by Judy Nunn
‘I’m not a bully and I’m not a coward. He picked the fight.’ Jack looked at Enrico who had rolled over onto his knees, coughing and spitting. ‘It’s up to him to finish it.’
‘He’ll never give in and you know it.’ Paul had always liked Jack too. He didn’t any more. ‘That’s what makes you a bully.’
Jack shrugged. ‘All right. I’ll leave him alone. But you keep him away from me, Paul, or he’ll cop it again. By hell he will.’
‘My name’s Paolo.’
‘Yeah,’ Jack sneered. ‘You’re a dago just like him. Why don’t you go back to your own country?’ He swaggered off, several of the other boys swaggering with him, patting him on the back. But he didn’t like losing Paul’s friendship and respect. He didn’t really feel he’d won at all.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Paolo half dragged Enrico into the back street behind the park. People were looking and any second Sergeant Baldy Hetherington might arrive. They sat on the kerb, Enrico still spitting the last of the dust from his mouth.
‘Here.’ Paolo handed him his handkerchief. Enrico didn’t look at him as he wiped his face and he didn’t offer any explanation. ‘What was it all about?’ Paolo asked finally.
‘Nothing.’
‘But Jack said you started it.’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Thanks.’ Enrico handed him back the handkerchief and stood up.
‘Enrico—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He started to walk away, then turned. ‘Thanks for standing up for me.’
Paolo watched his friend cross the park. What had happened?
ENRICO DIDN’T SLEEP much that night. The ugly scene with Jack kept playing over and over in his mind and he kept hearing the words that had made him sick with anger.
‘Where’s your girl?’ Jack had jeered. ‘Found something better to do on a Sunday afternoon, has she?’ His tone was suggestive and the boys with him sniggered.
‘What girl?’
‘Your girl from Red Ruby’s. The Frenchie.’
‘She’s not from Red Ruby’s,’ he answered defensively. ‘She visits her cousin who’s a chambermaid there.’
‘The hell she does.’ When Jack laughed, Enrico felt his anger swell and, even before the words were uttered, he knew he wanted to smash the lascivious smirk from the Australian’s face. ‘She lives there, you dumb dago. She’s a whore.’
And, as the other boys joined in the laughter, Enrico heard himself scream ‘Bastardo!’ He felt the explosion of his rage as he hurled himself at Jack.
Now, as he lay in his bunk, reliving the scene, Enrico no longer felt sick with anger, he felt sick with the knowledge that Jack was right. And with the realisation that, deep down, he had always known. From the very start, from that first time he’d played her his song as they sat in the gutter, he’d known. But he had refused to recognise the truth.
Enrico rose early the following morning, breakfasted with the family and, as usual, left for school carrying the lunch his mother had packed. In the evening the family dined together and retired early as they always did during the week. And, whilst the rest of the household was sleeping, Enrico stole the money from his mother’s housekeeping jar.
It was after eleven o’clock when he arrived at Red Ruby’s and it was raining. Not heavily, but relentlessly, the drizzle converting the red dust to mud. Enrico was soaked but he didn’t hesitate at the shuttered doors; he pushed them open and stepped quickly inside.
The large lounge area was dim but not gloomy. The lighting brackets on the walls gave off a rosy glow that was warm and cosy. There was a bar at the far end of the room. A heavy-set man sat on a stool beside it and a girl was pouring drinks. Several other girls were lounging around and two men and women were seated in sofas and armchairs, chatting intimately. Enrico hadn’t known what to expect but it all looked very orderly and companionable. Perhaps he’d been expecting something a little more bawdy. Then he noticed that the women were wearing very little beneath their open smocks and gowns and he quickly averted his eyes.
There was a desk beside the front doors and a middle-aged woman had risen from her seat behind it. She was smartly dressed, wore steel-rimmed spectacles and had the no-nonsense face of a schoolteacher.
‘Can I help you, young man?’ She had the voice of a schoolteacher too, and Enrico suddenly felt a little nervous. But he answered boldly.
‘I want to see Solange.’
