by Sally Rippin
Poor Papa, thought Lina. So that’s why he cares so much about school.
‘Bruno will never work hard enough and Pierino thinks only of girls. Enzo? It’s too soon to tell. Your father thinks that you will be the one, the first in our family, because you are smart like him. You got that scholarship to that expensive school. Me, I am not so sure this is the best thing for you, but all the same, I would like you to prove him right. In Italy, in our village, a girl can only be a wife. Here, you can be whatever you want to be. If you work hard. Don’t waste what we give you, Lina. All I ask is that you appreciate what we do for you.’
‘I do, Mama, I do,’ Lina said in a small voice. And she did, there was no doubting that. But at times the weight of her parents’ expectations became almost more than she could bear. Will I ever be brave enough to tell them that I want to be a writer? Lina wondered. What if they’re disappointed in me?
As they walked down Rathdowne Street towards the bus stop, Lina’s mother took her hand, something she hadn’t done in a long time, and Lina leaned in a little to feel some of her mother’s warmth.
WHEN Lina arrived at St Brigid’s she made her way straight to the library. Sister Rosemary was there as usual, sitting at the front desk, knitting a long grey thing that she never seemed to finish.
‘I heard your story was quite a success!’ she said as Lina walked in.
‘Thanks,’ said Lina. ‘I think people liked it.’
‘I knew they would.’ Sister Rosemary put her knitting down. ‘By the way, that new Enid Blyton you wanted has arrived. I thought you might like this one, too.’ Sister Rosemary pushed a book across the desk and Lina looked at the cover: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank.
‘I just finished reading it last night,’ Sister Rosemary said. ‘It’s the diary of a young Jewish girl during the war. She reminded me of you.’
‘Really?’ asked Lina. ‘How?’ She looked at the photograph of the girl on the front, then flipped the book over to the back to read the blurb. ‘Oh, she dies!’
‘I know. It’s very sad. But her diary is beautifully written. Even funny at times. I think you’ll like it. Anyway, give it a try and we can chat about it when you’ve finished.’
‘My grandfather was killed in the war,’ Lina said.
Sister Rosemary nodded. ‘My brother, too.’
‘My nonna misses him a lot. She misses Italy, too. Boy, she talks about it all the time! When I lived in the village this . . . when I lived in the village that . . . Sometimes I think if it was so great back in Italy, why did you come here?’
‘I hear there’s not much work over there,’ Sister Rosemary explained. ‘Especially in the villages. I imagine your parents came out to try to find work. And to give you opportunities you might not have had growing up in a small village.’
‘I know.’ Lina frowned. ‘They tell me that almost every day. I have to be grateful for everything they do for me.’ She looked up quickly. ‘And I am. It’s just that . . . I wish Mum didn’t work so hard,’ she blurted before she could stop herself. ‘She’s tired and cross all the time these days.’ Lina was surprised how much she was telling Sister Rosemary, but it felt good to let it out. There were some things Lina wasn’t sure Mary would understand, and Sister Rosemary seemed like someone she could trust.
‘Well, it sounds like she’s lucky to have a daughter like you, Lina,’ Sister Rosemary said, handing the books to Lina. ‘I bet you’re a great help to her.’
Lina winced. ‘Some of the time.’ She tucked the books into her school bag, remembering with shame how rude she had been towards her mother the night before.
Just then, a face appeared at the library door. Sister Rosemary’s smile dropped into a frown. ‘Miss Doveton,’ she said coolly. ‘We don’t usually see you at this hour.’
‘Mary!’ said Lina excitedly. ‘Why are you here so early?’
Mary pulled a wad of papers out of her school bag. ‘To work on our magazine, of course! Can we work in here?’
‘And what work would that be?’ the Sister said.
‘A project,’ Mary said. Then quickly added, ‘For school.’
‘Provided you tidy everything up when the bell goes and leave the place as you found it,’ Sister Rosemary said, returning to her knitting.
‘Of course!’ said Mary. ‘We won’t leave a single scrap. Promise.’
They found a big table to spread out their magazine-in-progress. Skimming over their work from the night before, Lina was pleased to see it was looking as good as she’d remembered. Not exactly like a real magazine yet, but impressive all the same. Mary had brought along glue and scissors, and more of her mother’s magazines to cut up.
