by Judy Nunn
Jack didn’t bother contradicting Maudie, what was the point? He grabbed his hat as he headed for the door. ‘I’m going out to hire us a barman,’ he said.
Maudie looked up from the sock. ‘Make sure he’s a digger. They need the work.’
‘You bet I will.’
‘Good on you, Jack.’ She smiled and her eyes crinkled up the way they used to.
The smile remained in Maudie’s eyes for a full minute or so after Jack had gone. God, but it was good to have the boy back. He was going to manage the pub, they’d talked it all through. Business was booming with the soldiers’ return and Maudie was at the point of exhaustion. Alice was still with her, but then Alice, like Maudie, was no spring chicken. They were both too old for such hectic work.
‘Alice can serve in the ladies’ lounge,’ Jack had said. ‘And you can sit in your office and run the business. How’d you like that?’
Maudie would like nothing better. She loved facts and figures and balancing the books. She loved paydays and the visit to the bank every second Friday. Maudie loved running a business.
‘We might get you a secretary,’ Jack suggested.
‘No fear,’ she said. ‘You just leave me with the books and get on with the hard work.’
It had taken a fair amount of persuasion before Maudie had agreed to the hire of another barman. She wasn’t accustomed to throwing money around, she said.
‘We need two behind the bar, Maudie, you know that,’ Jack had insisted. ‘You and Alice are worked off your feet. I’ll need somebody with me if we’re to give good service.’
They both knew what he was saying, but neither wanted to mention it. Harry had grandly suggested he forgo his ‘duties’ at Restaurant Picot and take over the bar with Jack.
‘We’ll make a fortune,’ Harry had said. ‘We’ll stick your VC up behind the bar. In a gilt frame, on red velvet. People’ll come for miles to be served a beer by the winner of the Victoria Cross,’ and he’d slapped Jack on the back. ‘We’ll make a fortune, you’ll see.’
Jack had tried to laugh it off, but he knew his father wasn’t joking. Harry working the bar was out of the question, and Maudie and Jack both knew it. He would only get staggering drunk and make a fool of himself.
‘Pa’ll be better off at the restaurant,’ Jack had gently suggested.
‘Hire the barman,’ Maudie said.
Jack’s first stop was the boarding house where Snowy Wilson and Mad Tom Brereton had rooms. Snowy and Tom had paid him a visit the second night he’d been back and the reunion had been riotous.
They’d got very drunk in Maudie’s bar but Maudie hadn’t minded. They were soldiers returned from the war and they needed to let it all out. But she worried about Jack—he didn’t look very strong. Oh well, she told herself, they were men now; if they wanted to make themselves sick with grog it was up to them.
‘You look as if you could do with a bit more weight, mate,’ Mad Tom had said first up, digging Jack uncomfortably in the ribs.
‘You too, cobber.’ Jack prodded Tom’s stump in return.
‘So where’s your VC then?’ Snowy asked.
‘Upstairs,’ Jack answered evasively. But, before Snowy could demand a look at it, Mad Tom was thumping his own chest with pride. Despite the fact that he was in ‘civvies’, Tom always wore his medal pinned to his shirt.
‘You’re not the only one to get a medal, cop that,’ he said proudly. ‘Snowy and Rick and me, we all got one.’
They talked of Rick and their other mates.
‘Have you seen Tony Prendergast?’ Snowy asked.
‘S’truth, I thought he was dead.’ But Jack’s grin of delight faded as his mates shook their heads.
‘Might as well be,’ Snowy said dourly.
Not long after that, they’d got drunk and sung loudly. All the old songs Rick used to play. Maudie let them drink on long after closing and it was one in the morning when they had called a halt.
For the following two days, Jack had been as sick as a dog. He couldn’t drink like that any more, he told himself, his body couldn’t take it. Well, he’d been warned, hadn’t he? ‘Look after yourself, Jack,’ the doctor had said. ‘No strenuous exercise, no heavy living. You take care of that heart, it’s still pretty weak.’
‘NO THANKS, MATE, I’m staying clear of the grog,’ Jack said when Snowy offered him a beer. Mad Tom wasn’t there, he was at the post office, sorting mail. It was a good job, five days a week. Just as well, Jack thought—he could hardly justify a one-armed barman to Maudie. ‘You’re full-time back at the mines aren’t you, Snow? You don’t need work?’
