by G S Johnston
They left the main road and drove into the property. She saw their hut, clinging to the hill, humble and broken in a way her parents wouldn’t accept. She turned to the land – no sign at all of the canes, no sign of anything growing, just the earth. Italo too looked at the land. But she imagined he saw only what work he had to do, not what the future might offer. They walked to the house, Italo carrying her small case. There was a vase of flowers on the bench on the verandah. She imagined Maria had left them. Italo went ahead, into the hallway with her portmanteau.
Once they were inside the house, she would do what she had to do. She turned one more time to the fields. This was her first homecoming. For the first time in Australia, she felt she had a home. She had everything she’d wanted in Italy – land, space, possibility. And she was to put all this at risk with such a confession?
Italo came back to the verandah door. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he said.
He was a good man. She turned from the land to him. ‘I’ll make it.’
It would put off the talk for some more moments. She stepped into the hallway, stopped across the threshold.
She realised then – to tell him the truth was to set a fire. She couldn’t. She must be deceitful to survive.
He stood in the bedroom doorway, allowing her space to pass. She stopped, reached her hands to his shoulders. He lowered his face and they kissed. There wasn’t that honey, that fire. She took his hand, led him into their room, made him sit on the bed’s edge. She looked into those sea-blue eyes, awash with confusion but also a recognisable tide of desire. She removed her jacket. She removed his. And she continued until they were both naked. Then she pushed him back to lie. She’d been schooled. At first her boldness may have confused him, rendered him unsure of his role, unsure how to take her rebuffs of his attempts at control. But as she straddled him, set the rhythm and pace, he acquiesced, left her in charge. She dictated their pleasure; no fire was in it, but this deceit was the only course of action.
The first recognised weeks of the pregnancy passed without great alarm. Italo was joyful, proud, content, a light touch in his step. The women in the village brought her smiles and proclamations of help, and gifts of small blankets and even smaller cotton vests. Amelia remembered her mother had packed the blanket she’d had as a child. It bore stains she’d made. She would ready it for the birth. She did all she could to appear happy, wrote cheer-filled letters to her parents, to Fulvia and Francesca, even to Signora Pina, checking them for any hint of her sadness or fear. Or deception.
She remained at the house, venturing only as far as the vegetable garden, sometimes to the road between the hill and the fields, overwhelmed by her situation, but more to avoid Fergus. Within herself, a discord rose; could she continue this? This lie was another sin. Should she tell Italo the truth? What would he do? But still, this discord swelled.
Towards the end of January, Fergus took her by surprise as she crossed the breezeway. He pinned her against the wall, kissed her, forced himself into her mouth. She summoned all power, pushed flat hands against the dense plates of his chest, but her warmth stoked his zest. All resolve chipped as heat flushed into her cheeks, as she tasted and smelt him. It would be easier to give over. One hand drew the folds of her skirt, his hand searing high on her hip. But she pushed, harder and harder. He ground his hardened groin. Didn’t he feel her resistance? She curled her palms into fists, opened some small space between her chest and his. She twisted her knuckles into his chest until his lips left hers. He pulled back. His dark eyes narrowed. He’d felt her change and took his hand away. The folds of fabric cascaded around her.
There was silence as he stared at her, searched her face, her two fists still held at her chest. Did he know she was pregnant?
‘You don’t want me,’ he said, his eyes narrowed.
She stared into those eyes, which so recently had returned to life. But now that life bled away.
‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘Ever. I’m married.’
He moved back two or three small paces to the centre of the breezeway.
She thought of honesty. She arranged the folds of her dress. She couldn’t trust him with the truth.
He stood so still. Then she would go, if he couldn’t or wouldn’t.
She made the few steps towards the main room, closing the door behind her and pressing back against the rough wood. She held a hand over her thickening belly, and tears welled in her eyes. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She sank, slowly, slowly, slowly until she heaped on the floor. How was she to bear this? How could she have been so utterly foolish?
She remained so for some time. A minute? Ten? She lost any sense of the day. But when she rose and opened the door, he was gone.
For a fleet moment, she thought to follow. But then the thought was gone too.
For the next weeks and then months – those between harvests called the slack season – she busied herself in the house with the accounts and plans for the next harvest. She spun some wool with a drop spindle, as her mother had taught her in their evenings together in the Veronesis’ large stable. She knitted the wool to a set of small boots. Determined, she kept herself busy, allowed her mind no folly. She’d made the right decision, assured the child its future.
And cheerful letters came from Italy, full of the requisite words, but this happiness brought sorrow. Why was her mother not here? How could she have left Italy on this madness? But then she was pleased her mother wouldn’t see her, detect her sorrow, as she would surely have. What would she say if she knew the truth? And so the chords of discord rose.
Rarely did she venture from the house, and even more rarely from the land. She saw no sign of Fergus, despite scanning the edges of the fields a few times a day, despite turning in the early evening towards the forest for signs of his campfire. There were none, and she hoped after their struggle he’d left the area again. But she could ask no-one. She could show no interest in someone she should have no interest in. He came to her dreams most nights, vivid and warm and real.