‘We need more articles, I think,’ said Lina, turning the pages. ‘There are lots of pictures in here, but not enough writing. We want it to look like a real magazine.’
The two girls set to work, Mary cutting out pictures and Lina cutting out words to make fancy headings for the articles to come. After a while, Lina felt someone sidle up behind her. She turned to see Betty Pascoe peering over her shoulder through her thick cat’s-eye glasses.
‘What’s that?’ Betty asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Lina quickly, but before she could cover up their work, Mary had leaned back in her chair so that Betty had a clearer view.
‘It’s a magazine!’ Mary said proudly. ‘We made it. Lina’s writing the stories and I’m doing the pictures. Doesn’t it look great?’
‘Wow,’ said Betty, pushing in between Lina and Mary to get a closer look. ‘Can I see?’
‘It’s not finished yet,’ mumbled Lina crossly. She wasn’t sure she was ready for just anyone to see their work. And certainly not Betty Pascoe. Betty Pascoe couldn’t keep anything a secret.
‘Do you like it, Betty?’ said Mary.
‘It’s adorable!’ Betty gushed. ‘I love the fashion page. Who did that?’
‘Me!’ said Mary proudly.
‘Oh, and this is your story, isn’t it, Lina?’ Betty said. ‘The one you read out in assembly? I liked that! Are you going to put in more?’
‘Thanks,’ said Lina, feeling proud. ‘I guess so. We’re still working out what else to put in.’
‘Well, how about an article on the school?’ Betty suggested.
‘Um, I don’t know . . .’ Lina began. Even though she liked the idea, she was feeling uncomfortable about someone else giving suggestions for their magazine.
‘That’s a great idea!’ Mary said. ‘Remember we had to write that story about school in termone, Lina? You could put that in?’
‘I guess so . . .’
At that moment the bell rang and Lina began to fold up the pages.
‘Hey, I haven’t finished!’ Betty said.
‘Assembly,’ said Lina, grateful for the interruption, and she slipped the magazine back into Mary’s bag. The girls quickly cleared up all the scraps of paper and dashed over to the school hall, just in time to line up with their class.
Lina and Mary slipped in behind Betty and Paula. Paula twisted her head around to whisper to Lina. ‘Betty told me you have a magazine you made.’
‘No, we don’t,’ Lina said.
‘Yes, you do!’ Betty protested, spinning around to face them.
Lina glowered at Betty.
‘Show me,’ Paula begged.
‘It’s not finished!’ Lina said a little too loudly.
‘Girls!’ Miss Spring called out. ‘Is that you talking in line again, Lina? I expected more from you.’
‘Sorry, Miss Spring,’ Lina mumbled. Her efforts at being good weren’t off to the best of beginnings.
BY Saturday afternoon, Lina and Mary agreed that their magazine was almost finished. They had met in the library every lunchtime that week to work on it and now they just needed to type up the stories. Lina had managed to convince her parents to allow her to go to Mary’s house again under the belief that they were doing an important project for school. The girls had worked hard all day in the Dovetons’
dining room, Mary searching for pictures and Lina picking away at the typewriter keys, pausing only for a lunch of curried egg sandwiches in white bread, cut into dainty triangles by Mary’s mother. To Lina, everything Mrs Doveton did was stylish, even her egg sandwiches.
‘It’s looking great!’ Lina said. ‘Now it’s definitely ready to show everyone on Monday.’
‘I know!’ Mary said excitedly. ‘They’re going to just love it!’
Lina leaned back in her chair, gazing at their magazine with pride. Along with the articles she had written in class about the school and their home life, and of course the Olympics, there were some of her own stories in there, too. Stories full of adventure and mystery and intrigue: often true stories, but with a generous sprinkling of imagination thrown in. These were the ones she was most excited to have the girls read. Would they like them as much as the one she had read out in assembly?
‘How are you getting on there, darlings?’ Mrs Doveton cooed, waltzing into the dining room in a cherry-red dress and lipstick to match.
‘Wow, that’s a beautiful dress, Mrs Doveton,’ Lina said, feeling quite starstruck. ‘Are you going to a party?’
