by Judy Nunn
Doris was a Cockney who admitted to being somewhere in her twenties but was really thirty-five. She had a hard, pinched little face and thin blonde hair which, when pulled tightly up into a chignon, accentuated her beakiness. But her body was neat and pert and when she flirted with the men, the promise in her eyes was attractive. Business was good, so long as there was no competition. Caterina’s lush body and her thick auburn curls which refused to be restricted by pins or bonnets posed a definite threat.
Before long, however, it became evident that the Italian girl was not remotely interested in any form of personal relationship with the men, either for business or romantic reasons. Good heavens, Doris thought, the girl did not even dress to attract them. She seemed to own only two skirts which she alternated, and several blouses which she washed and ironed in the back kitchen. Doris was a very conscientious dresser and would never wear the same outfit two days in succession. She also believed in advertising her wares. She corsetted herself so tightly it was a wonder she could breathe and she favoured skirts that accentuated the line of her back, hinting at the pert round bottom beneath. Despite the fact that her blouses were as modest as fashion demanded, the tightness of her stays pushed her neat little breasts into such prominence that it was impossible to ignore them.
Doris noticed that, charming and affable as Caterina was with the men, as soon as they attempted to flirt with her, she ignored them. It was then that Doris, breathing a sigh of relief, decided to take the young Italian girl under her wing.
A strange friendship was forged between the two. Doris, who liked a good laugh, discovered that beneath Caterina’s beauty was a well-defined sense of humour. And Caterina delighted in Doris’s ability to shock.
‘He’s a dud, that one over there,’ Doris would whisper, pointing to a well-built wharfie in the corner. ‘All muscle and no show.’ Or, of another regular: ‘Big Ben I call him, built like a horse and a regular athlete in bed but he’s a mean bugger. Expects to get it for a free dinner.’ And Caterina would laugh and call Doris wicked which only encouraged her. But Caterina was grateful for the friendship. Although she pretended to be shocked, she knew that Doris was good-hearted and meant no malice. And Caterina had long since ceased to make judgements. If Doris wished to sleep with the men and accept their presents, where was the harm?
The Dockside Arms had an air of masculine conviviality about it. It was not the roughest of the miners’ and workers’ pubs. Apart from the occasional drunken brawl, it was usually peaceful and easy-going. The roughest pubs were the ones with the illegal gambling dens upstairs or out the back.
The Dockside Arms was one of several Fremantle pubs known as goldrush pubs. Many of the miners who drank there brought their gold to the city, some because they believed they got a better price, and some because their gold was stolen. Since the big mines had recently come into operation, gold theft was rife and if the theft was of considerable proportion, it was a lot safer for a miner to sell his illicit gold to one of the anonymous shady dealers in Perth who would ask no questions. Other miners came to the city merely for rest and recreation.
Drinking alongside the miners were the wharfies and the itinerant workers and the timbermen from the towns down south. Employed by the railways to cut sleepers for the constantly expanding rail tracks, the timbermen would come up to the city each month to get drunk, have a woman and gamble away most of their wages.
Caterina came to know the regular drinkers. And not just the shift workers who propped up the bar when their day was done. As the months slid by she recognised the timbermen who came to town for a long weekend every now and then. She always remembered their names and she was always good for a long chat when business was slow. Once the men realised that she was unavailable, they enjoyed the feminine company. They all lusted after her but they accepted the fact that they had to go to Doris if they wanted ‘a bit of that’ and when a newcomer who did not understand the rules overstepped the mark, he was quickly set straight by the regulars.
Caterina tried desperately to save money from the pittance the Forsters paid her. By stinting on her own food and clothing she finally bought a perambulator and Sunday, her precious day, was spent strolling down High Street, windowshopping, with Paolo in his pram. Or she would stand on Old Lighthouse Hill, look upriver to the Fremantle Bridge and the waterways which led to Perth and describe the view to Paolo as he gurgled away happily.
