Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  But first they must plant the new crop. So she explained it to the boys.

  ‘We can handle the planting,’ Flavio said. ‘Just go.’

  Could she trust them to do this without her overseeing it? It would mean she could travel immediately to Italo, but if they failed, it would be their complete ruin.

  ‘There’s much to be done,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t trust us,’ Flavio said.

  ‘How can you say such a thing? Of course I trust you, but you’ll need other men and they have to be fed and housed. Do you think that just happens with no effort?’

  It was then she realised she must stay. Whilst the boys knew their job, they had no idea of hers, of what staging the planting involved, let alone the financials. For them, it was only the work in the field. She couldn’t run the risk of this not being done.

  ‘I have a suggestion,’ Flavio said. ‘Given it’s hard – well, near impossible – to find men for the harvest, wouldn’t it be wise to plant only the fields in front of the house?’

  ‘Not plant the new fields?’ Amelia said.

  ‘That’s right. Whilst we won’t make as much money, wouldn’t we be able to reduce our costs as well?’

  ‘And wouldn’t that reduce our risks?’ Mauro said.

  They had clearly conferred on this plan, and she could see the logic.

  ‘I’ll do some calculations, based on what you’re suggesting.’

  That night, she worked through the figures. There was solid truth in their proposal. Whilst it would reduce their income, it would also reduce their costs. And with a small amount to harvest, it would mean they would need fewer men.

  In a month, they could start to plant. They were late. Once this was done, she would take her long journey to Hay in the Riverina, and to Italo.

  The new crop was planted by the end of November, a little later than she would have liked; the lack of men had made it slow and arduous and expensive. The boys worked hard, and even she’d spent some days in the fields until her back ached, reminding her she was neither young nor supple, and she’d retreated to the house.

  And following Flavio’s idea, they’d planted less, not even attempting to cultivate the newer fields. Leaving them fallow wasn’t an unsound idea, but she would get the boys to plant lucerne to plough back in at the end of summer, to improve the condition of the earth. With clearer planning, next year they would plant all the fields. By her calculations, they would be able to harvest the main fields and would yield just enough income. It was a fine balance but with all these conditions, it was the best she could do.

  Months after Italo had fronted the appeal hearing, he was told his objection wouldn’t be upheld. Despite all the letters of support of his good character, nothing could be changed. He would remain in the camp till the end of the war. All legal means had come to no ends, the law unyielding to the demands of a family, the needs of a business, the declarations of good character. And yet she was sure the taxation department would still demand its cut of any profit she may declare in the time he was away. But she would put off these thoughts. They must pull ahead. There was no other option.

  One afternoon she heard a vehicle approaching the house. She looked from her work to where the road rounded the hill. Her pulse quickened. Who would be coming to the farm? She descended the stairs and peered from the loungeroom windows. Fergus. She hadn’t seen him but had heard he was doing well now he’d taken over his father’s property. Fortunately, Flavio and Mauro were in the village. What the hell did he want? She hurried to the front door. Lucia was coming from the kitchen. She waved her back and said there was no need for refreshment.

  She opened the door. He walked from the truck towards the house, no longer wearing khaki shorts and shirt, although he’d maintained the slouch hat, dressed now in long pants and a check shirt, as if he’d made some sartorial overture to seeing her. If anything, time had buffed some of the sharp edges. She tightened. She could no longer call it desire. She bore no ill will towards him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  Such words. How odd they were. He gave her some moments, but she glared at him. She could find nothing inconsequential to say.

  ‘Could we talk?’ he said.

  He looked over her shoulder. She turned. Lucia stood in the door with Ilaria at her side, half hidden in the folds of her dress. Lucia’s brows rose, though Amelia had no idea why – the presence of a man? The absence of other men on the property? Or had she heard talk and now, seeing this man, had had every rumour confirmed?

  ‘Privately,’ he said.

  What on earth was there to discuss? This was farcical, but he had intent. It was best to take him out of Lucia’s earshot.

