by Judy Nunn
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, Enrico, I am sorry.’
The boy nodded, but he looked so forlorn standing there, his concertina in one hand, the other hand in his shorts pocket, eyes downcast, studying his worn boots as he scuffed them in the dust of the front verandah.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Giovanni asked.
‘No.’
‘Has there been a bad fight at home?’
‘No.’ The accompanying shrug said, ‘No worse than usual’, but Giovanni sensed something had happened.
‘Well, I suppose my friend won’t mind if I am a little late. I see you have brought the concertina—would you like to play for me?’
Enrico looked up. ‘Can I play you my song?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I finished it yesterday.’
They sat on the steps of the front verandah and Enrico played. It was a pretty song of his own composition; he’d been working on it for weeks. As he played, Giovanni watched the boy’s tension fade away until there was nothing but his concentration upon every note. Music was Enrico’s salvation, Giovanni thought. His father would never be able to take that from him.
‘It is a fine song,’ Giovanni said as the boy concluded. ‘You are a true musician, Enrico.’
The boy smiled happily. Giovanni would never say that if he didn’t mean it. ‘It’s a love song,’ he said. ‘I am going to write words for it.’
Giovanni laughed. ‘Well, you’re a better man than I am.’ Learning to read and write was still a painful process for Giovanni. ‘And is there someone you write this song for?’ he asked with a suggestive wink. ‘A girl at school maybe?’
‘No,’ Enrico answered in all seriousness. ‘Not yet.’ He had indeed been noticing the girls at school. ‘But I like love songs. I like the way you sing them.’
Giovanni rose and spanked the dust from the seat of his good trousers. ‘I must go now.’ He knew the boy was loath to leave. ‘It is Saturday tomorrow. Will you give me a writing lesson in the afternoon?’ The boy nodded eagerly.
‘It is time to go home, Enrico.’
Enrico watched as Giovanni walked down the street. He wished they could have sat and played and sung together for hours. What would happen when he went home? he wondered. Perhaps his father would beat him. It had never happened before. For all Rico’s violence he had never laid a hand upon his children. But then Enrico had never defied his father before.
He didn’t want to go home. He couldn’t face that yet. So he followed Giovanni instead, stealthily, from a distance. When they turned into Hay Street and he saw Giovanni enter Red Ruby’s, Enrico felt a sense of shock. He knew what Red Ruby’s was. The boys at school told fascinatingly lewd stories about the brothels and what went on inside them.
He sat on the kerbside a block away from Red Ruby’s fantasising about what was going on behind the bright red shutters through which the soft rose light glowed. He mustn’t think less of Giovanni, he told himself when the initial shock had worn off. Giovanni was not a married man, there was not a woman in his life. And men needed women. Enrico had known for a long time now what his mother and father were doing when the bed squeaked and he heard their moans and grunts through the thin partitioning wall. It stirred him. He wondered what it was like, being with a woman.
As he watched from the kerbside, he saw other men arrive. Not only at Red Ruby’s but at the many other brothels that lined the street on either side. He didn’t hear the light footsteps behind him. So absorbed was he that he didn’t notice her until she spoke.
‘What are you doing, young man?’
Startled, Enrico looked up. Although it was a bright moonlit night, he couldn’t see her face clearly. But her voice was young and humorous and her accent fascinating.
‘What are you doing sitting in the gutter?’ He could tell she was smiling.
‘Um … I was just…’ He started to get up. He could feel himself blushing.
‘No no,’ she insisted. ‘Do not stand, it is not necessary.’
He watched, astonished, as she bent and gathered up her skirts, raising them to her waist and displaying the layers of petticoats underneath. Then carefully holding her skirts in her lap, she sat beside him in the gutter.
‘I must not spoil my dress,’ she said. ‘It is pretty, is it not?’
He stared back. He could see her now, in the moonlight. A lace shawl covered her head and he wasn’t sure what colour her hair was, but soft curls framed a face that was one of the prettiest he had ever seen.
‘You like it?’ she insisted. ‘My dress?’