‘We will go there one day, Paolo,’ she would tell him. ‘It is a beautiful city, they say. On a big round lake. And you can sit on a hill just outside and look down on the whole city and the lake and the beautiful trees. We will go there one day.’
But as the years went by, Caterina knew she was deluding herself. Paolo was now three years old; he could walk and talk. She could never give him the life she wanted while she worked at the Dockside Arms. She could find employment which would pay more, certainly, but who would look after the child? The answer was obvious. She must find a husband.
It was then that Caterina started to look at the men who drank at the pub in a different light. She was aware that very few of them were ideal as marriage prospects. But then, neither was she. Indeed, few men would be remotely interested in a woman with a child. But where else was she to meet a prospective husband?
Doris was immensely helpful. Not only because Caterina’s search for a husband posed no threat—a man willing to marry a woman with a small child was not a man looking for an erotic experience in exchange for a generous present—she felt a genuine sympathy for Caterina. In fact she wondered how in God’s name the girl had survived for so long without the favours of men.
‘We’ll find him, don’t you worry,’ she promised. ‘We’ll find a good father for Paolo, one with money, you just wait and see.’ Doris’s only regret in finding the right man was the knowledge that she would lose her friend. She had become very fond of Caterina.
‘YOU ARE A miner, Mr Jones, yes?’ Caterina had not seen the man before and, when he introduced himself, he was obviously lonely and wanting to talk. His introduction had not been flirtatious, and the bar was not busy, so Caterina was only too happy to oblige.
‘Is it that obvious then?’ Beneath his bushy beard Evan smiled politely but he couldn’t help feeling just a touch offended. He’d scrubbed the red dust from his body till his skin was raw, and bought a brand-new shirt, vest and jacket and he’d rather hoped that he looked like a businessman. His partner had recently informed him that he was leaving the Clover to work for one of the big mines and if Evan was to find a suitable replacement with money to invest, he needed to look successful. Not that he was sure he really wanted to find a new partner—the prospect of working as a loner was attractive.
Evan had told himself that a trip to Fremantle would do him good, but after two days, he was already wishing he was back in his humpy and working his mine. Big towns with crowded streets were lonely places. Strange, that. He never felt lonely when he was twenty feet beneath the ground’s surface, just him and his pick and the earth with its promise of gold. Or sitting by his open fire boiling his billy tea after a hard day’s work.
He’d stay for just one week, he decided. He’d play the successful businessman, visit several of the goldrush pubs where he may possibly find a prospective partner and then he’d head back to the goldfields.
But here was this young Italian barmaid immediately seeing through his disguise. ‘And how did you know I was a miner, might I ask?’
‘You come from Kalgoorlie, you tell me,’ Caterina answered simply. ‘All men from Kalgoorlie are miners, yes?’
‘Ah. Well, I suppose they are that, yes.’ The directness of the girl was charming.
At thirty-one years of age Evan had from time to time met beautiful women and he had always found them intimidating. But this girl seemed oblivious of her beauty and it was captivating.
‘What is your name, Miss …?’ he asked.
‘Caterina,’ she said. ‘I am called Caterina.’
Caterina’s
mind flashed back to the Alps. The chalet. Mary. Mary had spoken like that. The same soft lilt. ‘You are from Wales?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I am that. A long time ago. From Cardiff.’
A man signalled for service from the end of the bar and Caterina excused herself, but over the next several hours, when business was slow, she talked to the Welshman. And when he returned the following night, she talked to him again.
‘He’s keen, Catie,’ Doris said approvingly. ‘Very keen. You could do worse. But don’t you go telling him about Paolo yet. Not until you’ve got him panting.’
Caterina felt herself blush. It was one thing to talk of finding a husband, but another thing altogether to be confronted with a man upon whom she should set her sights. And he was a nice man, Evan Jones, she could not be dishonest with him.
‘SUNDAY TOMORROW. WANT to come out with me?’ The Saturday-night rush was on and Evan had to raise his voice above the din. He felt conspicuous but nobody seemed to be taking any notice. ‘We could catch the train to Perth and have lunch by the river, what do you think?’
