Kal

by Judy Nunn

  He’d heard of Gaston Picot, of course; everyone in Kalgoorlie had. The man was not only a major shareholder in the Midas mine, he owned numerous real estate holdings in Boulder and Kal. Furthermore, he was known throughout the State of Western Australia as a man of fashion, a gourmet and a wine connoisseur.

  In his middle forties, Picot resided in Perth and, despite the fact that he cut a dashing and rakish figure, he was by all accounts a happily married family man. He, his French-born wife and their two children, a son and a daughter, lived an opulent life in the district of Cottesloe, eight miles from the city, where their palatial mansion overlooked the Indian Ocean. Several times a year he paid a brief visit to Kalgoorlie. His family never accompanied him, he always stayed at the Palace Hotel and occasionally he frequented Hannan’s.

  Harry had seen the flamboyant Frenchman at the club on two occasions in the past but, try as he might, he had not been able to gain an introduction.

  ‘Richard!’ He pretended not to notice that he’d interrupted a conversation as he shook Laverton’s hand effusively. He nodded to Prudence. ‘Lady Laverton.’

  ‘Mr Brearley.’ Prudence was seething. Gaston Picot had just been complimenting her on her gown.

  ‘Good to see you, Harry, old man,’ Laverton lisped. ‘You know Gaston Picot, I take it?’

  ‘Oh.’ Harry pretended suddenly to notice Picot. ‘No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

  ‘Gaston Picot, Harry Brearley,’ Laverton said, each ‘r’ sounding suspiciously like a ‘w’. The two men shook hands. ‘And Gaston’s friend, Madame Renoir.’

  ‘Madame.’

  The Frenchwoman offered her hand and when Harry kissed it, she smiled her approval, as did Gaston. Prudence seethed a little more.

  Although she must have been in her mid-thirties, Jeanne Renoir was even more beautiful at close quarters. Like most, Harry had only seen her from afar on the rare occasion she visited the Palace Hotel to sip tea on the balcony with a lady friend. She was the widow of a wealthy Frenchman who was said to have been a close friend of Picot’s, but rumour had it that she was really Picot’s mistress. Pierre Auguste Renoir, the famous impressionist painter, was reputedly her uncle and no one had any cause to disbelieve the fact.

  Jeanne Renoir lived with her servants and a lady friend, an Englishwoman, in an elegant house at the lower end of Hannan Street. To the extreme disappointment of the gossip-mongers, she kept very much to herself.

  ‘I believe you own the Clover, Mr Brearley,’ Gaston was saying. ‘You and your partners.’ Harry was deeply impressed. The city businessmen to whom he had spoken earlier had not even heard of the Clover. When they’d discovered the mine wasn’t on the Golden Mile they’d lost interest. Harry had found it rather disheartening.

  ‘That’s right, I do. She’s a grand mine. Doing very well.’

  ‘This is what I hear. Trés bien.’ Picot’s command of the English language was faultless and his accent only slight, but he always injected his conversation with the odd French phrase to enhance his image. Harry recognised the ploy and, far from being intimidated by the man’s style, he was encouraged. Harry could compete with any man when it came to style and the ploys he used himself were not dissimilar. In an instant, Harry felt at home with Picot. Despite the man’s wealth and power, they were two of a kind.

  ‘I am very interested in your mine, Mr Brearley.’

  ‘I would be more than happy to take you on a guided tour, Mr Picot. At any time.’ Harry bowed his head in mock servility. ‘I am your servant.’

  ‘Call me Gaston.’ Picot stroked his perfectly manicured goatee and the curls of his waxed moustache twitched as he smiled. He too recognised one of a kind. He was reminded of himself ten years ago. But only slightly. Brearley had a lot of catching up to do. Charm alone was not enough; one must be cunning.

  An announcement was being made requesting the guests take their seats and, as Laverton and Picot escorted the ladies to their table near the podium, Harry accompanied them.

  Surely the man wasn’t presuming he could join them, Prudence thought with horror. She had had the seating plan sent to her well in advance and if Richard dared send for another chair and have another place set …

  ‘Evan!’ Harry exclaimed jovially. At the table a disconcerted Evan Jones was waiting with his wife Kate at his arm, wondering whether or not he should seat her before the arrival of the others.

