by Judy Nunn
He remembered the first time Harry had used the nickname. He hadn’t much liked it then.
‘Evan, these are my partners,’ Harry had said as he introduced them to the previous owner of the Clover. ‘Evan Jones, Rico and Giovanni Gianni.’ The alliteration of the name had suddenly hit him as humorous and he’d laughed. ‘Giovanni Gianni—we’ll have to call you Gee-Gee.’
Giovanni wondered for an instant whether it was a deliberate insult—he’d heard the locals refer to horses as gee-gees. Then he realised that Harry was joking. He glanced at Rico who was smiling and shaking hands with Evan. He hadn’t understood a word. It was just as well. If Rico thought for one moment that Harry Brearley was belittling the name of Gianni there would be hell to pay. Giovanni grinned and nodded amiably at Harry. If the man wished to call him Gee-Gee then he’d let him, he decided.
Evan took them over the mine, then down the shaft where he showed them the latest drive and the signs to look for. Like many on the goldfields, he was a little uncomfortable with foreigners, but he felt genuinely sorry for the brothers. They seemed rather naive and he hoped Harry wasn’t swindling them.
‘I’ll leave you to look around for a while,’ he said as he started to climb the shaft. ‘Come up to the hut in about ten minutes and I’ll have some billy tea ready.’
Harry had already climbed back up the shaft—he didn’t like being underground any longer than necessary—and he joined Evan as he walked to the hut.
Evan no longer lived in the old humpy. He’d been working at the Midas for a while now and he and Kate had moved to the Golden Mile itself, not far from the mine, into a nice little wood-framed tin house surrounded by verandahs.
‘They seem like decent enough fellows,’ Evan said warily as he filled the billy can from the waterbag.
‘For foreigners, you mean.’ Harry leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. He knew the proprietorial action would irritate Evan but he didn’t care. Evan had sold the mine to him and there was no way he could back out now. ‘Yes, they’re good men. They’ll make good partners.’
Evan did feel irritated. The brashness of Harry Brearley always irritated him. ‘Are they sure they know what they’re getting into? One of them doesn’t even speak English.’
It was Harry’s turn to feel annoyed—he recognised the inference-but he didn’t show it. ‘I’m having the partnership contract drawn up, all legal and proper. It’s a great chance I’m giving them and they know it.’ He smiled, a lazy, superior smile. ‘Just because they’re Italians doesn’t make them dumb, you know.’ He was aware the remark would further irritate Evan but Harry wanted to annoy him. Evan’s criticism rankled. The man was boring. He plodded through life. If he, Harry Brearley, chose to take chances, to soar with the eagles, what right did such a man have to criticise him? He couldn’t resist goading Evan further. ‘What have you got against Italians, anyway?’ he asked. ‘You married one.’
Personally Harry couldn’t give a damn what a man’s race or creed was, so long as he liked to place a bet and have a laugh, but he knew that Evan Jones preferred to conceal his wife’s background. He’d even changed his stepson’s name to cover her tracks. Paul. He called the boy Paul. Maudie herself had told Harry that the boy had been christened Paolo. And Maudie should know, she’d delivered Kate’s daughter.
Evan looked at him sharply, but Harry Brearley was smiling good-humouredly and there had been no malice in his tone. Evan knew that if he took umbrage, Harry would simply accuse him of overreacting. Harry Brearley always covered himself. ‘There’s sugar in that tin,’ Evan said and turned back to the old iron stove.
Evan did not exactly conceal Kate’s past, but he did not broadcast it either. It was for her own protection. The hierarchy at the mine could make promotion difficult for a man with an Italian wife, and the higher the promotion Evan could attain, the bigger the money and the better the life he could provide for Kate.
Of course Kate had every right to be proud of her heritage, Evan thought. And, if she wished, every right to boast of it. But she didn’t. Her background seemed of little importance to her. She was happy with her new life. He had taught her to read and write; she no longer spoke Italian and her English, although slightly stilted, was perfect. With her auburn hair and her blue eyes and the touch of a Welsh lilt she had picked up from Evan, most who met her thought that she was British. So Evan never actually lied about his wife’s ancestry, he merely neglected to mention it. It was more convenient all round that way.