By late August, the air was dry and cool, Babinda’s version of winter. She’d lived a year in Australia, but there was no celebration. The harvest was in full swing, and Italo was away from the house and busy and tired and distracted. They’d set another cooking fire at the barracks and hired a cook to feed the cutters. He was a British-Australian man, Mal Smith.
‘Next time, will you arrange your pregnancy around the harvest?’ Tullio Pesaro said.
Evidently, the kangaroo tail soup Smith prepared wasn’t to Tullio’s liking. But she was sure he wasn’t serious, just giving her a backhanded compliment.
Maria came to the house. Increasingly now, the pregnancy was advanced. Amelia, tired and disorientated, had no energy for English and instigated a change back to Italian. But on another level, the new language had brought her no good, and she saw no reason to improve it.
‘You’re large,’ Maria said, her eyes sizing Amelia’s belly. ‘But you’ve another month to go.’
‘I’m just glad the weather is cooler,’ she said.
But by her reckoning, she’d fallen pregnant in early December, just after Italo had left. She was nearly due. But to everyone else, the birth was a month away, having calculated from Italo’s return from Melbourne.
On Monday morning, Mal Smith appeared on the verandah. He looked dishevelled, his eyes bloodshot, food slopped over the front of his shirt. He didn’t work on a Sunday and would leave food prepared for the men. He’d run out of flour and wouldn’t be able to make a cake for the afternoon tea.
‘I’ve to go to the village,’ Maria said. ‘I can get some.’
Mal Smith glared at her. Had he expected her to make the cake as well? He thanked her and returned to the barracks.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’ Maria said. ‘It would do you good to be away from the house.’
The thought wasn’t unpleasant. Maria drove and talked – she had a crib Amelia could have. There were blankets too, but she’d packed t
hem away and would have to find them. She sat on her own in Maria’s truck, parked on Munro Street. But after twenty minutes, she decided to stretch her legs and allay the discomfort.
It had been some months since she’d been in town. She passed Malouf’s General Store, the vacant shop and Mellick’s and then the post office. Someone came out, their step quick down the portico’s stairs. She placed her arm to steady her belly and stepped aside. But then she caught Fergus’s scent and looked. He’d stopped, staring at her, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Then he stared at her belly. There was a moment of nothings. He said something. She didn’t catch it. He snatched the cigarette from his mouth, pointed at her belly. His eyes narrowed and pierced.
‘It – is – mine,’ he said.
She turned away, but he said it again.
He’d not spoken loudly. No-one was near them. No-one in the post office seemed aware of the confrontation.
‘No,’ she said, and met his eyes.
They widened. His fingers trembled. Her pulse quickened and, as hard as she summoned, no more words would come.
‘No,’ she said, as it was all she had to block him. ‘No. No. No.’
She turned towards the truck. Maria came from the general store. Fergus saw her and withdrew in the opposite direction. Maria walked to her.
‘What did he want?’ Maria said.
‘I don’t know.’ She looked back, but he was walking away. ‘I … couldn’t understand him.’
Maria looked at her. ‘One of his bad days.’
She nodded. No-one had heard him, least of all Maria. There’d been no harm done. But she felt anxious. Seeing him was hard enough. But then to lie to him … She felt his confusion, and it was the last thing she wanted, but there was no longer any place in this for honesty.
Maria started the truck and drove out of the village. Amelia felt a sharp pain in her belly. She’d had these before, almost all through the latter part of the pregnancy, but this was stronger. She screwed her eyes, held her breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Maria said.
The pain was strong. She ground her teeth. For a full half minute, she couldn’t answer. It subsided. She let out her breath, sat back in the seat.
‘I’m sure it’s all right,’ Maria said, ‘but let’s get you back to the house.’
They drove between the cane fields. She breathed to stay calm. The pain had gone but she felt weak, uncomfortable, as if the heat of the day had suddenly risen. And this had been pain, not discomfort. Even though she was a novice, this was a new type of pain that marked a change.
‘The baby is coming,’ she said.
Panic spread over Maria’s face, and she accelerated a little.
Amelia walked unaided from the truck to the front verandah, but as she walked in the hall the pain struck again. Maria grabbed her arm, helped her to the bed.
‘This happened to me,’ Maria said, ‘with my first. I had these pains, so severe. They’ll go. They were on and off for a full month.’
Maria left her to fetch some water.
Within an hour, her waters broke. Maria stayed with her, the contractions stronger and closer and closer, crushing harder and harder. The early evening descended, and Italo came in from the fields.
‘My love,’ he said. ‘It’s your time.’
He grasped her hand, and she squeezed it as another contraction gripped her. When it subsided, she opened her eyes to Italo’s fear-etched face.
‘Don’t be scared,’ Maria said to Italo. ‘I’ve delivered many early. They come when they’re ready.’
Maria suggested Italo leave the room, and she closed the curtains and lit a kerosene lamp.
‘The men grow cane,’ Maria said. ‘They’re not used to the sight of blood.’