  ‘We can walk,’ she said.

  He seemed perplexed and then nodded, stepped back to allow her to pass. She turned to Lucia, told her to take the child inside and assured her there was no concern.

  They started together, him slightly behind her but his step in time. From the gravel yard, she started down the hill and then along a path into the field. He said nothing, which had always been his way. The fields had no sign yet of new growth.

  ‘I hear you’re managing well,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘There’s a lot to repair. Oisin had let a lot fall away.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry for the loss of your daughter.’

  The spasm of her heart shook her. She looked at him. Was this all he’d come for? She nodded, unprepared to reveal the chafed-raw sorrow.

  ‘It must be hard, without Italo,’ he said.

  ‘You of all people know the difficulties of cane farming, but we’re better off than others. It’s all we can do.’

  ‘I meant without your husband …’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ She had no desire to discuss her imprisoned husband.

  He looked away from her, out across the fresh fields. ‘You’ve not planted the new land?’

  ‘We don’t have enough hands.’

  He stopped walking. She stepped forward and then turned to face him.

  ‘I’d like to buy that land back,’ he said.

  She answered without thought. ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘I’d pay what you did, plus some, for the land’s improvement.’

  She considered him.

  ‘We know one another too well not to trust,’ he said. ‘It’s an honest offer.’

  She looked across the land. Heat blared to her face.

  ‘You could never match the price I’ve paid,’ she said.

  He pouted. Did he think himself a sorcerer and her so fey? Her sorrow for Marta slackened the anger.

  ‘That may have worked on me once,’ she said, ‘but I’m older now. My eyes are open. You have no power.’

  He narrowed his lips. ‘I mean to have it back.’

  She tightened her face. ‘Your father sold it. The land is legally ours.’

  They stood, their eyes locked, until he looked away, looked at his feet, put on his slouch hat and walked away.

  She stayed in the field, looked to the deep sky. What a proud fool she was. How much easier it would be just to sell the land. Was her refusal only pride? She knelt, ran her fingertips over the imprint in the soil of Fergus’s boot.

  Did she still love him? If she were honest, she did, in some part. At least, she loved the person she thought he was. But his love had evaporated, vaporised. She pressed her fingers into the soil, pulled the sod free, Fergus’s footprint destroyed. She flung the soil at the sky, straight up above her, felt it rain down on her. She had come too far. The soil was worth having. She would keep it at any cost.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Three wire-mesh fences at least fifteen feet tall, set ten feet apart, tatted with barbed wire, bound the perimeter of the Hay internment camp. A hot, dry wind pulled off the desert and whipped dust into eddies or just plain blew it into Amelia’s eyes, lashing her legs. Most of Italo’s life had been passed in the soupy air of Babinda, and now he was in this desiccated place. She’d no d
oubt it had been chosen for this, because with this air and wind and dust came isolation. Despite the three wire-mesh fences, few would dare to escape, and those foolhardy enough would soon perish.

  The gate was marked by two upright pillars of wood, nothing more than a guarded break in the wire cage. Small sentry towers stood at each corner. It was a city of large rectangular huts, endless, as far as she could see. Each day, she was allowed only a half-hour visit. She would stay a week, at the Commercial Hotel on Lachlan Street, so it was only a short walk to the concentration camp just beyond the small town’s limits. Seven visits, three-and-a-half hours after months and months of separation and gruelling days of travel.

  Once through the outer layers of wire, she was shown to an administration building, the air inside considerably hotter. She loosened the collar of her shirt and followed the officer through a maze of corridors to a small room, bare of artifice – a table and two chairs, a single high, viewless window cloaked in bars. She sat, placed her bag at her feet.

  After some time, she heard two sets of footsteps in the hall, and Italo appeared at the door. She stood. He looked at her. What was she to do? He was a good weight, not as she’d suspected. This heartened her. But his clothes, the same ones he’d put on the morning he was arrested, were worn, stained and tatty. And he wore a beard, dark but heavily laced with grey, long and full like those of the desert Muslim men.

