by G S Johnston
She left Clara and went to Italo. He stood naked in the washroom, his torn black shirt and vest and trousers discarded in the corner. Despite the soap and water, the oil stuck to the skin around his neck, glistening in the low lamplight. Even now, the bruising appeared, yellowing purple washes across the skin, around his ribcage and stomach. It was said castor oiling provided a three-way attack: it gave intimate control over another’s body, it caused gross humiliation and it imprisoned a person for a week as they recovered. How could someone do this to another?
‘Please,’ Italo said. ‘Leave me.’
‘Dry yourself.’
She went upstairs to their room for a robe. When she returned he was bent over, clutching his stomach. When the gripe eased, he put on the robe. She called out to Clara, and together they helped him to the privy at the side of the house.
‘This is going to be severe and prolonged,’ Clara said. ‘I’ll move the chamber pot to your room.’
Amelia waited for Italo, and once he’d composed himself she helped him upstairs. Almost at the sight of the commode, the cramps seized him.
They left him in private.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
All night Italo groaned, relieved himself, and for some moments the worst seemed to have abated. But then the cramps flared again: huge amounts of pain, stabbing wind. Within a few hours there must have been nothing left in his system, but the cramps and spasms and what could barely be described as diarrhoea, little more than a frothy mucus, continued.
The morning announced itself, light sweeping into the room, surprising Amelia. She hadn’t closed the drapes. The light would rouse him. He needed sleep. She stood, felt faint – having not left his side, she’d not eaten or drunk water. She steadied herself on the back of the chair. He was resting now. She tidied the sheet about his throat and walked to the drapes. The first stains of dawn lifted the sky.
She looked down to the field. Fergus. So long ago, a lifetime ago, he’d appeared in a dream, rather a ghost in a nightmare. But it had only been a matter of hours. Had she just imagined it? He was there, wasn’t he? In the car Clara had said she didn’t want to discuss it, so she must have seen him. Can an apparition be shared? What was he doing in Babinda? What did he want from her? The years of dread transformed to anxiety.
Across the fields, the day gathered pace. Italo was so attuned to the dawn. She didn’t want him disturbed and slowly pulled the drapes.
Clara brought a tray with tea for Amelia and some water for Italo. All night he’d complained his mouth was bone-dry but each time he sipped the water, he kept only a little down.
‘He’s resting,’ Amelia said. ‘I don’t think we should disturb him.’
‘We have to try. He’s lost so much fluid.’
They raised his head from the pillow and the glass to his mouth. He sipped some, and they took that as an encouraging sign and gave him more. But once he was resting, he vomited. Amelia sponged the water with a towel. As the morning proceeded they tried again and again but each time he vomited. By midmorning she realised he’d not urinated since the evening before. He would sleep deeply for an hour or two and then rise in an agitated mess, confused as to where he was and what had happened. At one point he called out to Signora Pina. And now he burned, his forehead hot and clammy.
‘We need to get a doctor,’ Clara said.
Amelia stared at her. How many child fevers had she nursed, but of his she was frightened, beyond knowing what to do. She would give in. Let Clara take charge. She nodded.
Clara telephoned, but it was after midafternoon before the doctor arrived, by which time Italo was awake and complaining of a headache and the next minute saying he felt better. The doctor checked his vital signs; his pulse was elevated and he had a fever.
‘Apart from the effects of the oil,’ the doctors said, ‘he’s now dehydrated. Severely. We need to keep his temperature down so he doesn’t lose more water through sweating. Remove his bedclothes.’
Amelia unbuttoned the nightshirt and removed it.
‘Get some cloths and water.’
Amelia hurried to the kitchen for the water and a cloth. When she returned to the bedroom, the doctor had opened the window.
‘We’ll moisten his skin. The draft will help cool him.’
The doctor placed some wet clothes in his armpits and groin.
‘Now we need to get him to drink some fluid. Boil water and let it cool. Dissolve some sugar and a little salt. But give it to him in very, very small sips. He’ll want more, but if you give him too much too quickly he’ll vomit, and all will be lost. Just small sips with a ten-minute interval.’