Caterina tried to sound nonchalant as she poured the beers and called back loudly over the hubbub, ‘Sundays I am with my son.’ She looked briefly at him, noticing the surprise in his eyes. ‘I have a little boy. Paolo.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, sipped his beer and said no more. Half an hour later, Caterina noticed that he had gone.
‘You’re a fool,’ Doris said after closing time as they wiped down the bar and washed the glasses. ‘You’re a fool, Catie. I told you not to say anything. It’s the last you’ll see of him, you take my word.’
But four days later Evan was back. ‘I came to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘I leave for Kalgoorlie tomorrow.’
Caterina wished him a safe journey and it seemed there was nothing more to be said. But Doris wasn’t prepared to leave it at that. As Caterina went about her duties and Evan got up to go, Doris sidled up to him and muttered. ‘She’s a widow, you know.’
‘Eh?’ He looked at her, taken aback.
‘Catie. She’s a widow. She needs a good man.’
He nodded and edged his way to the door, obviously unnerved by the confrontation.
Oh well, Doris thought as she watched him go, it had been worth a try. No harm done, he’d been a lost cause anyway. She simply hadn’t wanted him to think that Caterina was a loose woman. Not that Doris herself entirely believed the story of Caterina’s widowhood—the girl never spoke about her marriage or the father of her child. But she was certainly not a loose woman, of that much Doris was sure.
‘DO YOU WANT to come out with me tomorrow?’ It was six months later, a busy Saturday night in the late summer of 1897, and Evan was back.
He didn’t know why he’d come back. He was no longer looking for a partner, he’d decided to work the Clover on his own. And he wasn’t looking for a wife. Certainly not a wife with a young child. Somehow a trip to Fremantle had seemed like a good idea and, while he was there, what was the harm in seeing the girl?
‘Tomorrow is Sunday,’ she answered. ‘Sundays I am with—’
‘Yes, your son, I know. I thought we could take him with us. To Perth, what do you think?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘We would like that.’
‘PAOLO, THIS IS Mr Jones.’
‘Evan. You can call me Evan.’ He was a serious-looking little boy with straight fair hair and large grey eyes. ‘How old are you, Paolo?’
The child held up four fingers and Caterina laughed. ‘He will be four in two months,’ she said as she pushed the boy’s hair off his brow. ‘He wishes very much to grow up fast.’
They travelled by train to Perth and Caterina marvelled at the beautiful coastline as it passed by. They walked down the broad avenue of St George’s Terrace and she exclaimed at the gracious buildings. They had morning tea at the grand Palace Hotel and she gazed in wonder at the heavy oak interiors and the chandeliers.
Evan delighted in her childlike enthusiasm. There was more of the child in her than there was in the boy, he thought. Her enthusiasm was infectious. She was quite right, he decided, Perth was a pretty city, sitting sedately as it did on the banks of the peaceful Swan River. They explored the ornate and elegant town hall—convict-built he’d been told—and they walked up the hill to the army barracks, all the while chatting and clearly relaxed in each other’s company. Even the serious little boy seemed to enjoy himself.
After that, Evan stayed on a full two weeks in Fremantle and each evening he went to the Dockside Arms. Several times he took Caterina and Paolo out to lunch during her half-hour break and one Sunday he even hired a sulky. They drove along the coast road, Caterina laughing and clutching her hat to her head as her curls blew free in the hot summer breeze.
Evan knew he must return to Kalgoorlie—he could not afford to spend so much time away from the mine—but he was in turmoil. Caterina enchanted him. Did he dare take a wife? It was something he had never planned. He’d always been a loner in every sense of the word. And the child. How could he take on the responsibility of a child? It had all happened far too quickly. He must get back to the safety of the Clover, he decided. He must have space to think clearly.