‘We all are,’ Mrs Doveton said, smiling. ‘You’ll need to get ready now, honey,’ she said to Mary. ‘I’ve put your new dress on your bed and picked out a couple of pairs of shoes for you to choose from. Aren’t you coming, too, Lina?’
‘Where?’ Lina said, but even as the word came out, she realised what Mrs Doveton meant. It was Saturday night. And they were going to a party. There was only one party Lina knew of that was being held that night and as the realisation hit her, Lina turned to Mary and her mouth fell open. ‘But . . . you said you weren’t going.’
Mary shifted uncomfortably and looked to her mother for help.
Mrs Doveton sighed. ‘I’ll let you girls discuss this,’ she said, giving Mary a disapproving look. ‘We’ll be leaving in an hour, Mary.’ Then she walked out of the room.
Lina turned to Mary, her heart squeezing tight, hoping desperately that her guess had been wrong.
‘What?’ said Mary, reddening. ‘Sarah’s mum and my mum are best friends. My parents are going. I can’t really not go to the party when my parents are going, can I?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Lina said, tears springing into her eyes.
Mary looked away, embarrassed. ‘I guess I forgot. I don’t know. Why don’t you just come, Lina? Everyone’s going. It’s going to be an amazing party – you should see their house, it’s huge. And they’re hiring a jukebox! Just call your parents and say you’re coming to the party with me and you can wear one of my dresses. Come on, we’ll have fun. You don’t even have to talk to Sarah if you don’t want to.’
Lina felt a hot fizz fill her head. ‘But you promised me you wouldn’t go,’ she said. ‘I thought . . . I thought you were my best friend . . .’
‘I am your best friend, Lina,’ Mary insisted, though she was beginning to sound annoyed. ‘Look, you don’t need to make such a big deal out of it. Sarah’s not that bad, once you get to know her.’
Lina shook her head, unable to say anything. When she looked up, she saw Mr Doveton standing in the doorway. ‘How about I give you a lift home, Lina?’ he said kindly. ‘Do you want to come back tomorrow to finish off the magazine?’
Lina shook her head. ‘No, we have church on Sundays,’ she said quietly. ‘And then lunch with the family. It’s okay. Just bring the magazine to school on Monday, Mary. It’s almost finished, anyway.’
Mr Doveton dropped Lina at the big house on Rathdowne Street and excused himself as he had to get back for the party. Lina walked home, along the main road, past the shops closed for the night, and past the little houses in her alleyway huddled together in the cold. Even though it was not long past six, the clouds hung heavy and low, blacking out the stars. Lina buried her hands deep into the pockets of her navy woollen coat. The coat that had been bought by her father at the beginning of the year, along with the navy tunic and smart white shirt of her school uniform, for a price that had made Lina gasp.
‘Can’t I just wear my regular clothes, like I did at primary school?’ she had asked. But her father had explained that the uniform was so that all the girls at school could feel the same, so there would be no distinction between those students with lots of money and those with less. It’s not true though, Lina thought bitterly. The uniform doesn’t make any difference. Everybody knows who has money and who doesn’t. And, not for the first time, she wondered why Mary had chosen her as a friend when she could have been friends with anyone at all.
Lina’s house was busy when she got home, so she was able to slip in without anyone making a fuss. Her parents’ friends, Mr and Mrs Cantileri, were over with their twin boys, who had already started building an enormous tower out of empty olive oil tins on the kitchen floor with Enzo. Nonna was chopping up vegetables, and Mrs Cantileri and Lina’s mother were both in floral aprons arranging antipasto on plates. All the men, including Lina’s two older brothers, were sitting out the back around the wood-fired stove, drinking homemade spirits and spitting olive pips into the garden. Normally, Lina loved it when her parents had people over. Her mother was happiest with a houseful of guests and a tableful of food, but tonight Lina just wanted to be on her own.
‘Lina!’ her father called. ‘Come and say hello to Mr Cantileri.’
Lina walked out the back and leaned against her father. ‘Hello, Mr Cantileri,’ she said politely.
‘How you doing at that posh school of yours?’ Mr Cantileri joked.