Ada frowned. For a long time now, from her front corner apartment, she had watched the comings and goings of Solange and the boy during weekend afternoons. Ada prided herself on running the most efficient and well-ordered brothel in Kalgoorlie and she wanted to know who her girls associated with and where they went. She didn’t disapprove of Solange’s association with the boy, but it was her rule that personal relationships were always to be conducted outside the brothel.
‘Mr McAllister.’ She beckoned to the heavy-set man beside the bar who rose and joined them. ‘If Solange is available she may have a quick word with her young friend.’ Ada knew only too well that Solange was available. Her last client had left a quarter of an hour ago. She would have douched and powdered by now in preparation for the next.
McAllister begrudgingly clumped away to fetch Solange. He didn’t like Ada ordering him around but, always, there was something so prim and polite in her manner that he found himself automatically obeying.
‘Take your muddy boots off, boy.’
Enrico had been prepared to put his money on the table and demand time with Solange. That was how they did business in brothels, wasn’t it? You paid your money and you bought a girl. But the manner of the schoolmistress was intimidating. Enrico did as he was told.
‘Enrico.’ Solange was surprised to see him, certainly, but she didn’t appear at all mortified. Somehow Enrico had expected her to be mortified. She didn’t even bother to close the front of her lace-trimmed smock which openly displayed the satin corset and knee-length knickers beneath. Enrico could plainly see the full swell of her breasts above the light-boned corset. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I came to see you.’ He wondered whether now was the time to ask ‘How much?’ and to put his money on the desk for the madam to see that he could pay.
‘Personal meetings take place outside, Solange,’ Ada said sternly, ‘you’re fully aware of that.’
‘Yes, I am aware of course and I am sorry, Ada, truly I am. But I did not know that he was going to come here.’ She gave the madam her most disarming smile. Solange was one of the few who could get around Ada. ‘And I can hardly take him outside now, can I? It is raining. Has something happened, Enrico?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, girl,’ Ada muttered, ‘you can’t stand around discussing your personal affairs. The boy’s soaking wet. Take him away and get him dried off.’ Solange beamed another smile. ‘No more than half an hour, mind. Leave the boots here,’ Ada added as Enrico bent to pick them up.
Solange led him through the door beside the bar at the far end of the lounge and into one of the rows of little shuttered bedrooms.
‘This is my room,’ she said, closing the door behind them. ‘It is prettier than the others. I bought the lampshade and the counterpane myself.’
He stood silently staring at her. At her breasts and her bare legs. How could she chatter on as if nothing had happened?
Solange sighed. Was he going to make a scene? Always they had such fun together, she and Enrico, why must he be so serious now? She sat on the bed, her smock fully open, but she didn’t appear to notice. ‘Why did you come here, Enrico? You get me into trouble by coming here.’ Still he stared at her; she could feel his eyes as they roamed over her breasts and her calves and ankles. Solange didn’t mind. She liked to be looked at and admired and she had known for a long time that Enrico was in love with her. She’d enjoyed it, reacted to it, flirted with him. She’d found it amusing, even touching. She was genuinely fond of the boy. He was her f
riend. And now he was going to spoil it all.
‘Oh come, Enrico, why so serious? You knew. Why pretend that you did not? We played the game of my cousin the chambermaid, but you knew.’ She suddenly felt a touch of uncertainty. ‘You did, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I did.’
‘Then don’t judge me, you silly boy.’ Although she said it with humour, she meant it. ‘I don’t judge others, you don’t judge me.’
Enrico felt a flash of resentment. He didn’t like being called a ‘silly boy’. ‘I didn’t come here to judge you,’ he said and he took the money out of the top pocket of his rain-soaked shirt. ‘I came here to buy what you’re selling.’ He threw the small wad of damp notes onto the bed beside her. ‘Is it enough?’
She looked up at him. He wasn’t angry, she realised, he was hurt. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
He was certainly not seventeen, but she knew better than to laugh or question him. Fifteen? Sixteen? What did it matter, she told herself. He was a young man—he was ready. Solange herself had lost her virginity when she was fourteen.
‘Your first time?’
He nodded, and for some strange reason, muttered it in Italian. ‘Io sono vergine.’