Clara went to boil the water.
‘I dare say this will pass,’ the doctor said. ‘But if not …’
‘What?’
His face was stern. Anxiety ripped through Amelia. This was far more serious than she’d thought.
‘Let’s cross that when we come to it. Do as I’ve said. Please, let me know how he’s faring. If he appears worse, contact me immediately.’
Amelia saw the doctor from the house and went to the kitchen. Clara was seated at the table, Meggsy at the stove.
‘What else did he say?’ Clara said.
The words caught. ‘That he may get worse.’ Clara stood. For some seconds Amelia stared at Clara and then began to cry. She breathed in and held the breath. ‘He might die.’
Meggsy gasped. Clara, her face held stern, turned to the stove to check the water. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘It’s all my fault. I made him join—’
‘There’s no point in thinking like that. Let’s get this water to him.’
Clara poured the boiled water into a large jug. Amelia could do nothing. Clara took the sugar from the pantry and dissolved two large tablespoons, found the salt and added a little. She poured some into a glass and tasted it, and then added a little more salt. Just watching her, her practical hand, brought Amelia some calm.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ Amelia said.
‘We care for each other.’
Amelia remembered the Gulf of Aden, and how ill Clara and Frau Gruetzmann had been, and the long days she and Cristiano had cared for them.
Together they carried the jug of water back to the bedroom. Italo was lying peacefully on the bed and didn’t wake when they entered. Clara poured a glass, wound a teaspoon in the water and left it to draw away the heat. They sponged him again. Clara fanned him with the skirt of her apron.
Once the water had cooled, they raised his head from the pillow. He was only half awake, but he sipped some. He woke then, roused by the fluid, and as the doctor had said, he signalled he wanted more, but they refused him, lay his head down again. Every ten minutes, they repeated this. Even if he was asleep or dozing they woke him. And in between, they sponged him, replaced the tepid towels in his armpits and groin. But his forehead remained on fire, unremitting. By ten that evening, he’d sipped a full litre without vomiting. Amelia telephoned the doctor. He was pleased but still concerned about his temperature.
‘Call me if he worsens.’
So the sipping continued. Twice they had to take him to the commode. He would groan and place his hands over his naked belly. He’d not urinated, but the diarrhoea was less.
‘It’s more cramps than anything,’ Clara said.
So they continued all night, aware he needed sleep but more concerned he needed water. And they sat together, not a word between them, just the odd half smile. Amelia felt no need for sleep, none, fear and anger and sorrow and anxiety pushing off this necessity.
Who could have done this? And why? And he’d said these people were Italian but not from the area.
They continued all night, hardly noticing the approaching dawn. Clara stood. ‘I’ll make us coffee.’
Amelia nodded. She looked at Italo. ‘He’s resting. I’ll come and help.’
In the kitchen, Amelia sat at the table while Clara prepared the coffee. The pre-dawn cold chilled her bones. If Mu
ssolini had employed this castor oiling to coerce his opposition, why had no-one mentioned it in letters from Italy? She’d heard rumours and speculation in Babinda, but nothing at all from Italy. Clara placed the coffee in front of her, its aroma full and inviting.
‘It was a shock to see Fergus,’ Clara said.
Amelia felt the frankness as a blow. She could no longer push him from her thoughts. Fergus had returned. But in light of the attack on Italo, it seemed minor.
‘Worst things have happened,’ Amelia said.
‘You have to tell him to leave. If Flavio sees him—’.
‘What can I do?’ She spoke too loud and too strong, but suddenly she couldn’t keep the tiredness and stress at bay. ‘He’s been away for sixteen years. He’s free to walk the streets. And yes, tongues will ignite—’
‘Then you have to tell Flavio.’
‘How can I do that?’ She felt drunk with confusion. ‘You’ve always said I can’t—’
‘What if he sees Fergus? What if someone says something to him? It will destroy him. And Marta and Mauro, if they hear of it. See him.’