‘No, mate, morning shifts, regular as clockwork.’ It had taken Snowy four months to get work but he’d stuck at it, reporting daily to the mines, and now he was under contract.
‘Where do I find Tony then? I want to give him a job.’
‘Tony Prendergast?’
Jack nodded.
‘What job?’ Snowy asked.
‘Barman at Maudie’s.’
Snowy shook his head. ‘He couldn’t handle it, mate.’
‘But you said he needed a hand.’
‘Let’s pay him a visit.’ Snowy downed his beer. ‘You’ll see what I mean.’
‘WANT TO OFFER you a job, mate.’ Jack sipped his tea and avoided the incredulous stare from Snowy.
Ten minutes’ walk out of town, on the road to Boulder, the little canvas and tin shack where Tony lived with his wife and three children had once been a miner’s humpy. But it was spotlessly clean and, as they sat on packing cases, Megan Prendergast served them tea as formally as if the tin mugs were imported china. The light of hope in her eyes was painful to see as she heard Jack’s words.
Crikey mate, Snowy cringed inside, don’t offer the bloke a barman’s job, can’t you see he can barely stand?
‘What job would that be then?’ Hope was not reflected in Tony’s eyes; he’d been knocked down too many times.
‘Maudie needs a secretary.’
Snowy coughed into his tea. ‘Sorry,’ he gasped, ‘went down the wrong way.’
‘Yeah, she needs some help with the books,’ Jack explained. ‘The pub’s pretty busy with the diggers home, and I’m taking over as manager.’
‘More tea, Jack?’ Megan had the pot poised over his mug. What a pretty woman she was, beneath the careworn fatigue.
‘Yeah, beauty, thanks, Megan. Not bad, eh, Tony?’ Jack winked at the Welshman. ‘Jack Brearley, pub manager, and I’m going to extend the place too. Get rid of the stables out the back, we don’t need them any more.’
It was the first Snowy had heard of it. Jack, too, for that matter, but it seemed like a damn good idea. ‘We’ll have a back bar, and a games room just like the big posh places—’
‘Maudie’s a pretty good businesswoman,’ Tony interrupted, ‘everyone knows that. She’s never needed a secretary before.’
‘Ah, but with the extensions she will. We’ve talked it all over, her and me.’ Well, they would as soon as he got home, Jack thought. ‘And we’ll need someone there in charge all the time to oversee the blokes doing the building.’
The more Jack thought about it, the better the whole idea seemed. Even as he spoke, his mind was working overtime. They’d need a hefty loan and Maudie’d have to go into bat with the bank manager but that’d be sure to bring the light of battle back into her eyes. Maudie liked nothing better than a fight with the blokes at the bank. ‘What do you say, Tony?’
Megan Prendergast seemed to be holding her breath.
‘No,’ the Welshman shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a bit of a walk to your pub. I couldn’t do that every day.’
‘My dad’s got an automobile, I can pick you up and take you home.’ Tony was still shaking his head. ‘Come on, mate,’ Jack urged enthusiastically, he was raring to go now. ‘Be a sport, it’ll give me an excuse to drive it.’
Megan carefully put the teapot back on the rickety
old table, afraid she might drop it. She wanted to scream at her husband, to shake him out of his torpor, but she dared not utter a word.
‘Come on, mate, what do you say?’
The seconds seemed to tick by before Tony finally nodded. ‘Well, I suppose we could try it for a while and see if it worked. I wouldn’t want to let you down.’
‘You’d be doing us a favour, mate.’
On the walk back to town, Snowy pumped Jack’s hand. ‘You’re a beauty, Jack.’
JACK BREARLEY HAD not forgotten the promise he and Rick Gianni had made to each other in the little town of Houilles that night.
The fight between their families was just a load of bollocks, they’d agreed. ‘When we get back to Kal we’ll sort them out eh?’ Jack had said. ‘Too right we will,’ Rick had agreed before he’d passed out.