  Evan was uncomfortable in his unfamiliar suit. It was a hot night and he was sure he was sweating more than most. ‘Should we sit, Kate?’ he’d whispered.

  ‘No, my dear, wait for the others.’ She had smiled encouragingly, aware of his discomfort, but then hadn’t been able to resist turning her attention to her surroundings. Kate was having a wonderful time. It was like a fairyland. The lights, the decorations, the people in their finery. She was drinking in every moment, unaware of the looks cast in her direction.

  ‘Harry.’ Evan pumped Harry’s hand, glad to see a familiar face.

  ‘Hello, Kate,’ Harry said and boldly took it upon himself to make the introductions, much to Prudence Laverton’s disgust. ‘Mr Picot and Madame Renoir, Mr and Mrs Jones.’

  Good God, Prudence thought, the man was behaving as if he were the host for the evening.

  Harry watched the two women as they nodded to each other. Jeanne Renoir might be beautiful, he thought, but she had more than met her match in Kate.

  Harry had seen Evan arrive with his wife. He had seen the swathe they had cut as they walked through the crowd. All eyes had been on Kate Jones. The slender neck with the auburn curls pinned up under the wide-brimmed hat with its blue plume; the breasts, which the modest high-necked bodice could not disguise; the nipped-in waist beneath the little bolero jacket: everything a mixture of innocence and sexuality. As she’d stared, up wide-eyed, at the hanging decorations and whispered, ‘Look, Evan, look’, she was a child in a wonderland.

  Harry tore his attention away. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, bowing slightly to the assembled company. ‘I must search for my table. And indeed for my partner who has not yet arrived. I envy you gentlemen,’ he smiled. ‘I envy you the company of the most beautiful ladies present this evening.’ His gaze shifted from Kate to Jeanne and finally came to rest on Prudence who was an average-looking woman at the very best of times. Fortunately Prudence herself was not aware of the fact. She smiled and nodded graciously, accepting the compliment as her due. She could afford to be cordial, she told herself, now that the man was leaving. And Harry Brearley was very handsome when all was said and done. Perhaps, later in the evening, she might agree to dance with him after all.

  ‘Mr Brearley.’ Picot’s voice halted Harry as he turned to go.

  ‘Harry, Gaston. Harry. Please.’ Harry’s roguish grin and the familiar twinkle in his eyes promised an instant and lifelong friendship. The man was cheeky, Picot thought, damn cheeky. Many might find him insulting but Gaston had rather warmed to him.

  ‘Harry,’ he corrected. ‘Perhaps you would like to join me for an aperitif at the bar before you join your table. Proceedings will not get under way for a good fifteen minutes yet I’m sure.’

  ‘Delighted.’

  When the ladies were seated the two men made their excuses and repaired to the bar.

  Half an hour later, when he left the bar to join his own table, Harry found that he was seated far from the podium in a rather inferior position near the main doors. But he was not irritated in the least. He was too euphoric to care. He wasn’t even annoyed when he discovered that Giovanni had still not arrived. Indeed, given the conversation he had just had with Gaston Picot, Giovanni’s absence had proved fortunate.

  Now Giovanni had turned up and the more formal aspect of the evening had been concluded, Harry was set for fun.

  ‘This is my partner and very good friend Giovanni Gianni.’ He introduced the Italian to the party of guests and then whispered in his ear, ‘Dance with Mrs Beresford, Gee-Gee.’ He indicated the attractive woman in her fort
ies seated opposite. He had noticed her appraisal of Giovanni when he’d arrived. He had also noticed the way she was watching the musicians. This was a woman who loved to dance.

  ‘Her husband is here,’ Giovanni murmured back. ‘He may be offended.’

  ‘Rubbish, he’s twenty years older than she is and he’s got a gammy leg,’ Harry hissed out of the side of his wine glass. ‘Look at her, her foot’s tapping away under that table, she can’t wait to be whirled about the floor.’

  Beresford, a retired engineer from Perth, smiled gratefully when Giovanni asked his wife to dance. ‘Go along, Henrietta,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ And he waved at the waiter for another bottle of wine.

