“You don’t have to worry about me.” She sipped the drink again, trying to appear calm but her shaking hands made the liquid quiver. Placing it on the table, she turned to Tomas. “Thanks for being there.”
“I am glad to be of assistance.” He frowned and ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. “This Ken Ridley does not appear to be a person of gentle personality.”
“You’re right. He is not of gentle personality at all. I’m sorry about what he called you.”
“Dago?” Tomas laughed. “It does not upset me. I have been called much worse. There are racists in every corner of the world.”
“Unfortunately, you’ll find a cluster of them here.” She paused, then said, “My father included.”
“Does he not have workers of ethnic origin?”
“He has a big problem with Italians and refuses to employ them,” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought up the subject.
“I am Sicilian.”
“He groups everyone together. My family are immigrants also, so he shouldn’t behave this way toward anyone.”
“But you are white,” Tomas said, his tone without malice.
“I know that makes it easier, especially as we’ve been here for a few generations, but the government’s White Australia Policy was the dumbest idea ever invented. Fancy choosing which people to admit to your country based on their race and not what they’re like as individuals.”
“What about these ‘beautiful Balts’ who arrived last year? Did they not open the doors for people of other nationalities?”
“They only let them in because they couldn’t get enough Ten Pound Poms to come out here. Then the Baltic beauties arrived, but Australia needed more people. So, the Displaced Persons Scheme started and people from your country, Greece and Yugoslavia were allowed entry. But you probably know that, right?”
“Yes, I know of many people who have made Australia home now. But of course, there are many who were here from before the war, yes?”
“True.” She ran her finger along the edge of the table. “The Italians who weren’t naturalized Australians were put in internment camps because the government was petrified Italians would join with the Japanese and take over Australia.”
“But we changed to the side of the Allies.”
“Yes.” Perhaps getting involved in a political discussion was too much. After all, she had no idea what had gone on in Tomas’s world and it would be so easy for her to accidently say something wrong and offend him.
“It is all right,” Tomas said.
“Pardon?”
“You have a frown.” His gentle smile relaxed her. “You do not need to worry, I am enjoying your company.”
Relieved, and slightly flustered by his compliment, she took a moment to compose herself. “The Italians who were held in internment camps during the war, when Italy was still on Germany’s side, worked very hard and helped Australia cultivate enough food to keep us from starving. Their tireless work was invaluable, so when Italy switched to supporting the Allies, Australians finally started looking at Italians in a much better light.”
“But we are still called dago.”
“Some people are just small-minded.” Like Ken-bloody-Ridley.
“I am afraid this is very common. The world should be a place of peace, not anger.” Tomas closed his lips and stared at the dancers spinning and laughing.
Rosie couldn’t take her eyes off her companion.
Tomas Conti was handsome. Yes.
Intriguing. Yes.
Someone who could mess with her heart? Hell, yes.
Chapter 5
Rosie put the last of the vegetables into the pot, happy tomorrow’s lunch was already organized. She quickly put on the lid then arched her back and stretched. It had been a particularly difficult day in the kitchen, as the low cloud cover had kept in the heat. And now, with the sun starting its slow descent, the temperature had dropped slightly.
Although the work in the kitchen was hot, it wasn’t as bad as in the fields. The constant cutting, gathering and heavy lifting of sugarcane strained even the fittest of men’s bodies. She marveled at how they could endure the laborious work, day in, day out.
Her father’s men had increased their hours due to the shortage of workers because of his refusal to hire Italians. Sometimes, Rosie couldn’t understand her father. If it was a war-related issue, then wouldn’t he would spout vitriol about the Japanese and Germans? Yet he happily sat on the verandah and drank beer with Klaus from down the road, and he often stopped and chatted with Mrs. Himura at the grocery store. So, what was it about Italians that he despised with such fervor?
Since the dance a few days ago, her thoughts constantly returned to Tomas. He’d been so kind and chivalrous and, of course, charming. And rather than swoop in like some knight in shining armor, he’d silently stood by, ready to assist her if need be. Most men she knew would have attacked Ken with fists flying without any consideration that a woman could look after herself. The fact that he didn’t endeared him to her.
Rosie threw the rest of the vegetable peels into the container for the chickens. In Brisbane, she’d missed their cluck-clucking and the way they followed her around when she collected their eggs.
She went to the icebox and pulled out the water she’d put inside to chill. Running the cold glass across her forehead, she contemplated what to do next. Her mother’s novel sat on the edge of the kitchen table—how lovely it would be to sit on the verandah and take a moment to be in total peace while dusk crept across the land. The need for a frank conversation about her staying at Tulpil had permeated every corner of the house, and no one was willing to fully address it—yet. This evening’s effort of avoidance had seen her father take off for the pub to drink, despite him being exhausted from incredibly long work days. Her mother had settled in for brandy and bridge at a friend’s house, and Rosie now had the opportunity to relax. She considered the book again. It would be so wonderful to lose herself in a story. To immerse herself in a foreign land far, far away. What would it be like to travel to a different country? To learn a new language? To try new and interesting foods? To learn new customs?