Maria found towels for the coming blood and the swaddling Amelia had prepared. Maria soothed her, bathing her brow with a tepid cloth. The pain now came in close waves, with little relief between each contraction. Each started as a low throb that deepened and spread, radiating from her belly until her whole body was engulfed. She lost track of time. She moaned. The only way out was to push. Maria stood and laid Amelia’s breech across the bed. She wished the mosquito coil wouldn’t burn.
‘Push!’ Maria yelled. ‘Harder, harder.’
Amelia pushed, completely involuntarily, completely necessarily. The house rattled and rattled. Maria said a strong wind had come in from the desert.
She looked at Amelia. ‘I can see the head. Not long now. Push.’
Despite a reflex to cower from the pain, she bore down and pushed. She felt as though her insides were turning out, but she maintained the pressure.
The child slid from her body. She saw stars.
The child was placed on her chest, warm and wet and heavy, so she couldn’t catch her breath. Maria soothed her brow and told her it was a boy. He lay flat, his head turned to his side. She saw his chest expand and contract. He breathed on his own. His hands were curled in tight fists against her chest. She felt exhausted. She felt exhilarated. She had no words. She’d loved him forever and yet he was alien. His face was red. He had a large stock of blond hair, lighter than Fergus’s.
And then Italo was with her. Would he question the hair? But she’d never seen him smile so broadly.
‘He’s a large child,’ Maria said, ‘especially as he’s early, and especially for one as small as you.’
But Italo said nothing, his gaze at the child broken only with quick glances at Amelia.
‘How odd the child is fair,’ Maria said.
Fear gripped Amelia. Did Maria know something, or was this just an innocent observation?
‘Not at all,’ Italo said. ‘On my father’s side, there was blood from Bavaria. We should call him Flavio, the blond one.’
Amelia had no objection to the name. Whatever pleased Italo. She could see none of her features. Maria wrote some instructions and said she’d return in the morning.
‘If there are any problems during the night, send Ben for me,’ she said, and leant to kiss the child’s forehead. ‘Many beautiful things.’
There were no words. Italo would look at the child and then look at her, but before she had time to respond he’d look back at the child, almost cooing.
Then she felt the oddest set of sensations. First, it was like a wind had blown her hair from her face. But then it hurt. And Italo’s head lurched forward, his chin to his chest. And then a sound, low and very, very loud, rumbled over the room. She gripped the child. Italo curved his arms around them but then stood and ran from the room, out onto the verandah.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he yelled.
What was happening? She held the swaddled child and, despite the pain, raised herself from the bed and walked the few steps to the verandah. The sound rumbled, rolled and echoed around the valley.
‘What’s happened?’ she said.
‘It’s some explosion.’
Italo remained staring at the forested hill. And then they saw flames, rising in the forest.
‘It’s on the ridge. I’ll go and look. Will you be all right?’
She looked at the child. ‘I’ll be …’ She smiled. ‘We’ll be fine.’
Italo smiled, kissed the child and then her and was gone. She could hear men’s voices. The cutters had come from the barracks. She could smell the smoke, thick and unctuous, unlike the fire of the fields.
The flames climbed out of the trees, high into the heavens. Fergus’s hut was at the inferno’s heart. It had a good hold and was spreading, engulfing other trees, leaping to others, fanned by the warm wind. The verge between the fire and the field wasn’t so large. Flavio murmured in her arms, and she moved to calm him. If the fire caught the field, with this wind it would be impossible to control and would sweep through all the cane.
The sky showered embers. Large branches, a whole tree, crashed to the forest floor. What could she do? Should she leave? Walk out to the main road? She must think clearly. Spot fires ignited in the field. It took
only two, three breaths at most, and the field was engulfed.
An almighty gust of wind, hot and dry and laced with embers, hit the house. The verandah shuddered, resisted, and then ripped, the curved iron roof groaning and gone. She looked to the sky, black and shot with cinders. Was this to be her fate? She’d come too far to die this way. And she held her child.
The hot wind blew hard. Another piece of the roof dislodged. She must leave. With the child in her arms, she walked back to the bedroom. She picked up her dictionary. What else should she take? Clothes? Shoes? There was nothing in the house. And she couldn’t carry anymore. Something in the breezeway roof shrieked in pain.
With Flavio held tight in her arms, she walked backed to the verandah and down the stair, away from the house. The hot wind blew her hair across her face, stung her eyes. But the spot fires had picked up in the fields. It wouldn’t take much for them to catch and run flames up the hill.
‘Italo,’ she yelled.
She listened but couldn’t make out any sound beyond the rush of wind and fire. She should go towards the main road. Flavio murmured again.
‘Holy Mother of God, do not desert me now. I know what I’ve done is wrong, but you are a woman. You know our choices.’
She looked to the sky. Waited. But nothing changed. What had she expected of the Virgin Mary? She was too demanding, too unworthy of grace. And then she felt it. A drop on her forehead. And then another, and then another, and soon the heavens opened and she remained, these heaven-sent tears streaming her face, onto her clothes, soaking to the skin, baptising the newborn child. And for once, she welcomed them.
She was forgiven. They were safe. They were all saved.
PART TWO
1936
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done
Venus and Adonis – William Shakespeare
