Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  ‘All politics divide—’

  ‘In civilised debate. When has anyone been attacked like that in Babinda? They gave a fascist a taste of his own medicine.’

  Amelia said nothing. Without Clara, the school seemed hollow.

  ‘How anyone could do that …’ Clara said. ‘This has no place in Australia.’

  Perhaps it was just her exhaustion, but Amelia felt angered. ‘Then you’ll not be able to teach at the school.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘You’d give that up?’

  ‘If that’s the choice.’

  Amelia swallowed. She’d worked hard to develop the school, largely so Clara could live in Babinda.

  Clara breathed out heavily. ‘To my second point of clarity. The Babinda Fascist Organisation don’t want the school. They’ll kill it off.’

  Clara was now just being provocative. ‘They support it.’

  ‘That night at the celebration, Signora Appiani told me she’d heard Grossi wanted Signora Burattini to take control. She’s already taken over the petition. Do you think it will stop at that? And Appiani said they have plans to hire a more suitable teacher. She clearly didn’t know I was to be the teacher.’

  Amelia tightened. ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘Those men want their wives to control the women’s organisation, and they’ll control their wives. It’s about long, heavy chains of control. It’s not about Italian culture or language – it’s only about fascism, and if they don’t get their way they’ll smash their opposition.’

  ‘So you’ve crumbled,’ Amelia said.

  ‘I won’t compete. Fascism’s all they want. Chieffi will only endorse the school so it makes him look like he’s creating more fascist organisations, all led by Rome.’

  ‘Italy is strong again.’

  ‘At what cost? And why all this talk of Italy? Why have you changed your opinion of Australia so much?’

  ‘I’ve told you and told you why – I’m Italian!’ Amelia shouted.

  ‘And I don’t believe you—’

  ‘Italo’s attack has made me more certain.’

  Clara glared at her. ‘There’s more than that.’

  ‘And I’m sure you know what it is.’

  Clara’s face changed to something she’d never seen. ‘You’ve been shunned for what happened with Fergus. You’re involved in the school because you want to be part of Italian society. You’re doing this to atone, gain favour, stave off judgement.’

  Amelia swallowed hard. How could she know such things? She’d never spoken to anyone of these feelings, and here they were splashed at her. Did she bear the birth of Flavio like a scar across her chest?

  ‘You’re talking rubbish—’

  ‘You think with patriotic works people will turn a blind eye and forgive you.’

  ‘I’ll not stand for this. Not in my own house.’

  Clara stared into her eyes, unflinching. ‘I’ll leave in the morning.’

  Afraid they’d crossed a line, Amelia could find nothing to say, either to retrieve the situation from the truth or just to bow down to it, let them cross the line from which they would probably never return. She felt panicked, angered, relieved even.

  Clara turned to leave the room but stopped at the door. ‘You’re not the woman I met in Naples.’

  ‘And neither are you. Or perhaps you are. You were being paid, after all. You’re no longer my chaperone. I’ll cancel the payments to your bank account.’

  Clara closed the door softly. Amelia slammed her hand to the desk. Should she go after her? No. She wouldn’t. She’d only ever offered her friendship, and this was an insult she didn’t deserve. She too had pride.

  The following morning, there was silence in the house as there never normally was. Amelia didn’t go downstairs to Clara’s farewell. She took refuge in her office, pulled the drapes against the view. She’d thought Clara may at least attempt some last-minute reconciliation, but she heard the car move away. Amelia felt overcome with sorrow. She rose from her desk and ran from the room to the entrance hall. Italo was standing by the gate, Marta and Mauro on either side, watching the car drive before it turned the hill. She stood at the door. He turned back towards the house. He’d taken only a few paces when he saw her and stopped. Amelia bit back on her tears. She wouldn’t show them, not even to him.

  ‘You and Clara didn’t part on good terms,’ Italo said.

  ‘Did she speak with you?’

  ‘She said the girls needed her.’

