.
‘Would you like to come to our place this evening?’ Maria said.
She panicked. She had plans with Fergus.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Amelia said.
‘Then I’ll expect you.’
‘No.’ Had that been too abrupt? ‘I have plans.’
‘Plans?’ Maria stepped two or three paces forward, her face screwed slightly. ‘What plans?’
‘It’s just silly.’ She grappled. ‘It’s been a busy year, a lot of change. I wanted to spend it alone, write some letters. To my parents. And with Italo still away, I don’t feel like company.’
Maria scrutinised her and then nodded. ‘As you like.’ She glared at Amelia. ‘Any word from Italo?’
Amelia looked through the letters. But still, there was nothing. ‘He’s busy,’ she said. ‘Some legal issue.’
Maria nodded, said goodbye and retreated to her truck. ‘If you change your mind, just come.’
Amelia smiled. Was there some pretence in what she asked? She searched Maria’s face for some hint of other motivation. What could Maria know? Amelia waved. But what if she did?
For nearly three weeks, no word had come from Italo. She thought he may have got Angelo Rada to write at least a small note. But perhaps Signor Rada couldn’t read or write and was dependent on others. Whilst the silence disturbed her, she part relished it. Always he had time for others, for harvests, for planting, for people in far-off cities. Fergus was attentive, generous with his time. Fergus drew something from her, something she’d never felt, not even in passing. But it was unfair to blame Italo. Italo was a good man, entirely good. How couldn’t she be fond of him? But Fergus … She thought of him constantly, counted the hours, wondered why she’d left him and craved his slightest gesture.
They passed Christmas Eve together, in the small hut in the forest. Amelia took some fresh damper and a pot of stew to heat on the outdoor fire. He had a bottle of wine, made by the Italian men. When they’d finished eating, the rain stopped beating on the tin roof. They walked out into the clearing to watch the last of the sun. A rainbow, vivid red and blue and yellow and purple, arched over the fields.
‘There’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,’ he said.
She looked at him, thinking she’d misheard.
‘A leprechaun hid it there,’ he said, nodding his head in all seriousness.
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s a naughty little man, all manner of mischief. But if you catch him, he’ll show you his pot of gold.’
She laughed.
‘It’s true,’ he said.
‘It sounds like a mazzamuriello.’
‘It’s no mazza, mazza whatever you say, it’s a leprechaun.’ He looked at her. ‘If you don’t believe me, we’ll go and find him. The future will be perfect.’
She pushed him away and turned towards the hut. The future was frightening, blinding. She was ill-equipped to argue it, given it lurked
in many ways in English – I will go. I will run. I will breathe. Tomorrow, I will exist with you.
Future tense. Tense.
My love arrives tomorrow. I’m meeting him at the station. I’m going to wear my best dress.
All these ways to refer to the future. How could she ever perceive it clearly? And how long could she push Italo from this future? How exacting such exertion was. She wouldn’t have wanted to die without these days. But when she ate, the hunger disappeared, at least for some hours. Though as she walked away from the hut in the woods, she could have easily walked back and spent the rest of the night with him, just as hungry as before. And he’d proved he felt the same, his face above her, his hands softly at her throat.
And so the last days of the year were waved goodbye, waves of pleasure and angst, a year of a kind she was sure she’d never live again. She’d travelled halfway around the world, as far as possible without starting the journey home, left her home and her family and her country. She’d married, learnt a language, learnt to farm sugarcane. And she’d taken a lover. She should call it what it was – Fergus was her lover. How lurid it sounded. How frightening it was. How sensual. She knew that now.
On the last day of 1920, a Friday choked with humidity, she was to go to him in the evening. They planned nothing special. Of course, it would rain. It had rained almost every day since she arrived, and if it didn’t rain the day was strung out and lethargic. That afternoon, after she’d completed the most essential chores, she left for the hut. All morning the heavens had rolled with thunder, but it had come to nothing. She had less fear in the forest. The dampness; the seeping, teeming earth; the heavy yet crisp air; the wild screeching of unknown and unseen birds – all were now tied to him, a reminder she’d be with him. He was the forest.
Fergus was lying by the fire on a tarpaulin, asleep, the fire spent. She sat the basket of food on the ground, tried not to wake him. But he woke, stood, glared at her as if he’d not expected her, all care gone from his eyes. It took her breath. With no ceremony and yet all ceremony, he walked to the hut. Her joy sank. She’d not seen him like this, the light gone from his eyes, since her first morning in the village. What was she to do?
Inside the hut, she lit a coil. He lay on the bed and, despite all prompting, would utter nothing. He refused the tin of tobacco she offered. This was one of his bad days, the veil, as Maria described it. How could she reach him? Had he realised their time must come to an end? She must make him talk. She unpacked the carrots and potatoes from her basket. She told him of the food she’d grown and how quickly it grew compared to her parents’ crops, which she guessed was a result of the heat and the rain.
He said nothing.
But some of her plants had withered; the zucchini had grown, but the flowers had drooped and fallen. The humidity had rotted the buds, though the precious beans grew pods.
But he offered no opinion.
He’d pinned the photograph from Egypt to the wall.
‘When was the photograph taken?’ she said.
He didn’t respond.
‘Who are the other men?’
He looked at her and then slowly moved his eyes to the photograph.
