“It just can’t be…” He didn’t look up as he slowly shook his head.
“What if we make an agreement? If Bartel isn’t back within forty-eight hours, I go and talk to the police. This has to be filed, Dad. What if he does it to someone else?”
“He was with me for over ten years,” he mumbled, “working by my side.”
Rosie’s heart went out to her father. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to implicitly trust someone only to discover a betrayal that cut so very deep.
Her father took a deep breath and lifted his head, as if shaken out of the well of despair he was poised to tumble into. “I will need all the accounts.”
“But—”
“I’m feeling better.” He forced a lopsided smile. “I can stay here on bed rest and go through the figures.”
“That’s not resting,” she said.
“I’m just double-checking, that’s all. If it is what you say it is, then we need to find a way out of this.” Her father lifted his good hand to his heart, made a strange sound, and sucked in air. Rosie went to him.
“What is it? Should I call the doctor?” She was up and on her way to the telephone.
“No, just a flutter. It happens every so often.”
“How often?” she asked, her voice firm.
“Not often enough for anyone to worry.”
Rosie sat back down and reached for her father’s hand. The roughness of his hands against her soft skin reminded her of the days when just the two of them would walk along the riverbank after he’d finished work for the day, and they would chat about the latest book she’d read or they’d sit and study the star constellations. She missed those days almost as much as she missed her brothers.
“You need to let Dr. Wilkinson know about this. And,” she added, “doing the books is too much pressure. I will collate everything; then we can talk and you can make some decisions about how we’re going to pay back the men.”
“Bartel needs to be replaced immediately.”
“Sefa could be my right-hand man. He knows the ins and outs and I trust him.” She worried that the word “trust” didn’t hold as much weight as it once did at Tulpil.
“I trusted Bartel.” Her father lowered his eyes.
“You trust me, though, right?” Her father didn’t look up. “Right, Dad?”
He gave a curt nod. “Yes, yes, of course I do, but there is no way I want you dealing with those men.”
“They’re not animals.”
“They’re men. And you’re a woman.” He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. “Why are you so pigheaded?”
“I learnt from the best.” She followed this with a grin. The building tension dissolved a fraction.
“What about Brisbane?” He sounded apprehensive.
“That was totally different.”
“How?”
“Because here I’m the boss’s daughter.”
“Men are men.”
“What I experienced in Brisbane was an imbalance of power. I was at the mercy of a man who felt he could do and say whatever he wanted. But you and I both know not all men are like that. We can’t tar everyone with the same brush just because of their gender. Just like we can’t make assumptions about people because of their nationality.” She paused, but he didn’t bite. “There is a whole different order at Tulpil than in Brisbane.”
He lowered his head, deep in thought. Eventually he looked up. “I’m not getting into the nationality debate, but you do have a point about the workers. You can do Bartel’s job until more suitable arrangements can be made.”
Rosie bounced on the chair, unable to contain her excitement. “You won’t regret this, I promise you.”
Her father didn’t answer, a deep frown creasing his brow once more. “We’re in a mess, Rosie.”
“I know, but you have me here to help—whatever it takes,” she said. Without thinking, she kissed him on the forehead, then stepped back, surprised. Her father looked at her, his expression one of shock.
“Rosie, I really don’t like us arguing.”
“I don’t, either. We’ll figure this mess out. Somehow.”
“I have to hand it to you,” he said, his tone reminiscent of when she was younger.
“Hand me what?”
“You always find the silver lining.” He paused for a moment then lowered his voice, “There is one more thing we should discuss. It’s about your mother…”
“I’ve noticed it, too.” They exchanged knowing looks, but the conversation halted when her mother’s footsteps echoed down the hall and she appeared in the doorway.
Wiping her hands on the apron, she said, “Dinner is warming in the oven for you, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Mum.” Rosie tried not to notice her mother’s shaking hands or the way her left eye had started to droop. This only ever happened if she’d had too many nips of brandy. “Why don’t you put your feet up? I’ll clean the kitchen.”
“You do enough around here, Rosie.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer.” With that, Rosie headed for the kitchen, but before she left the room she spied her mother collapse heavily on the armchair next to her father.
Rosie sat down to her meal and allowed herself to replay the conversation she’d had with Tomas earlier that evening. You are very independent, he’d said. Just like his nonna.
Hmm…
She loved that Tomas had so much respect for his grandmother and obviously valued women’s strength. She’d never met a man who seemed to support and appreciate strong women before. Yet another string in Signor Conti’s bow.
* * * *
The next day, Rosie rounded the corner of the shed then stopped in her tracks. The workers were already clustered together, talking in low voices as some took long drags on their cigarettes and others played cards. Her heart raced and perspiration pooled at the base of her spine. Why on earth did she think she could possibly be in charge of men who knew much more about cutting cane than her? The last time she’d tried to cut sugarcane she’d nearly taken off Bartel’s head. What a shame she’d missed.