Amelia shook her head. ‘Don’t do this to me, not now.’ She began to cry. ‘You criticised me for sending Flavio away. Now you understand.’
‘All this deceit—’
‘You told me never to speak of it.’
‘How could I have known the child would resemble his father so closely?’ Clara asked. ‘It’s just more lies to cover old lies.’
‘You can’t change your mind on this?’
‘What happened with Ben?’ Clara’s tone bore accusation, tremoring her anxiety, which shook Amelia.
‘The farmhand?’ Amelia said. ‘Why do you bring that up?’ Amelia sat back in the chair. She wouldn’t be interrogated on her past decisions. ‘That was years ago.’
After Ben had noticed the missing horse, she’d known he knew of her liaison with Fergus. Ben had moved about the property so silently. When she and Italo had begun expanding the business, she’d justified Ben’s removal by arguing they couldn’t afford him. She’d found him a position on a cane farm near Innisfail. But despite all the years she felt great remorse.
‘He knew something,’ Clara said. ‘Didn’t he?’
‘Did Meggsy say that?’
‘No.’
Amelia breathed out. ‘He’d seen me going to Fergus’s hut.’
‘You made him leave.’
‘There was enough risk,’ Amelia said.
‘He was a cripple, badly disfigured by a fire. How could you be so heartless?’
‘He knew everything.’
‘And so does Fergus—’
From the far recesses of the house, Italo cried out.
She looked at Clara. ‘I don’t know what’s to be done, but not another word of any of this. Swear to me.’
Clara stared at her, defiance in her eye. But then it relaxed. ‘Of course. You know best.’
‘Amelia,’ Italo cried, the voice reverberating in the stairwell.
She ran from the kitchen, up the stairs. He was standing at the top of the stairwell, so lifeless he swayed before her.
‘Where were you?’ he yelled.
‘I was in the kitchen. I’m here now. What’s the matter?’
He looked at her, steadied himself. ‘I must have been dreaming. They were beating me again.’
‘You’re safe.’
Clara came up the stair. Amelia climbed the last few steps to him. She took his forearm, motioned he should return to the room. He breathed deeply.
‘I could drink an ocean,’ he said.
Clara took his other arm, and together they guided him back to the bedroom. As they worked, neither mentioned what had passed between them, the argument having leant an automation to their care. Or perhaps Clara wanted to avoid her. By midafternoon he’d drunk another litre of water, and there was no sign of cramping or diarrhoea for some time. He slept, deeply but in short bursts.
‘He’s doing quite well,’ Clara said, finally.
Amelia looked at him. His colour was still greyed.
‘I’m sorry we disagreed,’ Clara said. ‘Why don’t you go and sleep?’
Amelia thought. ‘As inviting as that sounds, I feel no real need. You go.’
‘At least go for a walk, some fresh air. Clear your head.’
This Amelia did find appealing. ‘I’ll go on the condition you go afterwards.’
Clara nodded.
The evening was just beginning, her favourite hour of the day, where all concern seemed momentarily laid aside. She walked from the house, made her way along the ridge to the forest. A few feet in, under the canopy, she stood still, the cool, moist air pleasing on her skin. She breathed the damp, several times. The scrub hens screamed, the curlews wailed. To the side of the path, a stick cracked, high and sharp. In the half-light she caught a flash of iridescent blue and scarlet, the face and nape and hanging wattles of a cassowary, a 150-pound ground bird, timid unless provoked. The bird hissed. She set off again. Despite her exhaustion, she had energy she sought to burn.