‘The Giannis?’ Harry muttered darkly when Jack tried to broach the subject. ‘Don’t talk to me about the Giannis. I should never have done them the favour I did.’ His son tried to interrupt but Harry was in no mood to listen as he splashed another healthy measure of whisky into his glass. ‘Those stupid dagos couldn’t even speak the language, for God’s sake, and then when they decided they didn’t like the contract they’d signed, they blamed me!’ Harry’s voice rose in moral indignation. ‘They even tried to kill me! Both of them!’ he said, downing his whisky.
Jack realised that it wasn’t just the alcohol talking. Over the years, Harry Brearley had convinced himself that he was, and always had been, entirely in the right.
If contact was difficult with his father, Jack was sure that it would be impossible with Rico Gianni. He decided, instead, to pay a visit to the home of Caterina and Giovanni and, one Sunday, as he was about to knock on the front door, an automobile pulled up in the street behind him.
‘Jack!’ a voice called. ‘Jack Brearley!’
The young man who stepped out of the brand-new Ford Tourer was tall, elegant and stylishly dressed. A toff, Jack thought. Who the heck was he? Jack didn’t know any toffs.
The man bounded across the pavement and up the little path to the verandah. ‘Hello, Jack, it’s good to see you.’
‘Crikey! Paolo!’ The two men shook hands warmly. ‘The blokes told me you were one of the big nobs these days,’ Jack said, ‘but I didn’t know you were this big.’ He gestured towards the shiny automobile and then ran his eyes up and down Paolo’s fine linen suit, taking in his planter’s hat in matching beige. He whistled, a mixture of mock and genuine admiration. ‘You look like you should be in the pictures, Paolo, honest you do. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Paolo shrugged, a little self-effacingly. ‘Got to look the part, you know. The blokes at the mine expect it.’
Jack grinned. ‘It’s Sunday.’
Paolo found himself smiling too. You couldn’t put one over on Jack. ‘Yeah, I kind of got used to it, I suppose,’ he admitted. It was true, he liked the trappings of success. He wondered if he should feel guilty.
But Jack let him off the hook. ‘I reckon you deserve it, mate, good on you.’
Paolo relaxed. ‘I’m glad you made it home, Jack.’
‘Me too.’
They were both thinking about Rick and each of them knew it. ‘He wrote to me,’ Paolo said.
‘I know. He loved getting your letters. He let me read them—hope you don’t mind. Letters were pretty important to us over there.’
‘I should have written to you myself,’ Paolo said apologetically. ‘The family feud,’ he shrugged, ‘it affected us all.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Jack replied. ‘We said we’d sort it all out if we ever got home, me and Rick.’
‘You won’t have any trouble with my mother.’ Paolo wondered if Jack knew. ‘Giovanni died about five months back, just before you got home.’
‘Yes, I heard. I’d like to have seen him.’
‘Let’s go inside.’
The cosy smell of fresh-baked bread greeted them as they opened the door. Sunday, as always, was Caterina’s baking day.
Since Giovanni’s death, the rituals of Caterina’s life had become more important than ever. As she stood at the washing basin on the back verandah, she imagined it was his work shirts she was scrubbing and the evening meals she prepared were always his favourites. And on Sundays when she baked, the very smell of the dough brought a smile to her lips. How Giovanni loved Sundays.
At night the bed remained a lonely place and she longed for the warmth of his body but, during the days, Giovanni was always with her.
‘Jack Brearley! Welcome home.’ There was a warmth in her voice which Jack had not expected. The beautiful Caterina Gianni, he thought, she must be in her mid-forties now and yet she was still desirable.
‘Rosalina is at a school friend’s birthday party,’ Caterina said, ‘she’ll be sorry she missed seeing the famous Jack Brearley.’
‘Hello, Jack.’ Briony shook his hand firmly and Jack was a little nonplussed, unaccustomed as he was to shaking hands with girls.
‘Briony, you’ve grown up.’ He cursed himself for stating the obvious but he was rather disconcerted by the boldness of the girl. She didn’t have her mother’s beauty, he thought, but she was striking nonetheless with her flaming red hair, and the challenge in her blue eyes demanded attention.
So this was Jack Brearley, Briony thought. She’d seen him around town when she was a child and she’d heard rumour of his exploits as a daredevil and a womaniser but of course he was a Brearley and she’d been forbidden to make his acquaintance. ‘Yes, I’ve grown up.’ There was a touch of friendly mockery in her smile. ‘Welcome home.’