Fear clawed at her insides as she drew closer. The men turned to face her and even though Rosie wanted to spin around and run for the house, she pushed forward.
“Good morning.” Rosie was relieved her voice didn’t crack. Her gaze travelled around the crowd and she identified the nationality of each person and used their language to greet them individually. Bongu in Maltese. Sveiki in Latvian. Hallo in Afrikaans. Kamusta in Filipino. Bula in Fijian. Zdravo in Yugoslavian. And so it went. The men answered back, most with a smile, and this small gesture seemed to create a more convivial atmosphere. She just hoped it lasted.
Bracing herself, she said, “On behalf of my father, I want to thank each and every one of you for the extra time and effort you have put in while he’s been ill. We truly appreciate all your support and all that you have done.”
A few of the men nodded, but no one looked directly at her.
She continued, trying not to let it unnerve her. “I realize we all need some time to adjust to the changes but it shouldn’t affect our output. We have the potential to make this the most productive season we have ever seen. And please know that I am here to listen and help in any way I can.”
The men looked around at each other, as if sending telepathic messages. There were a few surreptitious shakes of the head while others stared at their dusty boots.
Eventually, Loto stepped forward, his face riddled with guilt. “The men want to know when they’ll get the money they’re owed.”
Sefa cleared his throat. “Rosie is aware of this, as is Mr. Stanton. They are fixing the problem as we speak.” His dark eyes met hers and she hope he sensed her appreciation for his assistance.
“We need our money,” said Jeks. He moved closer, his large
frame towering over hers. After the incident with the knife and Loto, he’d morphed into the background and not caused any trouble, which made Rosie all the more suspicious.
“You will get your money,” she said firmly, then took her time looking at every worker gathered in the circle. “It will just take a little time. However, each of you will be rewarded for your patience.”
“How?” asked Jeks.
“You heard Miss Stanton,” said Sefa. He made a show of looking at his watch.
“I promise you, Jeks, you will not be disappointed. No one will.” As soon as she said it, Rosie realized she may have just dug a very deep hole.
Chapter 13
Rosie sat on the couch of Kitty’s living room and cradled the newborn as Kitty made a pot of tea.
“Please let me do that,” Rosie said.
Kitty set about organizing the teacups and fruitcake on the tray. “No. You have enough going on at the farm.”
“You only gave birth two days ago and she was early!”
“I’m not an invalid!” came the catch-cry Kitty had used all throughout her pregnancy.
Rosie had been running Tulpil less than a week and her bones now ached to the core and her muscles screamed for mercy. Now that she had the books in order, she had taken to being out in the fields with the men. She didn’t cut the cane—that was their domain, and how much they cut dictated their earnings—but she helped check loads, which required occasional lifting. It was damn hard work and she had a newfound admiration for the men who did this year in, year out. Surprisingly, no one had voiced their concern or distaste in her being amongst them. As long as she did her job and didn’t interfere with theirs, things moved along nicely.
Rosie looked up from admiring Kitty’s blue-eyed cherub and studied her friend. “How are you really doing?”
Kitty brought over the tray and placed it on the footstool in front of them. She collapsed in the armchair. “I feel like death warmed up. And I thought pregnancy was the hard part!”
Rosie looked at baby Isabelle’s smooth, pale skin and her tiny fingers and toes. “She’s perfection.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Kitty held her finger against Isabelle’s and the baby wrapped her tiny hand around it. “I hope she has a good life.”
“You’re her mother, of course she will!”
“That’s not what I mean. What if she’s like you—intelligent and determined? If she is then I want my girl to have opportunities that I never had. She needs someone to start this ball rolling. Someone like her godmother.”
“Me?” Rosie pointed at herself. “You want me to be Isabelle’s godmother?”
“Of course! Who else would be a better role model?” Kitty’s blonde locks fell in her eyes and she pushed out a breath to blow them away. “My daughter and all the girls in her generation need someone to pave a better future for them.”
“And you think I’m the one to do it? Why on earth would you say that?”
“You’re the strongest woman I know.”
Rosie tried to stop her lips twitching into a smile.
“What’s so funny?”
“Someone else said something similar recently.”
Kitty motioned for Rosie to hand over the sweet bundle and she did so reluctantly. Rosie’s arms and torso felt cold now that Isabelle’s warmth had left her. The little delight nestled against Kitty and a minute later Isabelle fell asleep.
Kitty noticed Rosie watching. “She doesn’t always do that, I promise you.” In a quiet voice, she said, “Let’s not get off topic. So, was it someone who is new to the district who said you are a strong woman?”
“Stop it.” Rosie returned her attention to Isabelle. The baby’s long lashes rested gently against her chubby cheeks. A tweak of longing snuck up on her, but Rosie quickly pushed it away.
“Do you ever think you’ll have children?”
How did Kitty do that?
“I don’t know,” Rosie said. “According to my mother, I’m on the shelf.”
“She’s a tad melodramatic.”
“That’s Cecile for you.”
Kitty’s gentle laugh filled the room. “Seriously, though, have you ever thought about it?”