He realised that he had been staring at her, jaw agape. ‘Yes … um…’
‘You did not answer my other question.’ Her smile was mischievous. ‘What are you doing sitting in the gutter staring at the houses?’
‘Um…’ Enrico was flustered, the guilty images still in his mind. Didn’t she know what those houses were?
Solange laughed and decided to save the boy from further embarrassment. ‘My name is Solange Bouchet. What is yours?’
‘Enrico Gianni.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’ He lied without hesitation. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen,’ she said. She didn’t believe the boy for one minute. Perhaps he was fourteen, certainly no more. But such a beautiful boy, she thought, with his serious dark brown eyes.
‘Where do you come from?’ Enrico asked. He couldn’t stop staring at her. ‘The way you speak…’
‘I am from France,’ she said. ‘A little town called Houilles not far from Paris.’ He waited for her to go on. Lost for words, he simply wanted to hear her talk. ‘The people in Houilles are miners also, but they do not mine for gold. In Houilles they mine for coal.’ She wrinkled her nose comically. ‘Coal is not so romantic, so I come to Kalgoorlie instead.’ Still he said nothing.
Oh well, Solange thought, if he was not going to be amusing she would go. She was already late for work, Ada would be cross. But then she was always late for work and Ada was always cross. Never for long though. The youngest girl working at Red Ruby’s, Solange was Ada’s favourite.
She noticed the concertina. ‘You play music?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Still he stared.
‘Ah,’ she said, gathering her skirts and preparing to go. ‘That is nice.’
‘I compose music too,’ he said desperately. She mustn’t go. She mustn’t. ‘Would you like me to play you a song?’
She leaned forward and hugged her knees. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would like that very much.’
He played her his song as beautifully as he could, concentrating on every single, faultless note and, as the last note died away, his smile was jubilant.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked. He knew he had played it perfectly.
‘Yes.’ The boy was delightful. ‘I like it very much.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was up in an instant, fluffing out her skirts. ‘I must go,’ she said.
Enrico scrambled to his feet. ‘I could play you another song. I know many.’
‘Yes, you must play for me again, but some other time. Now I must go.’
‘Where are you going?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Can I come with you?’
‘Come with me? Where?’ Her laugh was like music to him. ‘To Red Ruby’s?’
Solange saw the shock in his eyes and felt a shadow of regret. She had assumed he knew. That’s why she had flirted with him. Now, for some reason she could not explain, she did not want him to think badly of her.
‘Oh, you silly boy,’ she said, giving her skirts an extra flounce, ‘I go to visit my cousin, she works there.’ Still he looked so serious. ‘She is a chambermaid, nothing more.’ She blew him a kiss and walked away. ‘Good night,’ she called over her shoulder.
Enrico watched her walk across the street. He wanted to call after her but he couldn’t think of anything to say. So he played his concertina instead. He stood and played his love song once more as he watched her walk briskly towa
rds the rose-coloured lights.
Hearing the music, Solange slowed her pace. She did not look back, but by the time she had reached the doors to Red Ruby’s she was dawdling. Such a beautiful tune, she thought, marvelling that the boy had composed it; he was no more than a child. She paused for a moment, then reluctantly opened the door and slipped inside. Ada would be very cross by now.
Enrico continued to play his song over and over, imagining that perhaps she could hear it from behind the red shutters. The song had a name now. ‘Solange’s Song’. And tonight he would write the words to it.
The entire town of Kal was celebrating as the Kalgoorlie Miner headlines announced the incredible rescue of Modesto Varischetti. The Italian miner had been trapped for ten days at the bottom of the Westralia mine, just north of nearby Coolgardie.
‘They’ll never get him out,’ people had said for the first five days.
‘He’s buried alive-just sitting there in his tomb,’ many a miner commented. ‘Terrible way to go.’
‘My oath,’ others agreed. ‘Better to cop it quick. A cave-in, or an explosion even.’