  ‘SHALL WE, MY dear?’ At the Lavertons’ table on the opposite side of the hall, Richard rose and offered his arm to Prudence. He would far rather have asked Kate but it was more than his life was worth. He could already sense his wife’s annoyance with the amount of attention he had been paying to the young woman. But what red-blooded male could resist feasting his eyes on such a creature, he thought. Richard couldn’t wait for the first progressive waltz when it was customary for the married men to ask women other than their wives to dance. Prudence could hardly complain then.

  As Prudence fussed with her evening bag and adjusted her gloves, Evan rose uncomfortably. ‘Kate?’

  But instead of taking his arm, she put her hand in his and gently shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Let us sit for a moment. It is still very hot.’ She took off her evening gloves, as she had seen many of the other women do, and Evan sat down gratefully. He felt guilty; he knew she was longing to dance and that she was declining because of him. She had gone to a lot of trouble to learn all the steps herself and had painstakingly attempted to teach him. But he was like a bear with two left feet. This was the part of the evening Evan had been dreading the most. Perhaps if he had some more wine. He poured himself another glass to boost his courage.

  ‘A little later then,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, a little later,’ Kate answered. Poor Evan, she thought, he was not enjoying himself.

  One by one, the other couples left the table to dance and Prudence, having made the final adjustments to her hat, was ready to join the fray. Behind his wife’s back, Richard Laverton smiled at Kate. ‘I demand the progressive waltz, my dear,’ he said softly, as if it were a promise she was waiting to hear.

  Kate smiled back at him and, as he and Prudence swirled away, she leaned close to Evan and lisped in his ear, ‘What an ecthiting prothpect.’

  Evan gave one of his barking laughs and nearly spilled his wine. ‘Stop it, Kate.’

  ‘Why mutht I thtop it?’ Kate grinned impishly; she could always make him laugh. ‘He ith thuch a thilly man.’

  They were overcome with a fit of the giggles and Evan felt himself start to relax. Several minutes later, when the others returned to the table and Laverton opened his mouth to speak, Kate and Evan had to fight to maintain their composure, neither daring to look at the other.

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, take your partners for the progressive Pride of Erin waltz.’

  It was the moment Richard Laverton had been waiting for. ‘May I?’ He leapt to his feet with unseemly haste and bowed to Kate.

  ‘I would be delighted, Lord Laverton.’ As she left the table on his arm, Kate cast a look back at Evan and there was such mischievousness in the curve of her lip and the gleam in her eye that Evan nearly laughed out loud. He controlled himself and asked Jeanne Renoir to dance instead, relieved that Gaston Picot was offering his arm to Prudence. Since his first onslaught of nerves, Evan had had three more glasses of red wine, to which he was unaccustomed, and had managed to flounder his way through the military two-step and even a fast polka with Kate. He was starting to enjoy himself at last.

  ‘MAY I HAVE this pleasure?’

  Giovanni had danced with each of the women at their table, but this was the third time he had asked Henrietta Beresford. She loved the way he said ‘this’ pleasure. She loved his accent and the way he danced, holding her close. She jumped to her feet, delighted.

  Henrietta’s husband had long since taken his gammy leg to the bar where he was drunkenly discussing the merits of the Goldfields Water Scheme with several others to whom the wine was of more importance than the conversation. Henrietta was having the time of her life. She felt twenty-five again, and found the handsome young Italian devastatingly attractive.

  As Harry offered his arm to one of the other women, he raised an eyebrow and nodded at Giovanni who grinned back, but the suggestive encouragement was lost on him. Giovanni was aware of Henrietta Beresford’s lust, but not at all interested in any form of reciprocation. He chose her to partner him simply because she was the best dancer.

  The Pride of Erin was his favourite. It was a beautiful dance. He smiled at Henrietta as they completed their circular waltz and she glided on to the man in front. She smiled back regretfully. It was a pity it was a progressive waltz, she thought. She didn’t want to dance with every man in the room. She wanted to dance with Giovanni.

  Giovanni himself found it all very interesting. One moment he was holding an overweight, middle-aged matron with perfect rhythm in his arms and the next a beautiful young woman with no sense of the music at all. Giovanni loved everything about the dancing. He had never in his life heard a ten-piece orchestra and the music was charging through his entire body. He wanted to dance forever.