‘She’s doing brilliantly,’ her father said, squeezing Lina against him. ‘She’s going to be a doctor or a lawyer, this one!’
‘Dad!’ said Lina, embarrassed. How could she ever tell him about her dreams when he already so obviously had her future mapped out for her?
‘Pfft! What’s a girl want to be a doctor for?’ Mr Cantileri sniffed. ‘You’re too pretty for that! You marry a nice Italian boy and you run a shop like me and Mrs Cantileri. You can make good money in business these days. Plenty of Italians here looking for good coffee. Not that horrible black stuff that those Aussies drink. I tell your father, buy an espresso machine from Italy. He will become rich!’
Lina left her father and Mr Cantileri arguing over coffee machines and wandered back into the house to help her mother prepare the dinner.
Later that night, when the Cantileris had gone home and all the dishes had been washed up and put away, Lina lay in bed and imagined Mary and all her other classmates at Sarah Buttersworth’s party. I wonder what they’re doing right now? she thought. Is Mary dancing to Elvis Presley on the jukebox? Are there boys at the party? Maybe I should have gone after all. But then maybe Mary didn’t even want me there? This thought was too painful to consider. No, she told herself. She did want me to come. She said so. She was even ready to lend me one of her beautiful dresses!
Lina’s thoughts turned to her mother and father: how hard they must have worked just to buy her that winter coat when Mary had more clothes than she knew what to do with. How could life be so hard for some people and so easy for others? she wondered. Why was life so unfair?
Outside her window, the clouds had lifted and Lina glimpsed a spattering of stars across the night sky, like pinpricks in a heavy velvet curtain draped between Lina and the bright lights of another world.
LINA loved Sundays. She especially loved going to church with her family. When she was younger she had found the services tedious and long, and she and Bruno would fidget and fight on the hard wooden pews until Nonna would cuff one of them across the head and hiss at them to behave. Nowadays, Lina loved the church, with its high arched ceilings and coloured fragments of light from the stained-glass windows shifting slowly across the cold stone floor. She loved dressing up in her best clothes and going out all together as a family. But most of all she loved the prayers.
Lina always had a long list of things saved up in her mind to ask for and each Sunday she would add to th
at list. ‘Please, God, ask Nonna not to give me Parmesan for lunch – I’ve told her a hundred times but she won’t listen! Please make Papa happy and Ma not so tired and cranky all the time, and please ask Pierino to stop teasing me. Please keep baby Enzo safe and don’t let Bruno get into trouble and help Zio find a job so we can have our lounge room back. I promise if you do all these things I’ll be good always and do what I’m told and study hard and not lie anymore ever, ever. Oh, and please, God, if you have time, could you buy me a typewriter? I know you probably don’t have money or anything like that, but I’d really love to have a typewriter, so, you know, if you can think of a way to make that happen, that would be really great. But only when you’ve finished all your other work, of course.’
After church, there was always a long lunch at Lina’s place, with all the family. ‘Family’ meant anybody who came from the same village, as far as Lina’s father was concerned. So, aside from Lina, her parents, her uncle, her grandmother and her three brothers, every Sunday there was always at least another few noisy adults and their children squeezed around the table. All the women brought food and helped out in the kitchen, all the men sat outside and played cards.
When lunch was over, Zio Jovanni, with the wonky leg, always brought out his piano accordion and the adults would sing rowdily, or sadly, depending on the song. They were always old-fashioned Italian songs about falling in love with a pretty girl from the village, or digging up turnips for winter. None of Lina’s parents and their friends thought much of that horrible rock-and-roll business that the Australian kids were into. Lina and her brothers loved Elvis Presley and when the oldies were singing O Sole Mio in the kitchen, they would run into their bedroom and sing ‘You aint nothin’ but a hound dog!’ at the tops of their voices until they were laughing so hard they could barely stand.
Sunday evenings were always quiet. It was the only day of the week when Zio folded up all his belongings and Lina’s family were able to sit in the lounge again. Nonna would snooze in the armchair in front of the fire, Lina and her brothers would do their homework on the coffee table, and little Enzo would curl up on his mother’s lap, catching up on a week’s worth of cuddles.