Little more was said between Evan and Harry until, several minutes later, Rico and Giovanni joined them.
The four men toasted the success of the Clover with their tin mugs of billy tea and when Evan took his leave he shook hands with each of them. ‘Good luck, Harry,’ he said, then turned to Rico.
Rico grinned as he energetically pumped Evan’s hand. ‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘Mille grazie.’ Rico was clearly excited.
‘I don’t work Saturdays,’ Evan said to Giovanni as he shook his hand. ‘I’ll come around from time to time and see how you’re doing.’
‘Thank you,’ Giovanni answered. He instinctively liked Evan. ‘Thank you, we would value that very much.’ Giovanni was as excited as Rico, but he was trying not to let it show too much. He had had his doubts about Harry Brearley, but the Clover appeared every bit as impressive as Harry had boasted.
When Evan had gone, Harry went outside and got a bottle of whisky from under the seat in his trap. The three of them sat in the humpy and discussed their plans, Rico waiting impatiently for Giovanni to translate. They toasted the birth of a beautiful friendship and a perfect partnership and got happily drunk together.
Harry had been good to the Giannis. He’d helped them find a house in the northern end of town not far from the mine. A good house by most standards. Certainly by those of the majority of Italian workers who lived in canvas and hessian dwellings in South Boulder nearer the Golden Mile.
The house boasted two bedrooms and a living room, luxury to the many Italian families who slept in one room. Wooden-framed with walls of tin, the exterior was painted ochre so it wouldn’t show the dust. The interior walls were of hessian, sized and whitewashed to form a thin but effective partition. The previous tenants had wall-papered the place throughout, little daisies which Teresa liked. A small verandah at the front overlooked the street and, in the back-yard, was an open copper, three clothes lines hanging from post to post and, down the back, a little shack housing the lavatory. Like most Kalgoorlie houses the roof was of galvanised iron which made it hot in the endless summer but, to Teresa’s delight, Harry arranged to have a small ceiling fan installed in the living room. It was an unheard-of luxury. Only the hotels boasted ceiling fans. Teresa and Rico shared their bedroom with little Carmelina and a small mattress was set up for Enrico on the floor of Giovanni’s bedroom next door.
On the nights when Rico and Teresa were intimate, it was frustrating for Giovanni. He always knew when they were going to make love; he would hear Teresa gently close their bedroom door, normally left open to catch the breeze from the ceiling fan. Then, as he lay in his narrow bed, he would hear through the thin partitioning wall the muffled sounds of their love-making.
So driven was he in his frustration that he started visiting Red Ruby’s, one of the whorehouses in Hay Street. There had always been a healthy red-light district in Kalgoorlie. Originally located at the lower end of Hannan Street, a committee of residents had managed to have it shifted away from the main thoroughfare. In a further cleaning-up drive, the Japanese prostitutes, known as chocolate girls, were evicted and forced to ply their trade on the outskirts of town. The girls now working the whorehouses were predominantly French, although when the protests had died down and the brothels were neatly contained in an area the respectable residents could quietly ignore, the odd Japanese prostitute crept back into town and set herself up in business beside her French sisters.
The girl Giovanni took to visiting was Japanese. He had slept
with two of the French girls but found them both garrulous. Giovanni did not want to talk to them or to play their games, he wanted merely to use a woman’s body. The Japanese girl, Miko, was quick to realise this, and only too happy to oblige.
But Red Ruby’s and Miko did not fully satisfy his needs, Giovanni realised. He wanted a woman for whom he could care in return.
Maybe he would find such a woman in Alice, the head barmaid at Maudie’s. Alice was thirty-seven, eight years older than Giovanni. Her husband, a miner, had been killed in a cave-in six years previously. They’d only been married five months. ‘Buried alive, he was,’ Alice told him matter-of-factly. ‘Terrible way to go.’ She was a tough little woman, attractive in a wiry, capable way and Giovanni had liked her from the outset. When she’d asked him and Rico to the races on Saturday, Rico’s eyes had lit up. ‘Si,’ he said.
‘We work Saturdays,’ Giovanni had answered.
‘We work our own hours, Gio,’ Rico muttered in Italian. ‘Your friend Harry Brearley knows we work twice as hard as any miner in Kalgoorlie. If we take a day off and he wants to complain, you send him to me.’
