Burning Fields

by Alli Sinclair

  Rosie could easily have fumed, instead she chose to take the path of empathy. He’d grown up in a world where women had their place and men had theirs and ne’er the twain should meet. Her parents were a product of their generation. As much as Rosie wanted to be angry and blame her father for his ridiculous beliefs, she couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t blame Rosie for hers.

  None of this counted right now, though, because Tulpil was slipping from their grip.

  Chapter 30

  Rosie stood in the kitchen, staring out the windows. The bougainvillea had been trimmed and the fruit picked off the trees, but none of this made any difference to the ghostly atmosphere of Tulpil. The usual boisterous chatter of the workmen had dwindled to the odd conversation between Sefa and Alex. When she could, Rosie went into the field to help.

  Rosie cut up the custard apple, wishing she wasn’t part of a continuing lie—or omission as her father preferred to call it—though she could see the short-term benefit of keeping her mother in the dark. Confronting a past she’d buried for so long had taken its toll and Rosie worried that the slightest thing could send her deeper into the well of despair. Brandy fumes permanently wafted after her. And, despite their best efforts, Rosie and Alex, had been unable to find the hiding spots for alcohol.

  Rosie glanced up at the clock. Two-fifteen. If she hurried, she would catch Minister Jack before he took Bible class. Last time she’d seen him, the discovery of her parents wedding dates had thrown her off her original trail: to speak to Jack about how to best help her mother through the darkness. This time, she wouldn’t get waylaid. Plus, while she had Jack’s attention, she could talk to him about her idea to help disadvantaged women and children. She had no doubt he’d say yes to using the church hall as a meeting place where women could share a cup of tea, make connections, and have the chance to build a village of like-minded souls.

  The phone in the hallway rang and Rosie ran to answer it before it woke her mother.

  “Hello?” she whispered.

  “Connecting you now,” said Lorraine.

  “Rosie!” Kitty squealed down the line. “William’s found out where Bartel is!”

  “What?” The receiver almost dropped from her hand. “How? Where?”

  “A few hours north of Cooktown.”

  Rosie slumped against the wall. “That’s miles away. How did William track him down?”

  “Remember Lachlan Boyd?”

  “He worked with William for a while, right?” Could this truly be happening? At the eleventh hour they might finally find the man who pushed them toward financial ruin?

  “That’s him. Anyway, William cast the net wide, as we all did, and Lachlan called only a few minutes ago and said this man sounded very much like Bartel.”

  “I need to see him,” she said.

  “What? Are you crazy? Let the police do their work.”

  Her friend had good reason, but Rosie had an even better reason not to get the police involved. “If I find Bartel and, if by miracle, he has some of the money left, I can do a deal with him. We could take whatever money he has in exchange for letting him go.”

  “He’s a criminal, Rosie…”

  “He’s a man with a gambling habit that drove him to do something incredibly stupid. What he did was wrong—on so many levels—but I would say the guilt he’s suffered from double-crossing us has been eating away at him. He worked for us for almost a decade, for god’s sake. I would like to think I have a good handle on what makes him tick.”

  “Leave it to the police.” Kitty’s firm tone felt like she’d reached down the phone and grabbed Rosie by the collar.

  “I’m not leaving it to the police because if they arrest him and he still has some money, it will be tied up as evidence until he goes to trial, if it gets that far. Or he may have hidden it and won’t tell the police where it is because it would incriminate him. If I find him, however, I can hold an arrest over his head if he doesn’t hand back the money.”

  A small laugh escaped Kitty’s lips. “You’ve come up with all this just now? You should be a detective.”

  “Ha! I don’t know about that. Let’s see how this goes.”

  “There’s no point in begging you not to go, because I won’t change your mind. Promise me you’ll take someone with you? Maybe William—”

  “No, he can’t afford to take time off work. Besides, I don’t want you left alone.” Her father wouldn’t cope with the trip and the emotional turmoil of seeing Bartel could set him back. And Alex needed to be around to try and figure out how they could get the workers back. “You know me, I’ll figure it out.”

  * * * *

  Rosie rapped on the door of Il Sunnu and waited for someone to answer. Short, light steps echoed down the hallway and out of the darkness arrived Nonna, her smile large, her eyes sparkling.

  “Rosalie!” She opened the door and grabbed Rosie’s hand, leading her straight to the kitchen and depositing Rosie on a chair. Nonna started preparing coffee. “Let me fix you something.”

  “Grazie, Nonna, but I need to find Tomas.”

  Nonna stopped what she was doing. “What is wrong?”

  “I just need his help, but it may take him away for a day or two.”

  Nonna waggled her finger. “I hope you are not up to no good.”

  “It is entirely aboveboard.” Sort of.

  Nonna tilted her head to the side and crossed her arms. “He is finishing for the day. You will find him near the shed.”

  “Grazie.” She stood and walked toward the back door.

  “Rosie.” Nonna got up and clasped her hands around Rosie’s. “Be careful with my boy. He is in a bad mood.”

  “Why?”

  Nonna shrugged. “He tells me nothing.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” She exited the house and headed straight toward the shed. Rosie took a little extra time walking through Nonna’s rose garden, enjoying the rainbow of yellows, pinks, oranges and reds. The scents were divine and she wished she had enough time to stand amongst the blooms and take it all in. In the distance, she could hear the familiar thump of metal against cane and the occasional conversation of Tomas’s men.

  It only brought home how desperately quiet Tulpil was now.