Once in the clearing, she stood to catch her breath, looking at the view across the valley. Why had this happened? Italo had never hurt anyone. All those years ago he’d joined the fascist organisation more at her insistence than out of any desire of his own. And she’d only seen it for what it was – a collective of cane farm owners, an organisation to work against the British Preference League and the unions and their insidious demands. The Italian government promised help. Had the Babinda Fascists accepted women, she would have joined herself, and possibly it would be her now fighting for her life. What could bring such division to Italian people? Couldn’t they see the ramifications of Mussolini’s triumph? There were none so blind. All reports she’d had from Italy, and all the correspondence from the consulates, saw the new order in Italy as a resurrection. Yet even Clara disagreed with it. But Clara had lost all sympathy for Amelia’s position. Amelia didn’t need this pressure, not now, and pushed her disagreement with Clara from her thoughts.
But she shouldn’t be in this peace and solitude when her duty was at Italo’s side. And then the full horror of the attack struck her – this could kill Italo. Her vision blurred. Her jaw shuddered. What would she do without him? How could she continue? She’d taken him as given. For so many years, she hadn’t really considered him, no more than she did the leg of a chair.
How had this happened? How could she be so cruel? What did he want? What did he feel? This face she’d looked on for sixteen years was unknown. What lines had she placed there?
She stood, her hands limp at her sides. The sobs rose and rose. She made no move to stem the tears, the mucus from her nose, her mouth jammed in a silent wail. She’d abused his trust in the most profound manner. And it was clear he knew Flavio wasn’t his child, but he was such a good man he’d accepted him, without a word, without compromise, with only love for her. And she’d sent Flavio to boarding school when he was only seven and had seen him as an embarrassment, as a breathing, blood-beating sign of her sin, an indelibly embodied memento. Not even as himself.
What good had Australia brought? She had a fur coat and a large house and a farm and mortgages and land and machinery and money in the bank, none of which she allowed herself to enjoy. When had she become so callous, her heart just scars and more cuts? She’d lost herself.
She breathed deeply. For now, she should go back, face what had been done. Italo needed care. Clara needed time. She turned to the path, breathed the cooler air once more. Italo loved the forest. The mountains reminded him of home. If only she could take a pocket back to him. She walked over the remains of the hut and stopped.
A dog ran along the path towards her. It was a medium size, black and white. It stopped and looked back down the path from where it had come. She didn’t recognise it. Then in the distance she saw Fergus, walking along the track. She lost her breath. Once the dog had seen him, it turned back and raced to her, its tail wagging furiously, its ears laid d
own and eyes smiling.
Fergus called out, ‘Joey.’
The dog moved from her. Although every instinct said to run, she stood still. He continued, his pace unabated, as if to him there were no shock in finding her there. She thought to move away, but it was her ground and she wouldn’t give it. He was within touching distance, less than a metre, when he stopped.
How odd to look at that face. Something she’d craved, wondered about, seen in her mind’s eye was now before her, more vivid than she could imagine. Her eyes ran the taut planes of his cheeks, the dark colour of his eyes, the rude roundness of his lips. These things were the same. But there were changes, things she’d not allowed, things she’d forgotten or misplaced. Sixteen years had added wrinkles about his eyes, a furrow to his brow, clouds of grey to the early morning light of his hair, even the first hint of jowls. How they tore at her, the differences between what she thought and what was. She searched his face for emotion, some tell-tale expression, but his dark eyes gave nothing.
What did he see in her? Most surely, sixteen years and three children and all this work had riven lines in her face she no longer saw.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, the tone overly aggressive.
‘Just walking. How’s Italo?’
She paused. ‘He’s unwell, very weak. Why have you returned?’
He regarded her. ‘Oisin can’t manage. He’s too old and feeble to interfere. He’s no choice but to allow me to return.’
‘Where were you for so long?’
‘In New Zealand. In the south. On a sheep farm.’
Amelia flamed and raised her hand to cool her face. He was robust, no sign of the war shock from which he’d suffered. He looked away, into the distance. Without returning his gaze to her, he said, ‘How is our son?’
The question seemed brutal, and she objected to it but couldn’t deny it.
‘He’s away at boarding school. He’s grown tall and strong. He’s none of my features. Only yours.’
‘You don’t deny he’s my child …’
‘You’re unfair. I had no choice.’
‘I’ve never stopped thinking of you.’
