by G S Johnston
So she did as they’d never done before – they left the whole crop to rot. They would lose most of a year’s income, raising just a small amount from the new land. Already they had no money. The cash reserve was eroding, no more than five pounds. Could they possibly get by with fewer provisions? What more could she cut back? Already their food came from the garden, the cows and the hens, what the boys could hunt. They spent nothing. She wouldn’t allow repairs. In the short-term, they would just have to make do – the machinery, the buildings, the fences. Nothing could be touched.
Marta would have to come home from school. It was wrong to interrupt her learning, something she’d never imagined, but she couldn’t afford the fees, and she’d not ask for charity. She breathed out. It would only be for a short time. It just had to be. And another pair of hands on the farm would help. There was no choice, and an odd relief at the realisation of such a saving. She wrote a letter to the headmaster, explaining their new circumstances and that Marta must return home.
But how could she make the payments for the new land? She had no option and met with Mr McDonald at the bank the following morning. He was a quiet, guarded man but he welcomed her but avoided her eye, moved around the office like a sheepdog. Once they were seated across his broad mahogany desk, she explained the situation, without rushing, without fawning.
‘What an undue time for this to occur,’ he said.
‘We still have the new land. This crop will give some income, but it’s some way off and … Well, it will barely meet our expenses.’
‘What do you need from me?’
He sat back in his chair, removed himself. She would have thought it was bloody obvious what she needed.
‘I don’t want to have to sell the new land. You know how hard I fought for it. And as you can see, at this point it’s our saviour.’
He remained impassive. Wouldn’t he intervene? Did she have to say it all?
‘But I need some time,’ she said, ‘without having to pay the mortgage. I’m aware you must charge interest, and I’m sure once the small crop is harvested, I’ll be able to resume.’
Something cold swept over his countenance. ‘These are troubling times, for all. My hands are tired. In the face of such controls, there’s little I can do.’
He linked his hands and placed them on the desk. What was she to do? Accept this? If this was his answer, she wouldn’t give him grace and thank him for his time, excuse it, say she understood. She met his eyes, that steel blue of so many Irish-born men.
‘How long until you harvest this small crop?’ he said, emptying out his lungs.
She’d gained a foothold. ‘A month.’
He sighed. ‘I’ll suspend the repayments for a month—’
‘Two?’
He glared at her. ‘All right, two. But no more. And you are correct, the interest will accrue.’
She breathed out. She stood. She stretched her hand across the broad desk, as perhaps a woman shouldn’t. He rose slowly from his chair and met her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You of all people know Italo and I have always met our duty.’
‘You have a fine son to help you.’
She studied him, knew what he inferred, that Flavio was a better son because of his heritage. She took the comment on the cheek, although she seared with heat.
‘I have two sons,’ she said. ‘And my daughter will return from school. We shan’t fail, you or ourselves.’
She marched from the office before the anger jelled on her tongue. His was no casual remark. It was pointed and barbed and callous. Would she never work this stain off? But she’d got what she wanted. If this insult was the price she should pay, it was cheap.
Flavio, Mauro and she spent the afternoon in the field collecting good canes from the rubble to cut setts to plant for the next crop.
‘There isn’t much here we can use,’ Flavio said.
‘We’ll save some from the other field,’ she said.
They carried the few they found into the barn, laid them undercover between trellises to dry. She heard a vehicle and went outside. It was the police. She was surprised to see them; even they’d expressed doubt they’d turn up any information. Perhaps there’d been another fire in the valley? She met them outside the barn.
But it was only one of the officers from the morning, and he was accompanied by an older man. They both bore stern, fixed expressions, colourless, showing unease that hadn’t been evident before.
‘Mrs Amedeo?’ the older one said.
He knew who she was. She just nodded.
‘I have some rather bad news …’
He stopped as if he expected her to give him permission to go on. Something had happened to Italo, she was sure, but he said something to do with Marta. Why the hell was he talking of Marta? She’d been killed. In a car crash. On her way from Herberton. The headmaster survived.
‘You’re wrong,’ Amelia said. ‘She’s not coming home until Tuesday.’
The officer looked at Flavio, who stepped forward, took both her arms and looked into her eyes.
‘It is Tuesday,’ Flavio said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It can’t be. It’s not her. It can’t be.’
A numbness rushed into her heart. She’d go back to the barn where, a moment ago, this hadn’t been. She would cut the setts. No. It would be there now. How could she undo this? Take this back, reverse such a thing? As little as a moment ago … Flavio held her arms. She looked into his eyes, so full of fear and pain. What could she do? She could take no more.
‘Come back to the house,’ he said.
‘Back to the house …’ she said. She looked at him. ‘Of course, Fergus.’
And she stepped and stepped and then gave way and collapsed in his arm. With all marks of gallantry, he swooped her up as if she were nothing more than air and carried her, started up the hill.
Mauro ran ahead, calling and calling, ‘Lucia, Lucia, Lucia, Lucia.’
His strength. Would this carry her? Would this crush her?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her throat so dry. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ he said.