The instant Solange laughed, the atomosphere was broken. It was the laughter she had shared with him so many times. Girlish, impudent, infectious. ‘I should hope so,’ she said.
She stood and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Get out of these wet clothes,’ she ordered. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him a towel as he fumbled impatiently with his trousers, ‘dry yourself, or it will be like making love to a fish.’
Enrico had never been naked in front of a woman before but he didn’t have time to feel awkward or embarrassed. Suddenly she was naked too. Gloriously, beautifully naked. ‘We have only fifteen minutes,’ she said. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him and the moment he felt her breasts and her thighs against him, Enrico was on fire. He clasped her shoulders and her back and her hair and her buttocks. He fumbled for her breasts and her buttocks; he couldn’t get enough of her. They stumbled backwards onto the bed, Enrico landing on top, and Solange laughed. ‘But of course young men like you do not need much time,’ she said.
He didn’t. Even as she reached down to guide him, he was inside her, thrusting, groaning, delirious. And, expertly, she met his every thrust. It was only a matter of seconds before his world exploded and he lay panting on top of her, dazed by the experience.
Solange laughed as she pushed him off her. ‘You do not need lessons, Enrico,’ she said, ‘but next time we do it, we will do it more slowly.’
‘Next time.’ She had said ‘Next time’. Enrico grinned up at the ceiling, euphoric.
‘Now hurry and get dressed or Ada will be very angry with me.’ She jumped up from the bed.
‘I love you, Solange.’
‘Of course you do, you silly boy.’ This time he didn’t mind the ‘silly boy’ at all. ‘And here,’ she picked up his damp shirt and pushed the little wad of notes back into the upper pocket, ‘you keep your money. This was not business.’
‘Solange…’ He sat up and reached for her but she eluded him.
‘No, no,’ she said, thrusting his trousers at him. ‘Quick, you must go.’ She helped him as he fumbled about with his clothes and then, pushing him to the door, said, ‘I will meet you on Saturday and we will have a picnic.’ She grinned mischievously and the way she said ‘picnic’ held a cheeky promise. Enrico tried to kiss her but she pushed him away.
‘Don’t forget your boots,’ she hissed and thrust them into his arms just before she closed the door.
It was a goldfields December. As hot and dry and dusty as the February Paul had arrived. It had only been ten months ago, but it felt like a lifetime. He missed his beloved Boston, and longed for the charm and wit of his wife and the rebellious chatter of his daughter. But Paul was proud of the success he’d achieved at the Midas. The mine was already back on its feet and in six months it would be flourishing as it had in its heyday. Then he could go home, proud of the fact that he had done his duty. But he quailed at the thought of the long, relentless summer ahead.
It was the middle of the day and Paul stood in the downstairs lounge of Restaurant Picot, welcoming the arrival of the Midas staff and their families, grateful to Harry Brearley for the choice of venue. The man had been quite right, Restaurant Picot must surely be the coolest place in Kalgoorlie, he thought as he felt the welcome breeze from the giant ceiling fans.
‘Henry!’ Henry Vandenberg was the recently appointed mine manager, hand-picked by Paul himself. A humourless Dutchman who ruled with a rod of iron, he had worked with Paul in South Africa. Paul didn’t like the man much but had to admit that he was the best in the business.
Paul greeted Vandenberg’s wife and family and made the correct noises about how much the three children had grown since he’d met them as babies. Then he encouraged them to move on and mingle with the others as he turned to greet the next arrivals.
Alwyn Llewellyn and his wife, Eileen, with their five daughters, each one dressed to the nines. Alwyn introduced his family with pride then politely withdrew, not wishing to monopolise too much of Mr Dunleavy’s time.
‘What do you say, my friend, a triumph already and the party has not even begun. What do you think of the decorations?’ Harry Brearley was at Paul’s side, puffing on his interminable cigar, thumbs tucked in his waistcoat pockets, surveying the scene like a king his realm. Maudie was busy organising the endless stream of waiters with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres for the adults and treats and lemonade for the children.