  She was sure more had been said but wouldn’t be drawn.

  ‘We argued,’ she said, ‘about the school.’ She looked to the children. ‘Mauro, quickly, you’ll be late for school.’

  Mauro stared at her, and she thought he may say something. But eventually, he turned and sprinted down the hill towards the stable. He was upset Clara had left so abruptly. Both the children were very fond of her. She held out her hand to Marta, but she walked to Italo and took his hand.

  Amelia turned back into the house and towards the stair. Italo followed to the entrance hall. She looked down on him. He was so frail she didn’t want to burden him. Marta held his hand. And without Meggsy and now without Clara, she would have more work to do.

  ‘She didn’t want to be associated with the women’s fascist organisation,’ she said.

  ‘I tend to agree with her,’ Italo said.

  ‘Why take her side?’

  ‘I don’t agree with her entirely. But I think you’ve argued with her profoundly.’

  She breathed out. ‘What’s been said has been said.’ She started to mount the stairs. ‘Go and rest. I have work to do. I’ll bring you lunch.’

  Marta and Italo stayed together, staring at her.

  At her desk, she placed her head in her hands and began to cry. Just two weeks ago everything had been planned. So neat. Now all was in disarray. She must start again. Start again to place order. Everything would come to order with effort.

  She wrote a small advertisement for the Cairns Post for an Italian-speaking woman to run the house. She wrote a list of cheques, letters and envelopes to pay their accounts. With that, she went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Italo had taken Marta to the fields. She placed his soup, a small amount of pasta with meat sauce and a glass of red wine on a tray and took it to the dining room. She went to the entrance hall to call out to them, but then she heard them returning and went back to the kitchen for her and Marta’s lunch. The sun and a small walk to the fields had been restorative, given Italo some colour.

  After they’d eaten, he said, ‘I must go back to the fields—’

  ‘You need your rest,’ she said.

  ‘Rest won’t run a farm.’

  She looked at him. More and more she believed they were made of similar stock. Or perhaps they had just grown together.

  ‘Perhaps a small siesta,’ he said.

  She agreed and smiled. He turned to the stairs.

  ‘I’ll bring you some tea.’

  When she brought the tea, he sat in the bed. She placed the tray beside him and turned to leave.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think,’ he said. She turned to him. ‘We should go to Italy.’

  For some moments, Amelia stared at him. They had never really discussed such a thing. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘If we were to return, for a period, we could judge all the changes for ourselves. My mother is very old now. I feel guilty, despite how much money we send her. Your parents and brothers – wouldn’t you like to see them?’

  She felt the heaviness she carried in her heart for her missing family. ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Then for these reasons alone we should go. As you say, the British Australians don’t want us here.’

  ‘They envy and hate the Italians.’

  ‘And now, even some Italians don’t. When I first came, I always thought to go back.’

  Had she? Had she really carried returning as the end point of her leaving Italy? She thought ba
ck to that instant, that split second when her father finally pulled her mother’s hand from hers. How she felt it still, the warmth, the adhesion, the friction and the final cold release. How she’d walked, knowing if she looked back she would never be able to leave.

  ‘We should see how life would be there,’ Italo said, ‘with the new order.’

  Amelia stood still. How life would be there … It was easy to lay spare the memories of harsh poverty and injustice. Could those have changed? Was Clara right that no such change was possible? Italo proposed a test – one foot in Australia and one prone lightly on Italy.

  ‘We could go between the seasons,’ she said. ‘Once the planting’s done, we would have nearly a year, time to travel and return before the next harvest. Flavio will be finished school. He could stay to tend the farm.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve planned.’

  ‘Not really, but it’s something I’ve thought of for some time.’

  ‘Then it’s agreed. We’ll go.’

  She stood. Freedom. If they could find their way in Italy, she would be without blemish. No-one would know of Fergus or link him to Flavio. She could walk with her head held high. No scar. She didn’t need to run a school. She didn’t need to be part of a women’s fascist organisation. Her stain would be washed, full benediction. She would escape Fergus.