Varischetti had been working a rise-a stope above the lowest level of the mine-when one of the heavy storms that occasionally struck the area had caused a flash flood. As the main shaft and the lower levels took in water, miners were quickly brought to the surface but, in his airpocket halfway between the flooded ninth and tenth levels, Varischetti had worked on, oblivious.
When news of his entombment had reached the surface, a special train with equipment and experienced divers was rushed from Perth and a desperate rescue bid attempted. But few held out hope.
‘Divers work in the sea,’ was the laconic view of the average miner. ‘How’s a diver going to find his way down shafts and along drives and up into rises?’
‘Their air hoses’ll be cut and there’ll be more deaths,’ was the pessimistic answer. ‘It’s not worth the risk.’
Then a Kalgoorlie miner with diving experience, a Welshman called Frank Hughes, volunteered to join the rescue team and local opinion changed.
‘If anyone can get him up, Hughes can,’ the Kalgoorlie miners said.
And when, on the sixth day, Hughes reached Varischetti and his message was read out by the underground manager to the crowd gathered on the surface—‘Happy. Shook hands with man. All right’—the Kalgoorlie miners congratulated each other. One of their own was a hero.
Four days later, when Varischetti was brought out, weakened by his ten days in hell but very much alive, the Kalgoorlie Miner heralded the news and the men could speak of nothing else.
‘I always said Frank could do it,’ Tony Prendergast boasted that morning as the men reported for work at the Midas.
‘They’re calling him Diver Hughes now,’ Alwyn said, and Evan nodded as he ticked the various teams off his work list. It was a fine day to be Welsh.
But it wasn’t only the Welshmen who were proud. It was a fine day to be a Kalgoorlie miner and they all claimed Diver Hughes for their own.
‘What’s it got to do with him being Welsh?’ young Freddie countered. ‘He’s a Kalgoorlie man-that’s what counts.’ Then the men started taking sides and an argument ensued. But it was good-natured-a rescue like Varischetti’s made everyone proud.
Evan listened to the friendly bickering and tried to join in but he couldn’t feel a part of it.
Evan was deeply unhappy. For a long time he hadn’t realised what was causing his unhappiness. At first he hadn’t even realised that he was unhappy. He’d only known that things were somehow different; something in Kate had changed, and it disturbed him. What was it, he’d wondered. She was as considerate and affectionate as ever, as responsive in their love-making and as good a wife and mother as she had always been. But there was something brittle in her gaiety, something forced, and there were times when he thought he saw the shadow of unhappiness in her eyes.
‘Is something wrong, Kate?’ he would ask. And Kate, perhaps realising she had been caught unawares, would smile, kiss him reassuringly and say, ‘Of course not, my dear, I am just a little tired that is all’. But something was not right.
Since his promotion to underground boss, Evan had taken a keen interest in the welfare of his fellow miners. He saw it as a necessary extension of his position. Indeed, it had been mainly due to his efforts that the Midas had been one of the first of the big mines to introduce the shilling fund. Each miner consented to a weekly deduction of one shilling from his pay packet and was thus entitled to free medical and hospital treatment. It was a good scheme and Evan’s involvement with its instigation quickly attracted the attention of the trade union activists. The union was young and weak, they told him, unlike the miners’ unions in New South Wales and Victoria. It needed men like him, they said. Would he join them? Evan had agreed.
With the distraction of constant meetings and union responsibilities, there was less and less time for Evan to dwell on the change in Kate and he had all but forgotten his concern until one Sunday night when Paul pressed the issue of a visit to the Gianni household.
‘Please, Mamma,’ he had begged. ‘Come with me—just this once.’
‘No, Paul. How many times have I told you, it is not right that Teresa should have extra guests. She feeds enough people as it is.’ The words came out automatically. Kate had said the same thing so many times in the past that Paul had long since stopped asking her to come with him to the Giannis’ for the Sunday singalong.
‘But this will be the last time-’
‘I said no.’ Kate was surprised that the boy should badger her so, but she thought little of it as she stood at the kitchen bench washing the dishes in the big bowl and passing each one to Paul to dry.
‘But, Mamma, you must!’ the boy insisted. ‘Giovanni is leaving.’