‘That was Stephen and Angus.’
Was. Even she understood the stress of that one word. She should veer from it. But perhaps it was better to face it.
‘Were they from here?’
His eyes glazed, and a long while elapsed before he spoke. ‘We enlisted together.’
She pressed on – ‘What year?’ – and waited.
‘Early in the war. 1914.’
He drifted off, back into thought. It was no good. If he’d not speak, all she could do was be near him. She gathered the carrots and potatoes to wash in the trough outside.
‘The army people came to Cairns,’ he said. She stopped at the door. ‘We went to a meeting. Every able-bodied boy. They told great stories. And made promises. Before I knew it, I’d signed up to defend the empire that gave me birth and nature.’
She sighed heavily, placed the vegetables back on the table and walked to him. ‘No-one knew what happened. I remember in Italy—’
‘I had no great love for the empire … There was no work. But I had to be away from Oisin. We went to Egypt, at the end of ‘14. We worked to protect the Suez Canal.’
She thought of the canal, how exciting it was to see it. ‘Is where the photograph made?’
He nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have minded spending the war there, but we were sent to Gallipoli. We were in the 9th Battalion, one of the first onto the beach. I just ran and ran and ran and somehow I missed every bullet and made the dunes. But Angus was gone, and it took me two days to find Stephen’s body.’
She said nothing, as no word made any difference.
‘We sat in the trenches for nearly eight months. From there we were shipped back to Egypt, patched back together and then taken to France.’
Oddly, the talk of this time had drawn him from the darkness. She offered some of her story, the tale of Emma Veronesi and what she’d seen.
‘Of all the things, it’s the sound,’ he said. ‘Even thunder. The thunder scares me. I’m as brave as a cowering dog.’
She moved to him, touched his cheek and then shoulder. He had no interest in Emma, not now at least, and she didn’t blame him for not listening to her story.
‘You should take the photograph,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘You like it. I’ve looked at it too long.’
He looked at her, for the first time that day, in the eyes. His gaze was dull and distant. But then he blinked, and it was as if the veil lifted and he saw her. He blinked again to clear his sight, and then a small light crept into his eyes.
It was then she realised the most frightening thing of all.
Fergus loved her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She’d spent the whole night with him. They’d not made love but slept until early morning. At first she panicked and went to leave, but then there seemed no point hurrying. In the late morning of New Year’s Day, she walked back to the house. But when she walked onto the verandah, she heard noises, further back in the house. Ben. She gathered strength to scold him, there having been no need for him to take the milk into the kitchen in her absence. He could leave it in the breezeway. It was cooler there anyway. She heard footsteps coming across the main room. She moved forward. The door opened. Italo stood in the frame. He seemed as surprised as her. Her throat constricted. She fought to suppress her surging alarm.
‘Where were you?’ he said.
‘I … took a walk. Up the hill. When did you return?’
‘This morning.’
She breathed out. ‘It’s so lovely there.’ She grappled for more. ‘I stayed to look at the view, imagine the house.’
She walked to him and reached up to kiss him but then pulled back. Would he smell Fergus? Would he want her? The thought shot fear through her. She must discourage this. She kissed his cheek.
‘Have you had coffee?’ she said.
‘No.’ He raised his eyebrows with interest.
‘Neither have I.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Let me brew some.’
She walked to the kitchen. He remained in the main room. She pressed her hand to her forehead, held her breath, clamped down her jaw. It had been foolish to stay the night. Had Italo returned the previous evening? Surely not. She hadn’t left the house till eight, just after dark. And if he’d returned to find her not there, he would have said something, wouldn’t have suppressed his anger. Would he?
He came to the doorway, raised his right hand high on the jamb and slumped his weight over to his left hip.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said. ‘What was the trouble?’
‘His visa. It was easy to fix.’
And yet he’d stayed in Melbourne for over three weeks, and over the Christmas period. She’d no desire to draw this to his attention and focused on the coffee.
‘We have to start planting
,’ he said.
She breathed out. Of course. That would be his reason to return.
‘The gang will be here for a week at least.’
So, she would have to feed all those mouths. How nice to be given some warning. Having fed them once, the second time would be easier. There would be many hands and although the work was lighter, she suspected the men would be just as hungry. She’d kept the menus and shopping lists and could just rejig them.
She poured him coffee and they sat in slightly tense silence on the verandah. Fergus jostled her thoughts, every minute. It was impossible to warn him of Italo’s return without some obviously contrived explanation. But he would see the activity in the fields. He would know she couldn’t come. But she wanted to.
That night in bed, she dreaded Italo would want her. For some moments, he lay on his side, looking at her.
‘I’m sorry I was away,’ he said.
She said nothing. He closed his eyes. She braced herself for his hand to move to her. She would say she was bleeding. But he didn’t move. He’d fallen asleep, which seemed odd. The Melbourne trip had exhausted him, which pleased her.
On the first day of the planting, the men arrived at first light. She served them oats and eggs and bacon and huge amounts of tea. When they’d all left, she made a cake for morning tea, which she and Maria took out to the fields. First the fields had to be ploughed, a dray horse dragging long furrows into the hundred acres, destroying the roots of the old crop. If they grew ratoons, their yield would be less than the newly planted setts. The men worked along the furrows, laying the small sections of cane in the earth. The other men worked from behind, covering the setts.