‘Very impressive, Harry, very impressive. You’ve done a fine job.’ The decorations were indeed Harry’s triumph, particularly the massive Christmas tree in the far corner of the lounge, woven with a sea of coloured lights which flickered on and off. It seemed incongruous to Paul, a fir tree in this godforsaken place, and he wondered where Harry had got it from but he didn’t bother asking. ‘Spare no expense,’ he’d said to Harry, and Harry hadn’t.
‘There’s more to come,’ Harry boasted. ‘Just you wait till you see the luncheon, the chef has done himself proud.’ The adults were to dine upstairs in the restaurant proper and the children were to picnic downstairs and be entertained by clowns and a magician.
‘Australian crayfish,’ Harry continued. ‘Packed in ice, delivered fresh from Esperance this morning. Took all night to get them here.’ He plucked the cigar from his mouth and rocked on his heels, relishing the announcement. Harry had put on a little weight lately and grown a huge handlebar moustache. He knew he looked good—prosperous. ‘I’ll wager you’ve never tasted anything like Australian crayfish.’
A brief vision of the fresh lobsters from Maine which were his passion flashed through Paul’s mind. ‘I’m sure I haven’t Harry, I’m sure I haven’t.’ Mercifully Paul was rescued from Harry’s further bragging by the arrival of Tony Prendergast and young Freddie.
Freddie was thrilled at his inclusion. He had not expected an invitation at all. But, as it turned out, any man who had worked an honest living at the Midas for three or more years was invited to the Christmas party. Freddie had worked at the Midas for just on five years and, as Alwyn said, no man had worked harder or more honestly than young Freddie.
Harry waited impatiently for Prendergast and Freddie to leave. He had been enjoying his conversation with Paul, he hadn’t even mentioned the string quartet yet. That was his big surprise and he couldn’t wait to boast about it. He looked out at the street and the other guests arriving, a number of them in automobiles.
Harry himself had been amongst the first in Kalgoorlie to acquire a motorised vehicle and he was very proud of his twenty-five horsepower Talbot Tourer.
‘We must move with the times, Maudie,’ he’d said when she’d complained that automobiles would frighten the horses. ‘This is the age of the motor vehicle.’ And he was right, of course, as, more and more, the clip-clop of horses�
� hooves was drowned out by the honk of horns and the sputter of car engines.
Maudie, however, remained unconvinced. ‘No good will come of them,’ she said, ‘they’re not natural.’ And every time a motor car back-fired and the horses shied, so did Maudie.
Harry’s beam of satisfaction suddenly faded. Giovanni Gianni, his wife Kate and her children Briony and Paolo had just rounded the corner, on foot of course. They did not own a vehicle of any kind, not even a horse and buggy.
Harry didn’t excuse himself, he turned tail and walked upstairs to the restaurant. He would not make a scene. He had known only too well that Giovanni had been invited. He had done his utmost to prevent it but Paul Dunleavy had been adamant. ‘In that case we must find another venue, Harry,’ he had said, and that had been that. But Harry was not about to welcome any member of the Gianni family into his midst.
Harry’s hasty departure had not gone unnoticed. Giovanni had seen him standing beside Paul Dunleavy and had anticipated trouble. Giovanni did not want trouble. He’d had his misgivings about the Christmas party from the outset and had said as much to Caterina.
‘Harry Brearley’s restaurant,’ he had said. ‘I will not go.’
‘Giovanni, of course you must go,’ she’d insisted. ‘You owe it to Mr Dunleavy. He has done you a great honour, you said so yourself. An Italian underground boss! No Australian would have given you such an opportunity.’
She was right, of course; besides, Giovanni could not afford to insult Mr Dunleavy—it might cost him his job. The welfare of his family must come first.
Now, as he crossed the street with his wife and children, he was grateful to see Harry deliberately avoid him. Good. Harry Brearley did not want trouble either.
Giovanni smiled at Caterina. She would be the most beautiful woman at the party, he thought with pride. She was wearing the blue hat with the satin plume. The one she had worn to the banquet all those years ago. He could remember how he had watched the blue hat draw nearer and nearer during the Pride of Erin waltz. How he’d prayed that the music wouldn’t stop before the hat reached him and his girl from the mountains was in his arms. And now she was his wife. And she was to have his baby. Giovanni was bursting with pride.