Whilst Briony made coffee and Caterina continued with her baking, the talk was mostly inconsequential.
‘I hear you’re becoming a big nob yourself, Jack,’ Paolo smiled. ‘Rumour has it you’re extending the pub.’
‘Yep, the plans are being drawn up and we’ll be building before Christmas,’ Jack said proudly. ‘It won’t be the Palace or the York, but that’s not what we want anyway. It’ll stay a pub for the workers like it’s always been, but Maudie’s pub’ll be the best workers’ pub that Kal’s ever had.’
It was only when Caterina’s fresh batch of scones was safely in the oven and Briony had served the coffee that Jack turned the conversation to the reason for his visit.
‘I was very sorry to hear about Giovanni,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Caterina answered, ‘it was miners’ complaint. He was fully prepared.’
Jack nodded. ‘Rick talked about him a lot.’ He sensed a reaction from Paolo and glanced sideways to see him mouthing the name ‘Enrico’ as he picked up his coffee cup. ‘Giovanni was very special to Enrico,’ he said. ‘He played that old concertina of his every single day and he never stopped talking about Giovanni.’
‘Yes,’ Caterina agreed. ‘He loved him very much. Giovanni was a father to Enrico.’
‘I wish I’d been home in time to say goodbye. I would like to have made my peace with him.’
‘Giovanni had no argument with you, Jack. He didn’t hold you responsible for the sins of your father.’ The condemnation of Harry Brearley was clear in her tone. It wasn’t going to be easy after all, Jack thought, and he chose his words with care.
‘I wanted to make more than my own peace, Caterina,’ he said. ‘It all happened such a long time ago and I wanted to bury any ill-will between the Giannis and the Brearleys. Enrico and I promised each other we’d end the family feud if we ever got home to Kal. We’d even hoped that my father and Rico—’
‘Never.’ Her words were a sharp warning as she interrupted him. ‘Never must you try and arrange a meeting between those two. Rico would kill your father if he had half a chance. If provoked, he would even kill you, Jack. His desire for revenge has not faded with the years.’
She rose from the table. ‘I must tend to my scones. Take my advice, Jack, stay away from Rico and his family.’ Her voice softened, ‘But I know Teresa would want me to thank you for
trying to save Enrico’s life. She is truly grateful.’
‘We were best mates,’ he said.
‘That is good.’ She smiled. ‘That is very good. Now why don’t you boys take your coffee onto the verandah and Briony will bring you hot scones. Then you must sweep the floors,’ she instructed her daughter with an apologetic aside to Jack. ‘The family is coming here for dinner tonight. We meet most Sundays.’
Paolo and Jack did as they were told. It was a fine spring day and they sat on the railings and talked. When Briony arrived with a plate of scones, they were so heavily in discussion that neither of them noticed her.
‘It’s been nine months since the war ended, Paolo,’ Jack was saying, ‘and the diggers are all home now. It’s tough, I know, but they’re finding jobs, and yet the hatred remains. It’s festering between the Aussies and Italians. There’s more hatred here than there was amongst the soldiers fighting on opposite sides. Why?’
Jack had always admired Paolo. Paolo was the academic one, the one with brains—they’d all known that. And now, not only had Paolo been educated abroad, he’d remained true to his identity. An Australian proud of his Italian antecedents. Surely Paolo would have the answer.
But he didn’t. ‘I don’t know, Jack,’ he said in all honesty, ‘I don’t think anyone knows, but—’
‘I do.’ Briony put the forgotten scones down on the verandah and plonked herself into the swinging seat. ‘I know why there’s hatred in this town.’ The men looked at her, momentarily silenced. ‘It’s Kal, that’s what it is. Kal breeds violence. It always has.’
Jack was surprised at the intrusion but Paolo encouraged Briony to join in their conversation. He was proud of his high-spirited sister and always humoured her, even when he thought her opinions naive.
‘That’s a rather sweeping statement,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘Why do you think Kal breeds violence?’
‘Because it was created from greed.’ Briony warmed to her topic. ‘People came here for gold. They were greedy for gold, and then they stayed to fight. That’s what Kal’s all about. It’s about greed and about gold.’