  He came to her. They embraced. Her heart raced. With closed eyes, she kissed his mouth and tugged at the beard.

  ‘It must be hot to wear such a thing in such a place.’

  He smiled, that extra blue coming to his eyes. ‘We’ve no razors.’

  They sat at the table, their hands laced.

  ‘You look better than I expected,’ she said.

  ‘You look like an angel.’

  She blushed profusely.

  ‘How are the children?’ he said.

  She spoke of them, that the boys had been a tower of strength and had applied themselves to the farm in a manner she thought beyond them. And Ilaria grew. Marta hung between them, unspoken.

  ‘I keep busy,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘I know a lot of men here. We’ve started a small garden. The food is tolerable.’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’

  ‘In the huts. Twenty-eight men in each. We have two-tier bunks. I can hear the men all night. I’ve grown used to it. I have a high bunk.’ That brought a smile to his face. ‘The stuffing falls from the mattress onto the lower man. Straw and dust.’

  She smiled, even though she was appalled, the conditions worse than she offered the canecutters.

  ‘It’s so dry and dusty,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a bad drought, the worst in years, apparently. But there are still bloody mosquitoes, even when the temperature drops quickly at night.’ Suddenly, sadness swept over his face. ‘I’ve become nothing but a number, seven-zero-eight-two.’

  They sat in silence, despite the heavy presence of time. She refused to look at the clock on the wall, or the watch at her wrist. These guards would tell her soon enough when their time was finished, and she was sure no protest from her would have any effect. He asked, and she told him of the day of Marta’s funeral. He held her hand and they wept. She told of Clara and her family’s kindnesses and of Marta’s poor grave she would rectify in time. He asked, and she lied, about the state of their finances and the condition of the farm.

  ‘Don’t lie,’ he said. He looked directly into her eyes. ‘No longer.’ He pulled his hands from hers. ‘We can’t survive this without the truth.’

  She recoiled. She’d only ever lied to him of one thing. And now, with these simple words – ‘no longer’ – he’d told her he knew of Fergus, he knew of Flavio, and yet he’d never spoken of it. What could she say? Any justification was pointless, rude in such circumstances. Tears came to her eyes, tears for her sin, tears for his generosity, tears for Marta, tears for this frightful condition that her insistence on faith in fascism had engineered. But this was unjust, too harsh a penalty for their supposed crime. She should be here in jail. No. Neither of them should be. She didn’t want to speak of Fergus, or Flavio, not here, not now. But before she could gather her thoughts, he pressed on.

  ‘I know they’ve taken all our money,’ he said. ‘I know about the fire.’

  ‘Then there’s little I can tell you.’

  ‘Except how you are.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘I had some cash, not a lot but enough, hidden in the house.’

  ‘I suspected you would.’

  ‘That’s covered our needs. The staff agreed to stay for board and keep, and a promise they’ll be paid when this is over.’

  She told him of the bank account they’d opened in Flavio’s name, which gave them some security, and that Cristiano was paying the mortgage. To her surprise, he made no protest.

  ‘Have you made up with Clara?’

  ‘To some degree. But she’s cold. With time …’

  ‘And the fire?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt it was lit. It was unnatural, the way it ran. We set about to harvest what was left, but the mill wouldn’t take it. And even then, we couldn’t get the men to harvest it. There are no men.’

  ‘Except the British Australians.’

  She nodded. ‘And they can pick and choose, and they chose not to help the Italians. And the rains came and just wouldn’t stop. The cane rotted in a few days. The boys ploughed it back into the ground.’

  A wave of dark sadness swept over his face. ‘The earth will appreciate it.’ He conjured a smile. ‘This year will be a good crop.’

  She breathed out. She could lie no more. ‘We’ve planted a much smaller crop. Flavio thought we’ll need fewer men to harvest, and there’s more likelihood we can take what we’ve grown to the mill.’