A sigh escaped her lips.
A knock at the door drew her attention back to the stuffy kitchen. Guzzling the last of the water, she placed the glass down and made her way up the dark hallway to the front door. Through the mesh of the thick fly screen she could make out the silhouette of small, thin man with hunched shoulders.
“May I help you?” She squinted, trying to make out the visitor’s features.
He removed his hat. “Please, I look work.”
Rosie opened the door a fraction so she could see his face clearly. The gentleman’s ruddy complexion and gray temples gave the impression he was in his late sixties—an age difficult to find employment in the tough sugarcane industry.
“The work, I do hard…” He scratched his head as if willing the English words to form on his tongue. He wiped his brow, which seemed unusually sweaty for someone who worked in the fields and was used to enduring the heat.
She felt for this poor man and even though she’d have loved to say he should talk to her father, it would be a waste of time.
“I’m really sorry but—”
The man’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he swayed to the left, his thin hand reaching for the wooden doorframe. He missed, and collapsed headfirst in a heap on the boards, the impact sending dust clouds into the air.
“Oh!” Rosie knelt down and tried to turn him on his side, but he weighed more than he looked.
He let out a low moan and gingerly rubbed his head.
“Don’t move, please.” She rushed into the kitchen at the back of the house and grabbed ice cubes and a cloth. Running along the hallway again, she flung the door open and found the man attempting to sit up, but he kept listing to the side. She put her hands under his swe
aty armpits, willed her strength to double, and helped guide him so his back was against the wall of the house. Blood oozed from a deep gash in his forehead and she gently placed the ice pack on the large lump. He winced, then looked up at her, a flurry of Italian words tumbling out of his mouth. A singular tear trickled down his face, leaving a clear trail through the dirt coating his skin. He grabbed her free hand with both of his as his pleading eyes searched hers.
She mimed drinking from a glass. “I’ll fetch you some water. Did you feel dizzy before you fell?”
He stopped talking.
“Dizzy?” she asked again, this time holding her hands to her head and moving it around in slow motion.
“Si.”
“It could be the heat.”
Again, he looked at her with questioning eyes.
“Hot.” She fanned herself.
“Si.” He launched into another lengthy monologue, his voice rising and eyes widening. His face crumpled in pain. Concerned with his distress, she wished she could understand him and offer the help he needed.
However, she knew one person who could.
“Wait, please.” She held up her hand and hoped he understood.
Rosie ran inside and picked up the phone. It took a while before Lorraine on the exchange finally picked up. Rosie begged for her call to be placed urgently and waited for it to be connected. She stared at the clock on the wall and prayed he was back from the fields by now.
The phone rang out and she asked Lorraine to try again. Rosie’s shoulders tensed as she watched the hand on the clock tick by with each agonizing second.
“Hello?” Came the heavily accented voice.
Rosie let out her breath.
“You are now connected,” said Lorraine.
The phone clicked, signaling the operator had done her work.
“It’s me, Rosie.”
“Rosalie Stanton of Tulpil?”
She smiled at him making it sound like she was a lady on an English estate in the Jane Austen era.
“Tomas, I need your help.”
* * * *
After calling Tomas, Rosie stayed with the man on the verandah as he dozed. Occasionally he would moan, wake with a start, and clutch his stomach. Maybe she should call Dr. Wilkinson and get him to come? If her father hadn’t taken the ute she could have driven to the surgery. Then again, without someone who spoke Italian it would be impossible to find out what the man was saying and get the right information to make a diagnosis.
“Come on, Tomas.”
As if on cue, she spotted a set of lights moving quickly up the driveway. The engine revved as the car dipped in and out of potholes. It gained speed up the hill and quickly came to a halt. The headlights flicked off and a figure emerged, his heavy footsteps thudding across the ground. He raced up the stairs and knelt next to Rosie.
“How are you?” Tomas squeezed her shoulder. His reassuring touch calmed her.
“I’m feeling a little helpless.”
She moved back so Tomas could see the older gentleman who was dozing once more. Tomas inspected the gash and gently placed his hand on the man’s arm. He spoke quietly, rousing him from his slumber and instead of the petrified look in his eyes, the older man’s expression was one of relief. He spoke to Tomas and pointed at his head and stomach, then he clasped Tomas’s hand.
Tomas looked over at Rosie. “The name of this man is Luka Abrami. He is of the region Marche. He is looking for work.”
“Yes, I gathered he needed work, but I’m so sorry I can’t help him.” Oh, how she wished she could. “What’s wrong with him?”
Tomas’s expression was serious. “He has an ulcer in the stomach but must work to survive.”
“Could we help him into the house?” Surely her father wouldn’t object to a sick, elderly man crossing his threshold.