‘Sure, Rico, sure. We’ll go to the races.’ Giovanni didn’t attempt to defend Harry. He’d given up trying. Harry himself was always telling them they worked too hard, and he was meticulously honest in sharing the profits. What was it then that Rico so disliked about the man?
The truth was, there was something in Harry’s easy charm that reminded Rico of himself before the accident. The world was Harry’s oyster, just as Rico had once thought it was his. Life was too easy for Harry Brearley and Rico was envious.
TERESA DECLINED THE invitation to the races. She’d only recently given birth to her third child—to Rico’s delight, a son. ‘The most important part of me still works pretty good, eh Gio?’ he’d boasted as they’d sat in the bar at Maudie’s pub celebrating over pints of cold beer. ‘We are going to name him after Papa.’ He wiped the foam from his thick black beard. Like most of the miners, Rico and Giovanni now wore beards. Giovanni’s was light brown, sparser than Rico’s and only partially disguised his scar which, in the deep brown of his face, was more prominant than ever.
‘To Salvatore,’ Giovanni raised his glass. ‘Papa will be proud.’
THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, a fine spring day, was perfect for the races. Not too hot—about seventy in the shade—and there was even a slight breeze. Harry had persuaded Maudie to lend Alice and the brothers her sulky and pair-in-hand. Maudie had agreed, not so much for the Giannis’ sake, but because she was pleased to see Alice enjoy her once-a-month Saturday off. Alice was a hard worker and indispensable to Maudie.
The sulky was new and the pair-in-hand a recent acquisition. Princess, the old white mare, was no longer used in harness. She was Jack’s horse now. Put out to pasture, she was fat and happy and ridden by no one but seven-year-old Jack Brearley, for whom she would obligingly raise a canter. These days Maudie had her sulky and pair-in-hand and Harry had his trap and Black Bess.
Alice had asked Maudie to join them on the ride to Boulder. But what with the impending arrival of the twins, Maudie would have found the trip, short as it was, very uncomfortable, so she declined. Not that she went to the races often, she left that to Harry. So long as he didn’t gamble heavily she was happy to allow him a taste of the old days.
‘See you at the track,’ Harry called, resplendent in his fine-wool checked suit, his freshly polished fobwatch chain gleaming. He flicked the reins and Black Bess trotted off in style leaving behind a cloud of red dust while Giovanni helped Alice into the sulky.
Giovanni handed Rico the reins and concentrated on Alice. He hadn’t noticed before how pretty she was, with her hair up under her pink-ribboned hat and her travelling veil caught at her throat. Her neck was long and slender and the bodice of her gown nipped into a tiny, feminine waist. They hit a pothole in the road and she gripped his arm and laughed. He wanted to put a hand around her little waist and touch her delicate neck.
Alice was happy. She knew she looked pretty and she knew Giovanni found her attractive. That was all she had needed—to get him away from Maudie’s where he saw her merely as a barmaid. Alice had had her sights set on Giovanni for a long time now.
The racetracks of Kalgoorlie and Boulder attracted owners and trainers and jockeys and punters from afar. The money was big and the competition was fierce. On the goldfields, where mining and gambling went hand in hand, any form of sport upon which a wager could be placed brought the punters and the players alike. There were simple two-up games, where big money was placed on the fall of two pennies, to stylish billiards championships at the Palace Hotel or professional athletics competitions at the Kalgoorlie sprint track, and the Spring Carnival at the Boulder Racecourse was one of the major sporting events of the year.
Harry had already placed his wager on the opening race when the sulky arrived. He didn’t want the others to see how much he was gambling; it wouldn’t do if they told Maudie. But he stood with them beside the white picket fence of the saddling yard and pointed out the horses his trainer mates had told him were hot contenders. Every second person at the track seemed to know him. A slap on the back and a ‘Got a tip for me, Harry?’ from one. Or a tap on the shoulder and a muffled whisper from another which would see Harry slip away to quietly place another sizeable bet. He spent the day mingling about the track but returned regularly to see how Alice and the brothers were doing.
Rico muttered to Giovanni that the man was showing off, but Giovanni thought Harry’s concern was generous. Furthermore, his tips were excellent. Harry was having a good day.