But she kept saying it as if it made sense. He carried her over the threshold, through the hall to the lounge room. Lucia screamed, tumbling over and wailing at a higher pitch. Ilaria cried out. But she could do nothing. He laid her on the soft couch.
She could take no more. Some part of herself curled, a flame-coloured leaf, let go of the bough and drifted away, further and further. And died.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Amelia wouldn’t leave the house. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to see anyone she didn’t want to see. Moreover, she wanted no surprises. Nothing unsettling. Nothing unexpected. No sickly condolences and no-one to snub her. She stayed in the tower office – the curtain pulled against the view – or her and Italo’s bedroom; at most, she ventured to the lounge. Lucia ran the house, cared for Ilaria, cooked for the boys. She couldn’t face the boys’ dull stares. Ilaria didn’t understand – Marta was just away at school – and she continued to laugh and sing and dance. Amelia couldn’t cope with Ilaria’s play and removed herself. She ate little and brooded. She wrote a sad letter to her mother, the news old when it would reach her. Would Amelia feel across such a distance the moment her mother knew? They should have taken the children to Italy … But that would have made all their problems worse.
In her office, she regarded herself in the mirror. Dark clouds hung under her reddened eyes. She looked gaunt. Her black cardigan hung from her shoulders. In these last days, she’d aged a lifetime. Someone knocked at the door. She froze. She was in no mood to talk. But the person knocked again and then pushed open the door, stepped into the room.
Clara. She thought she was seeing things and blinked. But tears had come to them, and this vision before her blurred. Neither woman moved. The ten or so feet between them remained, unbridged, unmanageable.
‘I came as soon a
s I heard,’ Clara said.
She stepped into the room, but Amelia could find no words.
‘Flavio telephoned me.’
Clara looked the same, her hair no more greyed, her weight remained, dressed still in black as she’d been the last time they’d seen one another, as if nothing had changed. Amelia was unsure she wanted to see her. But these were changed times. And Clara had always remembered Marta’s birthdays. But in many ways, it all seemed a natural corollary of Clara’s dire predictions. Clara came to Amelia and, though her eyes were lowered to the ground, took her in her arms and held her. Amelia’s arms hung limply at her side. She had no volition, no energy, no certainty, with which to return the embrace.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Clara said. She released Amelia.
Amelia remained some glassed exhibit in a museum, unable to speak. Clara took her hand and led her to the small office lounge. For long moments they sat together in silence, for what could they possibly say of any consequence? Lucia brought them coffee, which neither of them touched.
‘Have you contacted Italo?’ Clara said.
‘The authorities have. I’ve written to him.’
‘Can he come to the funeral?’
Amelia glared at her. ‘He’s a prisoner of war …’
Clara recoiled. Amelia had been too harsh.
‘The solicitor has asked,’ Amelia said, ‘but he’s not hopeful.’
Clara looked away, towards the closed curtains of the windows.
‘She didn’t suffer,’ Amelia said, almost by way of amelioration. ‘The police assured me.’
‘And the headmaster?’
‘He’s in hospital, in Cairns.’ Amelia could hold herself no longer. ‘Why her?’ The word tore. ‘Why has this happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She was just a girl. Why has she been taken?’
‘We’re not born to understand.’
Amelia breathed deeply. She’d not wanted to show these emotions to Clara.
‘Did Flavio tell you?’ Amelia said. ‘We have no money.’
‘He said you’ve lost a crop.’
‘The tax department took all our money. All of it. I had to cut spending. Don’t you see? I couldn’t afford her school and boarding fees. It’s all my fault. I made her come home.’ These words screeched. ‘I should have sold the land and left her in school, and this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘It’s the authorities’ fault, not yours.’
‘But I made Italo join the Babinda Fascist Organisation. All this ill fortune began with that.’
Amelia fought to withdraw, covered her face with her hands, shut her eyes. She’d lost control and said more than she wanted. Clara let her sob, made no move to soothe or belittle her emotion.
‘Who knows how long these chains of fate are?’ Clara said. ‘This isn’t the time for analysis. And it changes nothing.’
Ilaria ran into the room. Clara clasped her hand to her chest. Clara had never met her.
‘You’ve seen a ghost,’ Amelia said.
‘She …’
‘She’s the image of Marta when she was young,’ Amelia said.
Ilaria remained staring at Clara, until Clara motioned to her. But the child sat next to Amelia. For the first time since the news of Marta’s death, Ilaria appeared lost, robbed of confidence.
‘The funeral is in the morning,’ Amelia said. The words set her heart to break. ‘What a thing to speak of.’
‘To bury a husband is one thing,’ Clara said. ‘But a child …’
Had she meant this?
‘I’m sorry,’ Clara said. ‘For everything that’s happened.’
Clara coaxed her to come downstairs. At first she refused, but then together they walked the stairs, the sound of their heels heavy and slow on the wooden stair. People came from the lounge, and Amelia turned back to the stair to escape. But Clara took her hand and gently turned her towards them.
Cristiano, tall and lean and wearing a dark-blue silk suit, stepped forward. Donata and Eugenia followed. Cristiano had matured, groomed to refinement. And the girls had bloomed. Something poor Marta would never do. Amelia fought off the emotions.