“I have offered for him to stay with my family.” Tomas stood and gently lifted the man. “Rosalie, please open my car door.”
She hurried down the steps and opened the passenger side door. In the distance, she saw a pair of lights moving toward the house. Damn. They’d come home earlier than expected.
Tomas guided Luka to the edge of the verandah while Rosie came back and took Luka’s bony hand. Together they helped him down the stairs, his frail body shaking as they went.
The lights in the distance drew closer.
Rosie and Tomas worked as a team as they maneuvered Luka into the passenger seat of the ute, but his weakness made it slow-going and difficult.
“Grazie.” Luka wrapped his fingers tightly around Rosie’s arm.
“It is a pleasure to help. I hope you feel better soon.” She hoped he heard the sincerity in her words even if he didn’t understand them. She looked at Tomas. “Maybe you should take him to the doctor.”
Tomas rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, yes, I should.”
Gravel crunching under tires drew their attention to the car moving up the driveway. The lights disappeared for a moment as the car dipped behind a hill but soon reappeared, silently growing closer with each second.
“It may be best if Luka and I…” Tomas tilted his head in the direction of her parents’ vehicle.
“Yes, it probably is. I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing of which to be sorry.”
“I’m still sorry, though.” She shrugged and gave a half-smile. “Thank you so much for coming to Luka’s rescue. Will you let me know how he is?”
“Of course, of course.” He went around to the driver’s side of the car, opened the door then stopped and rested his elbow on the top of the roof. “Do you think…” He shook his head. “It does not matter.”
Rosie eyed off the car coming perilously close. “Can we talk more? Later?”
Tomas nodded, slid behind the driver’s wheel. The engine sputtered into action as he ground the gears, reversed and took off. He waved his hand out the window and she watched the red tail lights move closer to the bright white beams of her parents’ ute. She sucked air between her teeth and held her breath.
Please, please, drive past each other.
Tomas’s rear lights brightened as he braked and her father’s ute pulled up beside him. Two dark figures got out of the cars and a pain rushed through Rosie’s hand as her grip tightened around the verandah pole.
All she could make out in the distance were the outlines of her father and Tomas facing each other, their backs straight, their arm movements jerky. It seemed to take forever before the men got in their respective cars and left in a cloud of dust.
Rosie sat on the top step. A light breeze danced across her skin, giving some relief from the stifling heat. Her father’s ute halted and it felt like an agonizingly long time before he got out and walked around to open her mother’s door. When she exited, her wavy hair was still in a stylish updo, her skin glowing but not perspiring. There was a slight sway as she crossed the dirt in her high heels and climbed the steps. She placed her hand on Rosie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Her mother then went into the house, a small cloud of alcohol fumes trailing behind her.
Rosie’s father took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He leant against the car, his legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed against his chest. The physical distance between them felt less than the emotional gap that had developed over the years.
“I met our neighbor,” he finally said, his tone noncommittal.
“Tomas.”
Her father grew silent again and she wished she could read his mind.
“Would you like a cold drink?” she asked, hoping this might be an escape route to avoid conversation.
“Why was he here?” Her father’s voice remained steady.
She drew her shoulders back, refusing to feel guilty for doing what any decent human should. “Signor Abrami came looking for work but he collapse
d on the verandah. I couldn’t understand him so—”
“You called the neighbor who speaks Italian.”
“Yes.” This was going surprisingly well. Had she misjudged her father after all?
“Do not call him ever again.”
“I will if someone needs help!” She balled her hands at her side.
“Stay away from the Contis. Those wogs cannot be trusted.”
“Dad!”
“How do you know him?”
“I met him on the bus from Brisbane.” She put her hands on her hips.
“And?”
“And why are you so worried?”
“Stay away from that Conti. I’m serious.” He walked up the steps, his large frame moving past hers.
“That’s it?”
Her father paused then turned to face her. “What are you expecting me to do? Yell and scream?”
She chewed her lip.
“Do you think I’m an ogre?”
Her silence gave him the answer.
“I am extremely disappointed,” he said.
Summoning courage, she said, “Well, I’m also disappointed.”
“I have to get up early.” He turned on his heels, quickly opened the screen door and let it slam shut behind him.
Making her way down the stairs, Rosie walked away from the house and over to the ancient swing set, red more from rust than red paint. She slowly lowered herself onto the half-tire swing her father had made when she was seven. The hard rubber dug into the back of her thighs, but she ignored the discomfort as she pressed her toes into the ground to gain forward momentum. The swing moved back and forward, the creaking rope strangely comforting, taking her back to the days when she’d spend hours hanging upside down from the bars or getting her brothers to push her sky-high on the swing. Her family had been so close back then. Her father had been kind, not volatile. Her mother had been engaged, not removed. Her brothers funny and loveable, not taken by war.
As she swung her legs, Rosie leant back and gazed at the stars twinkling in the inky sky. What she wouldn’t give to go back to the world she once knew.
Burning Fields Page 6