It was a good day for everyone, in fact, but for Alice it was the time of her life. She mingled with the ladies in their finery knowing she looked as pretty as any of them. She sat in the grandstand and, when her horse came in, she jumped to her feet and waved her parasol in the air. At times she forgot herself altogether and yelled along with the men, urging her jockey home. Then she’d sit and smile apologetically at Giovanni but it was obvious he didn’t mind at all.
In truth, Giovanni liked her lack of pretention. That was the best thing about Alice, he thought, no airs and graces. And suddenly he wanted to kiss her.
He did. That night. Back at Maudie’s. In Alice’s upstairs room they stood beside the open doors which let in the gentle night breeze. They didn’t step out onto the balcony. It would not be good for Alice’s reputation if they were seen and Giovanni did not want to compromise her. But he wanted to sleep with her. Desperately. He didn’t want to use her body as he did the Japanese girl’s at Red Ruby’s. He didn’t want to fantasise about Sarina De Cretico as he sometimes did with Miko. He wanted to make love to Alice. To kiss her tenderly and feel her respond to him.
Alice would have been quite happy to step out onto the balcony; at this stage she didn’t care whether her reputation was tarnished. She only knew that Giovanni wanted to make love to her. And, as he gently pulled her to him, she stood on her tiptoes, put her arms around his neck, opened her mouth to his and fell desperately in love.
Giovanni stayed the whole night and, in the early hours of the morning, they once more made love. Then, before the town was fully awake, he slipped quietly out of the tradesmen’s entrance at the back of Maudie’s hotel and walked the half mile home.
That was the start of the affair between Alice and Giovanni. From then on, every Saturday night after closing time Giovanni would sneak up the back stairs to Alice’s room. They were careful not to advertise their relationship but word got around and before long everyone knew.
SATURDAY NIGHTS AT Maudie’s pub was a regular way to round off the week. Giovanni and Rico would drink and play billiards and talk with the other miners, Harry joining them for an hour or so before he left for Hannan’s Club.
‘We’ll get you signed up at Hannan’s one day soon,’ he’d say every now and then. ‘I’m looking into it, Gee Gee.’
It was Harry’s way of fobbing them off and Giovanni knew it, but he was not
offended. Harry always treated them as the equal partners they were and he was obviously embarrassed by the fact that there was no possible way he could gain them admission to the club. He was being kind, pretending that he could. It was a well-known fact that Italians were not accepted.
‘That’s fine, Harry,’ Giovanni would say. ‘One day, there is no hurry.’
Alice would nudge him when Harry had gone. ‘You’re a gentleman, Giovanni,’ she’d say. ‘More than Harry Brearley is, for all of his airs and graces.’ And Giovanni would smile and shrug. Who wanted Hannan’s anyway? He would only spend the whole evening worrying whether Rico, with his limited knowledge of English, would take offence at some imagined passing remark and cause trouble in the gentlemen’s club.
Ever since Rico’s attack on the man in the Fremantle dockyard, Giovanni had kept a protective eye on his brother. Many a time he had steered him from volatile situations, most of which had been of his own making, and on the two occasions when he had not managed to intercede in time, he’d had to drag Rico off the person he’d attacked. Each time, the madness was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Afterwards, Rico was at first defensive, then apologetic.
The times when Rico was at his best was when he was working a hard ten-hour shift at the Clover or when he was singing along to the concertina with the family on a Sunday night. Then Giovanni would relax and enjoy his brother’s company the way he wanted to.
The Sunday night singalongs had become a favourite part of Giovanni’s life. Teresa would cook a fine meal. Huge bowls of home-made ravioli or spaghetti, the ingredients bought from an Italian merchant in Boulder. The same merchant sold rough red wine—only to fellow Italians who would not report him for trading without a liquor licence—and Giovanni, Rico and Teresa would eat and drink and sing for hours, Carmelina clapping her hands in time to the music and seven-year-old Enrico, who knew the words to all the songs, singing along with them. More often than not Harry Brearley and his son Jack would join them; Teresa, who ran the household with a rod of iron, paying no heed to Rico’s objections. Like Giovanni, she was grateful to Harry Brearley and enjoyed his company. Besides, young Jack was a fine companion for Enrico. The two boys were of the same age and already good friends.