Cristiano, as tall as his father and as handsome, hugged her, just said her name, ‘Zia Amelia’, and released her. How he’d changed, his face now without any of the plump of youth, the planes bold and sharp and proud. Donata and Eugenia hugged her, their wordless eyes lowered to the ground. Both had inherited their mother’s poise.
The following day was hot – as if it could have been anything else. Amelia and Clara, both dressed in black, sat in the front row of the church, their children on either side. Some of the Italian women came, but largely the church was empty and echoing. She could afford only a pauper’s grave, just a wooden cross with her name and dates painted. Once they’d recovered financially, she would put it right with something stone.
They invited people back to the house, but few came, just the priest and two of the Italian women. Amelia sat in the lounge and said little to anyone. Clara did her best to play hostess but was cold and perfunctory. Amelia was unsure of its source – did she still bear their argument, a break between them even death couldn’t overcome? Or was she just calloused by death?
The morning after the funeral, the Sacco family prepared to leave. Cristiano had to return to work at the hospital in Brisbane, and the girls to school. Clara and Cristiano called Amelia, Flavio and Mauro to the lounge room.
‘Because of Italo’s incarceration,’ Cristiano said, ‘you have deep financial problems. We’d like to take over the payments of the mortgage. At least for the coming months.’
‘I won’t accept charity.’
‘It’s hardly charity,’ Clara said.
Amelia said nothing.
‘When Paolo died …’ Clara said. ‘I’ve never forgotten your help. At the least, couldn’t you see this as repayment?’
‘I won’t accept it.’
‘Do you remember,’ Cristiano said, raising an open palm, ‘when we first arrived in Australia, those last few days on the ship?’
Amelia looked at him and nodded.
‘I remember calling you zia for the first time. You looked so surprised. But from the moment we went ashore in Fremantle, I knew I’d never have a zia, not one like you. As an immigrant, I was lucky. I could choose my zia.’
Amelia remembered that moment. The simple word had shocked her, surprised her, enchanted her. The possibility of choice in such a matter seemed reckless, against the natural order, and yet it was thrilling, like a highwire, something particular to this new country. And she’d embraced it.
His eyes glistened. ‘Let me do this for you. If it means that much, when you’re back on your feet, you can repay it. Then it’s not charity.’
Despite herself, tears, more tears (where did they all come from?) rolled her weary cheek. Whilst she’d staved off the bank for two months, beyond this time seemed bleak. This was good fortune, not charity. And perhaps it would salve some of the cuts between her and Clara.
‘How could I resist my favourite nephew?’ she said. ‘But it will be returned, in full. And with interest.’
Cristiano smiled, and for a moment she stood with him in the arrival hall in Brisbane, twenty years ago, a trembling boy meeting his father. What strange states this country brought, what odd moments it induced. What an unknown country.
The rest of the morning was pleasant. For the first time, Amelia enquired of their lives. Both Donata and Eugenia were studying teaching. Clara worked in a factory that specialised in quilting. They lived in the same house, in New Farm. Cristiano was in love and soon to marry. He invited Amelia and the children to the wedding in the new year. Amelia doubted they could attend, but murmured appreciation.
But even death doesn’t stop the blood surge of time. In the coming days, she remained inside the house. She received a letter from Italo, written in another unknown hand. He spoke little of his feeling for Marta and hoped only Amelia, the boys and Ila
ria were safe. He wished he could be with them.
Late that evening, she took her first walk, through the ruined field and out to the new parcel of land. She pulled a cane towards her, gave it a sharp twist. They needed income. The harvest of the small parcel of land was to begin.
The boys took care of it all, which pleased her, as she had no mind for it. Lucia cooked for the cutters, not that the land required many. And the cane was hauled to the mill and ground of its precious syrup. They would have some money. With Cristiano’s relief of the mortgage, she could spin it out until the next full harvest. She would see to it.
Only the young can believe in miracles. She reminded herself of this, time and time again as she read and reread the letter she’d just received. Italo had been taken from the camp at Gaythorne to Brisbane, to the Bankruptcy Court, which had been pressed into this new service. He’d been questioned in front of an advisory committee of three men, but he’d had no lawyer to represent him. If only she’d known, she’d have gone to Brisbane. At least asked Clara to go. Or sent Flavio. How would he have fared with his English so poor? The result of the appeal wouldn’t be known for some time, but nonetheless Italo was to be transferred from Gaythorne to another camp at Hay, in the Riverina of New South Wales.
This was another blow, a gush of anguish and regret and anger that tore at her heart. He was so far away. She should have gone to Gaythorne, but she had put it off because of the harvest and then Marta’s death. What good had it all done?
And now he was so far away, in another state. Why was he taken there? The answer was immediate: they just wanted to cause as much pain and suffering and anguish as they could. It was part of his sentence. It would take her more than three days to travel there. Her anger bore no calibration. How was she to run a business and take so much time away? But she had to. For herself, she had to. For Italo, she had to. For the remaining children. She must see him and ask what he needed, if he was fed or neglected. And who knows when or if they would transfer him even further afield? She’d heard some men had been taken to a camp in South Australia, even further away.