His departure was abrupt. ‘I am leaving tomorrow, Kate,’ he said. It was her lunch break and they had walked down to the main jetty to look at the harbour and the boats. ‘Say goodbye to Paul for me.’ He always called her ‘Kate’ and Paolo ‘Paul’—he said he had trouble getting his tongue around fancy Italian names. He hoped she didn’t mind.
Caterina didn’t mind at all. She was very fond of Evan. He was a good man. A kind man. She knew he was falling in love with her and thought that, if he were to ask her to marry him, she might say yes. He would make a good husband and he would be a good father to Paolo.
She didn’t listen to Doris, who warned her to be careful. ‘He wears the same jacket and vest, Catie. And the same shoes—that’s a bad sign. I’m not saying he’s not clean, mind—his shirts are always fresh. But you need someone with more money, there are bigger fish in the sea, believe me.’
But Caterina paid no heed. ‘Paolo likes him; he would make a good father.’ Doris tried to interrupt but Caterina continued. ‘If I tell him “yes”, Doris, then I will tell him the truth. I will tell him that I do not love him, but that I will work hard to be a good wife.’ Finally Doris gave up.
‘Goodbye, Evan,’ Caterina said, by now used to him disappearing as suddenly as he arrived. ‘I will see you when you are next in Fremantle.’
SIX MONTHS LATER, something happened which made Caterina pray that Evan would return. Fremantle was too dangerous a town for a single woman with a small child. She needed a man’s protection.
It was a Sunday evening. She had taken Paolo down to the harbour to watch the sunset over the ocean. The night was still and calm and the water rippled silver before them. There was a bank of cloud on the horizon and the sky was vivid with colour. Reds and oranges and pinks fanned out as far as the eye could see.
‘Look, Paolo,’ she breathed, ‘look at our beautiful world.’
The child was staring out over the water, awestruck. He smiled up at her, his eyes wide with excitement, then returned to gaze again at the sky.
‘It is magic,’ she whispered. And he nodded.
She wanted to walk back to the hotel well before dark but Paolo begged to be allowed to watch the last rays sink below the horizon.
‘Until the sun goes to bed, Mamma. Please. Just until the sun goes to bed.’
It was against her better judgement but Caterina allowed herself to be persuaded. As they walked back through the dockside streets, she started to regret it. She had forgotten how quickly the dark descended on these winter nights. It was not good to be out in this area after sundown, particularly not on a Sunday when the pubs were closed and the gambling houses with their plentiful supply of illicit liquor did a roaring trade.
‘Hurry up, Paolo. Walk as fast as you can.’
It was a cloudy night, there
was little moon, and the light from the streetlamps was gloomy. The walk to the Dockside Arms was uphill and the boy was tiring, so their pace was slow. Slow enough to attract the attention of the men passing by and those leaning in darkened doorways.
Only one more block, Caterina thought. And then she saw the group of men up ahead. She would have to pass them. To avoid them would mean cutting through a back alley and that would be more dangerous. She picked up the protesting child and quickened her pace.
The men were gathered on the pavement outside the Red Dingo. The pub was in darkness, it was not conducting its licensed trade, but she knew there were gambling rooms out the back.
There were twelve or more of them, roughly dressed, some in cloth caps, some bare-headed, and they were jostling each other. She could not hear what was being said, but the voices were angry; a fight was imminent.
As she drew abreast of them, Caterina hugged Paolo to her and walked well out into the street. The men were too intent on each other to notice her. She would soon be safely home, she thought.
‘Bloody dago!’ a voice shouted and the group suddenly split its ranks and formed a circle. Two men were in the centre, crouched, prepared to fight. Caterina was caught amongst the spectators. She tried to back away but the surrounding men did not notice her as they locked together to watch the fight.
‘Get him, Bailey!’ someone yelled. ‘Get the scab!’ And the fight was on.
The two men struggled briefly, locked in each other’s embrace, before one gained the advantage. He forced himself free and drove his right fist hard into his opponent’s solar plexus. The man fell to the ground moaning and the victor stood waiting for him to rise.