  He smiled at his partner as they completed the circular waltz and then he turned to the next woman. His arm encircled her and he felt the slim back beneath the satin fabric, her hand in his was small and gloveless. Some women were wearing gloves and some not. He preferred the touch of skin.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said to the hat with its soft blue plume. And then the brim of the hat rose and his eyes met those beneath it.

  He stopped. The music left him. All sense of rhythm was gone. There was nothing except the face of the woman in his arms. It was the face of the girl from the mountain.

  Kate, too, was momentarily frozen. She looked into the eyes that were staring into hers. Where had she seen those eyes before? Where?

  There was a mild collision behind them. The line of dancers was progressing and they were in the way.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Kate apologised, embarrassed, then smiled at Giovanni. ‘I think we are causing a problem.’

  Her voice. It was the same voice. This was no apparition. Giovanni forced himself to dance again. The rhythm came naturally but all he could think of was the circular waltz. Only several more seconds before the circular waltz and then she would move on to the next partner. He couldn’t speak, he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I know you,’ Kate said.

  ‘My name is Giovanni.’ He blurted it out. It sounded clumsy. Only several more steps to go.

  Of course. Everything came flooding back. The long, weary trek from the chalet. Her despair. The cold, cold night. The sound of the concertina and the young man singing. The beautiful voice reaching out to her through the still, icy air. The warmth of his fire and the scalding cup of black coffee. And the young man’s kind eyes. She remembered thinking ‘the young man has a kind face’. She looked up at the face now. It was more than kind. It was beautiful. She wanted to touch it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. Giovanni.’ He was staring at her so, but she couldn’t take her eyes from his. ‘My name is Caterina,’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘Caterina.’ They started on the circular waltz. ‘Caterina,’ he said again.

  ‘Yes. And you are Giovanni and you are from Santa Lena. You see? I remember.’

  They had finished the circular waltz and she was leaving him.

  Giovanni did not see the next woman whose body was against his and whose hand rested upon his shoulder. It took only three waltz steps to deftly change partners with the man in front of him and Caterina was once again in his arms. The surprised indignity on the faces of the man and the woman was comical but it was lost on
Caterina and Giovanni.

  As they waltzed, Giovanni was once again speechless. All he could think of was the fact that she was here, in his arms. He was touching her skin. The hand in his was her hand. It was real The body he could feel moving to the rhythm of the music was flesh and blood. No longer an illusion his mind had manufactured in the streets of Genoa or Fremantle. He was holding her to him. His girl from the mountain.

  As they started the circular waltz, Kate felt Giovanni draw her closer to him and start to move out of the line of dancers and suddenly she was jolted back to reality. She looked around the crowded floor. Across the circle of dancers she could see Evan. He was watching them, distracted, forgetting to count the rhythm of the dance in his head, and his partner was trying to avoid his feet as he threatened to step on her.

  ‘No. Please. Stay in the line.’ He hesitated. ‘Please,’ she pleaded.

  In the final swirl of the waltz Giovanni brought them back into the line and then she was gone. His eyes followed the blue hat as it danced further and further away from him but she did not look back.

  Kate wondered why she felt guilty. What had she done? She had met someone from her past, nothing more. A ghost from long ago had momentarily awakened a girl who had ceased to exist. It had come as a shock, that was all.

  By the time she reached Evan the unsettling spectre of her past was firmly in perspective. ‘I’ve been watching,’ she smiled and whispered. ‘You’re doing very well.’

  ‘I see you’ve met Giovanni.’ There was nothing condemnatory in Evan’s tone but something in his eyes was searching for reassurance.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, surprised. ‘How do you know him?’ And then she realised. ‘Giovanni! Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘He is Paul’s Giovanni.’ The Giovanni of whom her son constantly spoke. Giovanni with his concertina. And his brother, Rico. She had seen him once. Watched him, fascinated, as he and Teresa had kissed unashamedly on the snowy mountainside. She had worked with Teresa at the chalet. And now Teresa and Rico were married and they were here. Here in Kalgoorlie. And the brothers had bought Evan’s mine with Harry Brearley.