She couldn’t help it. The dish remained poised above the sink. ‘Giovanni is leaving?’
‘Yes.’ He put out his hand to take the dish but she held it, suds dripping over the bowl, staring ahead blindly. ‘It will be the last time, Mamma, you must come.’
‘Where is he going?’
Behind her, through the open door that led from the kitchen to the living room, Evan watched her face in the little mirror above the kitchen bench.
He had been only half aware of the conversation as he sat at the dining table with his notes spread out before him. It was the way her tone changed when she said, ‘Giovanni is leaving’ that caused him to look up. And it was then he saw the terrible truth in her eyes.
He heard Paul say, ‘He is moving out of the Gianni house’, and the instant passed. The boy chattered on as Kate handed him the dish and continued washing up.
Evan had stopped listening. He stared down at his notes but he didn’t see them. How could he have been so blind! He had known it, deep inside, ever since he had seen that look of rapture in his wife’s eyes as she had watched Giovanni singing. How long ago had that been? He had known of Giovanni’s love for his wife for far longer than that-possibly from the moment they first met, when they had danced together at the banquet. He could still see them. The perfect couple, waltzing to the Pride of Erin. He had forgiven Giovanni for falling in love with his wife-what man could fail to love a creature like Kate-but the knowledge that she returned his love was more than Evan could bear.
He rose and walked to the front door, unaware that behind him a folder of papers had fallen from the table and scattered upon the floor.
Kate, hearing him leave, turned and called after him. ‘Are you going out, my dear I am just about to make some tea’, but he couldn’t trust himself to answer.
He walked for hours that night and when he came home she was sleeping. She half-woke as he slid quietly into their bed.
‘Evan, where have you been?’ she murmured.
‘Sssh, my dearest, go back to sleep,’ he whispered. She snuggled against his back as she always did and he lay awake wondering if, in her dreams, it was Giovanni’s body she felt next to hers. From that night on, Evan�
��s life had become a misery.
He knew she was faithful to him. He knew, also, that Giovanni was not pressing his suit. In some ways it would be better if the man did, Evan agonised. If a love like theirs belonged together, why didn’t he fight for her?
Over the months that followed, he tested Giovanni. ‘Come home with me,’ he would say with forced jollity. ‘Come and sing with me and Alwyn.’ Giovanni always refused.
He tested Kate. ‘Let’s visit the Giannis,’ he would say. ‘Teresa is a close friend of yours, you don’t see her often enough.’ But even though Giovanni had shifted from the family home, Kate would not risk a visit. Every now and then she would arrange to meet Teresa and go shopping but that was the extent of her communication with the Gianni family.
Finally, driven to distraction, Evan even tried to offer her release from their marriage. The prospect of life without Kate was unbearable to him but, so too was the thought that their life together was making her unhappy.
‘If you wanted to be free, Kate,’ he said late one night as they prepared for bed, ‘I would only wish you well.’ He had been planning his speech for months but it had taken every ounce of his strength to finally say the words.
She was startled. ‘Why should I want to be free, Evan?’ Her expression was one of utter surprise.
He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. ‘You are in love with another man’—that’s what he should have said. He should have told her to go to him, but he couldn’t.
‘I sometimes feel that you are not happy,’ he said instead. ‘And your happiness is my greatest concern, you know that.’
‘Oh my dear.’ Tears sprang to Kate’s eyes. She couldn’t help it. She knew she should laugh and tell him he was being silly, but, as she looked at the pain in her husband’s eyes, she knew that she couldn’t. He knows, she thought. Dear God, he knows! The tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘All I wish is to be a good wife to you, Evan. If I make you unhappy, please forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, Kate. But if you wished to leave me …’
‘I will never leave you.’ Anger gave her control over her tears. Anger with herself. She did not deserve him. She sniffed loudly and bent to grope beneath her pillow for the handkerchief she kept there. ‘If you were to throw me out of the house, you would still be my husband, Evan. My husband and Briony’s father.’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘You will always be my husband and father to both of my children. I do not wish to change that and I never shall.’