  She went to the bed. She kissed Italo’s lips. How familiar they felt. But despite his weakness, he seemed to want something more. She kissed him. And there it was again, an energy, an insistence. She lay next to him. There was none of the hurry or urgency or rush that came with Fergus. This was replaced by something softer, far subtler, gentler and sweeter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Amelia carried the heavy mail sack to her office, upended the bag, the items spilling over her desk. She sorted them into piles. There was a small package – from the Italian consulate in Sydney – she tore open. Something fell to the desk and wound in circles. She slapped her hand to it. It was the metal ring, the replacement for her wedding ring. In all the turmoil she’d forgotten it. She looked at her finger, the white band of flesh now indiscernible, olive from the sun. She sat the ring on her palm. It was a crude contrivance, light, as if the metal were hollow. At what cost had it come? She was unsure she wanted to wear it and placed it at the back of her desk.

  She had three responses to her advertisement for a woman to run the house. None were suitable, not even close – this one was too young, this one had no real experience and this one wanted all her travel expenses from Melbourne paid. How had she even seen the advertisement in the Cairns Post? The cheek. And none were Italian, though she’d advertised this as imperative. She’d not deal with another British Australian. On that she was adamant. She pushed the letters away.

  What was she to do? Day to day, she could cope with the house. Just. But Marta took considerable time, being at an age where she’d discovered decisions. Each day Italo had more strength and spent increased time in the fields. Thank God for small mercies. If the attack had occurred in the planting or the harvesting, it would have destroyed them. With all the expense for the house, the new land’s mortgage, they couldn’t afford to lose a crop. She looked out the window, across the fields, already sprouting a fuzz like that on a peach, but green. Her running of the business had fallen further behind.

  She’d heard Meggsy was working for the Burkes. Good luck to her. She’d find the Irish close-fisted with their pennies. She thought to offer Meggsy more money to return, but her pride dismissed the thought. She just had to find a new woman. Soon the harvest would be upon them. Without help, she wouldn’t cope. She may have when she was younger, but not now. Her mother had always complained of being tired. In the last few weeks, something slowing had seeped into Amelia’s bones. The concern for Italo, the breach with Clara, the return of Fergus – all these things had robbed her of sleep. That was one thing. But there’d also been such greater demands on her time.

  And there been no word from Clara. She’d hoped she’d write. Perhaps she should break the silence, but Clara had caused the falling-out at a time when Amelia could ill afford it. It was up to Clara to salve the wounds. Perhaps she’d just have to employ another British Australian girl. Damn it.

  She turned to the rest of the morning’s mail. She’d made enquires for their trip to Italy. The Australia-Italia Shipping Company in Brisbane had responded with a quote for their proposed dates. They could sail almost the reverse trip she’d made sixteen years ago, boarding at Brisbane but disembarking at Genoa. The cost for a first-class cabin wasn’t as prohibitive as she’d expected, fifty-five pounds each. But the agent stressed to secure the booking they’d need a deposit within a fortnight. Amelia wrote the cheque for the full £110 and an accompanying letter and sealed them. They would sail aboard the Remo on the eighth of May in 1937, just under a year away. Before then they would harvest the crop and plant the next to grow while they were away. May they be blessed with plain sailing.

  Flavio would oversee the farm, not that there would be much to do, and was excited by the prospect of flexing his maturity. Both Mauro and Marta would be in boarding school. How she’d miss Marta. She would grow so appreciably while they were away. But they couldn’t afford to take her. And the travel would be easier on their own. Besides, Mauro had to stay in school. She looked again at the new life in the field. Flavio would cope with it. There was little to be done. The cane just grew. It was a chance for him.

  A wave of tiredness came to her. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, such a simple act so soothing. She’d been eating too well, the convalescent’s food she served Italo making her put on a little weight.