“Of course I have, but that doesn’t mean it will happen for me.” Rosie picked up the pot of tea and poured some into each cup while Kitty carefully stood and placed Isabelle in the bassinet a few feet away. Kitty fussed over the baby and Rosie smiled, unable to fully comprehend that her best friend was now the mother of a little human.
“So, you’re saying yes?” Kitty grabbed a cup of tea and sat down. She took a sip and studied Rosie over the rim.
“Yes to babies?” she drew this out, unsure how to answer. “Look, if it happens then yes, I’d be happy. And if it doesn’t then…” She shrugged. “Being a woman is not all about having babies.”
Kitty looked down at her hands for a moment. “Sorry, I guess I’m all caught up in this motherhood business.”
“It’s totally fine. This is your world now. Maybe it will be mine, maybe it won’t, but if it ever is, I would like to think I could continue doing the work I want as well as raising my children.”
“An interesting thought.” Kitty sat back against the cushions and crossed one leg over the other. “So what did Sergeant Gavin say when you told him about Bartel?”
“He was shocked, just like we all are. He said if Bartel’s left the district, which we know he has, then it’s going to be hard to find him.”
“I’m so sorry, Rosie.”
“Thanks. I’ll do what I can, but it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. So I guess we just have to live in hope but…” She shrugged.
“As if you and your dad don’t have enough to deal with. It’s so unfair.”
“That, it is.” Rosie sighed.
“Sooooo…” Kitty’s transition to a new subject was, at best, clumsy. “I heard a rumor about the Conti family.”
“You know I don’t get involved with rumors.”
“All right then.” Kitty acted nonchalant by turning her attention to her sleeping daughter.
Rosie bit her lip, trying to ignore the question that was burning to get out. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece while Rosie fiddled with the crocheted rug beside her.
“I like the greens you used in the rug,” she said.
“Thank you.” Kitty’s lips twitched.
“Fine!” Rosie threw her arms in the air. “What did you hear?”
Kitty let the smirk break free then her expression turned serious. “Rumor has it there’s a connection to Mussolini.”
“What?” She shook her head. “Absolutely not possible.”
“How would you know?”
“Because…well…Tomas and I have met a few times.” She leant forward and quickly said, “Quite by accident.”
“And?”
“And that’s all. He spoke a little about Italy and how much he misses it, but he also said that he feels at home here.”
“Hmm…” Kitty said. “So, could it be true?”
“That the Contis are fascists? Why would people think that?”
“Well, for starters, his family waltzed in here and paid for the property—in full and in cash. They keep to themselves.”
“Tomas socializes quite happily.”
“Yes, well, he’s the exception.”
“I know he has a nonna.” Now it was Rosie’s turn to act all nonchalant by tucking a stray chunk of hair behind her ears.
“He has a nonna here?”
“Apparently.” She smiled, remembering Tomas comparing her to his nonna.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing!” Rosie stood and straightened her skirt. “I need to get going.”
“This doesn’t interest you at all? Aren’t you curious?”
&nbs
p; Rosie sat on the edge arm of the couch. “It’s not our business, though.”
“But it’s got you thinking, right?” Kitty looked like she was a detective about to crack a case.
“No.” It came out a little strongly. “Well, I guess…”
“Aha!” Kitty waggled her finger.
“Right, that’s it, I’m going home now.” Rosie bent over and kissed Isabelle on the forehead then walked past Kitty and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Try and get some sleep.”
“That’s like asking for it to snow.” Kitty fanned herself with her hand. “Is it just me or has the humidity been awfully stifling today?”
“It’s not just you.” Rosie picked up her purse and car keys. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”
Kitty nodded, but had already focused on the sleeping Isabelle. Rosie closed the front screen door quietly and made her way to the ute. A restlessness stirred within and the idea of going home and spending a night reading on the couch didn’t appeal. She could go to the pictures, but there was nothing on that took her fancy. Perhaps she just needed to stretch her legs on a walk through town. After all, it had been quite some time since she’d visited Piri River without having to rush in and rush out. Perhaps Mrs. Daw’s prize-winning bougainvillea had started to bloom, or Mr. Freeman had finished renovating his Queenslander and she could go and find out what color he’d chosen for the weatherboards.
Rosie left the ute parked out the front of Kitty’s and sauntered the three blocks to the main street. Although the sun had already set, the heat of the day had been trapped in the bitumen. The cicadas accompanied her as she stretched her aching legs and breathed in the aromas of evening meals in the houses she passed. Her stomach grumbled as she rounded the corner and neared Reg’s Pub, where the sound of laughter and men’s deep voices floated through the open windows.
No matter which way the picture was painted, not allowing women into a Public Bar spoke volumes about the lack of respect for women in this country. Not that she wanted to prop herself up against a bar and drink herself senseless, but Rosie wanted the freedom to have a shandy if she chose, and she didn’t need a man buying it for her.
Burning Fields Page 13