  Italo withdrew. ‘There’s sound thinking in that. So you’ve not planted the new fields?’

  ‘We thought it best to leave them.’

  He considered this. ‘As you see fit.’

  Their time was gone, half an hour in smoke. She’d no need to tell him of Fergus’s offer to buy back the new land. She’d not accepted it. It could lie fallow.

  She saw him for the allowed half-hour each day. Everything that needed to be said had been said that first day; the rest they talked of the children, talked of older, happier times. And they shared their sorrow at Marta’s death, both often sobbing. And she visited any of the other men she knew there – Maria’s husband, Dante Pastore; D’Angelo, Garofalo, Lucchesi, Tedesco – the men who had worked in communal gangs with Italo when she’d first come to Australia. She wrote to their wives, even those who didn’t speak with her, to tell them that, all things considered, she found their husbands well.

  In the small town of Hay at a well-stocked general store, curiously called the Ringer, she bought him warm clothes she could ill afford, clothes he’d never needed. And she arranged to send him parcels of food and clothes.

  ‘I would stay longer,’ she said, the last time they met. ‘But I must get back …’

  ‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he said.

  She had no idea what he wanted to say, but in these days she’d been exhausted with emotion and seized. ‘Italo, whatever it is can wait.’

  He shook his head, raised an open hand. ‘That first Christmas, when I left you to go to Angelo Rada in Melbourne. We had a long tradition of meeting two women in Melbourne after the harvest was finished. It was a ruse. It was wrong to go, but it was the last time. I never loved her.’

  She breathed in. Why had he told her this? Of course, he’d had other women. Signora Pina had told her as much. But did this attenuate or amplify her sin?

  The guard said their time was up. Why had he said this now? What was she to say to such a confession?

  ‘I must go,’ she said.

  A smile, broader than she’d seen during all these meetings, relieved of great weight, bloomed over his face.

  ‘All those years ago,’ he
said, ‘when you first came to Australia and I wasn’t there to meet your boat – you thought I was some uncouth oaf, choosing a harvest over meeting you.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Now you understand why I didn’t. Go. Run the farm.’

  They embraced. He kissed her. ‘You’ve still not told me how you are,’ he said.

  And indeed on purpose she had avoided her doubts, her fears and mostly her hopes. What were her troubles compared to his?

  ‘Take all care,’ she said. She smiled.

  ‘And you.’

  She pulled away, walked away, each step at increasing cost.

  She recognised it then – a cruel trick had been played on her, set in motion by the strength of Fergus’s back, his bold thighs and his broad shoulders. It had never been love she felt for Fergus, not like she felt for Italo. Her and Italo’s love had grown slower than the canes. Only now had it flowered the white brushes. She just hadn’t recognised it for what it was.

  Over the following months, Amelia realised she had never so appreciated the farm’s rhythms. Despite anything else in the world, the cane grew, automatic, oblivious of Italo’s absence, unfazed by war’s shifting borderlines, unconcerned by the petty plights of many men. She pulled a cane away from the others, taller than usual, thicker. She smiled. With the ploughing of last year’s crops, Italo had predicted the cane would grow well. Even in his absence, his presence was felt. She sliced the cane, a single swing of the blade freeing it, and twisted it between her hands, placed her lips to the fold. The juice dripped and ran. Such sweetness.

  Soon after she saw him, Italo was moved further south, to another camp in South Australia, a place called Loveday. All her unsure feelings flowered again: What were his circumstances? Was he well fed? How was he housed? Why had they done this? Only this last question had a certain answer: it had been done to make their suffering worse. Loveday was at least another two days travel, even more remote, bounded by desert, completely loveless. In Hay he’d known other men. They’d started a small garden. Italo needed occupation. Did he have this in Loveday? Would he know men there? Or had the authorities split the men so they couldn’t plot, Mussolini’s meddling fingers in the Australian pie?