  She collapsed her hands to the desk, seized and tore up the travel agent’s letter and the cheque. Who was she fooling? She was pregnant. At thirty-six she’d not considered such a thing possible, but she could deny it no longer.

  The irony. Everything had aligned for them to return to Italy, but she couldn’t go. The child would be born in March next year. She couldn’t make such travel with a newborn, and she couldn’t leave the child. This would push back their plans, at least a year or two. Nothing could be done. So be it. There was new life in the field, and there was new life in her. Italo had always wanted another child. He’d be very happy.

  She picked up the coarsely forged metal wedding ring, slipped it over her gnarly knuckles and regarded it.

  It served a purpose. She’d married again.

  PART THREE

  1939–43

  Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies

  Venus and Adonis – William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Amelia stepped to the rail at the aft of the ship, moving away from the wharf into the Bay of Naples. She placed her hand on the worn wooden balustrade. This, at least, had a ring of familiarity. In five weeks time, four if the sailing was plain, they’d be through the Suez Canal, across the Indian Ocean to Colombo and back to Australia. To see the children would be a blessing. She’d missed Marta as much and far more than she’d expected. And Ilaria would have grown as only a two-year-old can. Exchanges of letters had been drawn out and disrupted, and the Italian newspaper had few reports of anything from home. But she was pleased she’d not brought Ilaria with them. Flashes of wisdom were rare, but at the last minute she’d decided to leave her in the care of Lucia, the Italian housekeeper. She hoped Flavio had tended the cane. She’d had a letter from Mauro’s headmaster. He’d been missing classes. Marta had written often from boarding school; she enjoyed it immensely, and her marks were consistently high. And Ilaria … Would she even remember her mother?

  She looked to the receding port of Naples. So much had changed since she stood above these waters with Clara, twenty years ago.

  Were she and Italo fleeing Italy?

  The thought was unsettling but not without slices of truth. Their time had been expensive. There’d been railways and food, more expensive than she’d budgeted for or letters had suggested. And they’d
had to move about more than they’d planned, between their two villages, between her family and Signora Pina. The Italian trains may run on time, but they were costly, a tax for this and for that, just to breathe.

  Everything, even the church she’d married in, the main piazza, her parents’ table, seemed so small. Her parents were old and hunched, and she believed they’d shrunk. It was cruel to see them, the slow increments of twenty years hurled at her in the most unforgiving manner. And her brothers were now men with their own wives and children and bald pates. Only Signora Pina, despite her protests of failed health, stood rooted to the earth with such force Amelia thought she’d never die.

  The first thing Pina said to her after all those years: ‘Why have you not brought the children? You’ve broken your promise.’

  Only Pina could see things in such simple isolation.

  Within three days of seeing her parents, in hushed tones they spoke of the dark cloud fascism had brought to Italy. People were missing. They lacked all kinds of basic amenities. Yet in the open no-one had a word of criticism, too scared to speak. She saw none of the grandeur of an imperial power, nothing the victory in Abyssinia had portended. And when she pointed this out, that the descriptions in letters didn’t match the reality, her parents and brothers bundled her indoors.

  ‘I couldn’t risk writing any other type of letter,’ her mother said, spitting sotto voce. ‘There’s a chance the letters would be intercepted. And if I said nothing positive of fascism, they would take that as criticism.’

  Her family said she spoke ‘old’ Italian, and with an Australian accent. Aldo laughed and complained he couldn’t understand a word she said. He was only joking, but the fact he could make this a joke meant it was true in part; she was a foreigner in her own land, her own language.

  Most regrettably, midway through their time in Italy something occurred they couldn’t have foreseen: in September, Hitler invaded Poland and the Second World War began. This she feared the most; who knew where the alliances would lead? At any moment, conflict could flare around them and then Italy would be at war with Britain. And Australia. She felt cut off from the children; the world was changing rapidly, and she could do nothing to protect them.