  Her boots crunched the gravel as she walked and tried to get everything straight in her head. The idea could easily sound preposterous if she didn’t deliver it properly, especially if Tomas wasn’t in a mood to deal with dramas outside his own family. Although in the week she’d spent at Il Sunnu, she and Tomas had grown even closer. Perhaps a visit from her might soothe his nerves.

  Picking up pace, Rosie reached the shed where Tomas stood with a clipboard in hand as he took an inventory. Even from this distance, she could see his deep frown as he muttered to himself and scribbled furiously.

  “Tomas,” she said quietly. They had seen each other yesterday, yet it felt like a lifetime ago.

  He remained focused on the clipboard, his pen digging into the paper.

  “Tomas.” This time a little louder.

  “What?” He spun around, his expression one of annoyance.

  “Hey! You don’t need to bite my head off!” She should have paid more attention to Nonna’s warning.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled then threw the clipboard onto the workbench. He walked toward her then stopped, leaving a considerable distance between them.

  Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

  “Not now, Rosalie.”

  “But—”

  “Please, not now.”

  “But—”

  “Rosalie!” Tomas grabbed the hair at his temples. “It is not a good time to talk.”

  “When then?”

  “I don’t know.” Tomas went over and picked up the clipboard, immersing himself in paperwork once more. I
t didn’t escape Rosie that her father often did something similar.

  Annoyance surged through her. Who was he to treat her like this? She deserved much better and he needed to know.

  “I’m not going until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s nothing.” He remained hunched over the clipboard.

  “It is definitely not nothing. I’ll help in any way I can. However, I can’t do that unless you talk to me.” An idea struck her and she thought it was gold. “Why don’t we do our walk and talk? We haven’t done that this week. I miss it.”

  When he looked at her, his expression was apologetic, his tone soft. “Rosalie, this is not something you can help me with. No one can. It is best if you stay away from me. You have your own problems to work out and so do I.”

  “Does this have something to do with that man who was here?”

  “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” He shook his head sadly.

  “Who was he?”

  “Rosalie, please. I cannot answer this.”

  “You can answer but you choose not to. Listen, the last two times we’ve seen each other you’ve spoken to me in a manner that is far from affectionate.”

  “Which is why it is best we do not see each other. I have many problems to fix and I am not nice to be around. For this, I am sorry.”

  “Talk to me, Tomas.” She was on the verge of begging and had to stop herself.

  “I have to go.” Tomas hung his head and ran a hand across the back of his neck as his long strides took him toward the house.

  Rosie stayed where she was, refusing to run after someone who had made it abundantly clear they were not going to talk.

  Rosie went into the rose garden and inhaled deeply, hoping the sweet perfume of the roses would bring some calmness. It didn’t work. She balled her fists. She didn’t need the likes of Tomas Conti. She was her own person and could stand on her own two feet.

  Although it would be nice to have Tomas by her side….

  Nope. If Tomas chose to push her away she would go with her dignity intact and head held high.

  If only the hurt would disappear.

  * * * *

  Unable to stand being at Tulpil and tormented by the clear view of Il Sunnu, Rosie had jumped in the ute and taken off into town to find Sergeant Gavin. It had been foolish to think she could confront Bartel and demand money, and it had been even more foolish to think Bartel would actually have anything left in the coffers. The sergeant had made a few calls and promised he’d get back to Rosie the second his people in Cooktown found Bartel. She just hoped they weren’t too late.

  Not ready to go home, Rosie drove toward Minister Jack’s. Taking a right down the main street toward the church, Rosie noticed someone similar in stature to the man who had visited Tomas the day before.

  “No way,” she said under her breath as she pulled over and watched him from afar.

  He stood in front of the Fitzpatrick’s art deco cinema and tipped his hat at passersby, his smile wide, his dark eyes friendly. Women in pairs nodded as they passed him, then broke into laughter at whatever he said as they continued on their way.

  Rosie exited the ute and shut the door. She studied him for a little longer before crossing the street and walking over to him. He tipped his hat, his smile broad. A moment later that smile faded and his eyes narrowed.

  “You the girlfriend of Conti?”

  How to answer that? After today’s events, she had no idea.

  “He’s my neighbor,” she finally said.

  “You know he is fascist? He love the Mussolini. All his family love the Mussolini.”

  That was rather straight to the point.

  “Mussolini died three years ago.” Rosie didn’t like this topic of conversation, especially given the reaction she’d received in the past when mentioning the rumors to Tomas. “Anyway, even if Tomas Conti was a Mussolini supporter—which I know he wasn’t—what does this have to do with me?”

  He stared at her, his eyes unblinking.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am someone from his past who has come to right the wrongs he has committed. He is a liar. He is a murderer and he will suffer.”

  Rosie’s belly turned.

  “He kill my sister.”

  “You’re Rachel’s brother?” Had he really tracked Tomas down all the way from Sicily? Or was he an immigrant who had managed to find Tomas through the grapevine?

  “I am Bruno Abato. You know of me?”

  “All I know is Rachel had a brother and Tomas has never forgiven himself for letting you down.”

  Bruno let out a laugh laced with cynicism. “He is of a cold heart. Tomas Conti is a traitor.”

  She heard his words but didn’t give them any weight. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because he ruined the life of my sister and also of me. The famiglia Conti are liars. Fascists. They take their money from the people of Sicily and they come here. Tomas Conti betray me. He take my future.”

  “Even if this were true, what am I supposed to do about it?”

  “You tell the people of this town. I am new here, they not believe me but you are the daughter of a family who live here long time, no? The people, they have respect for you. They believe you. Then the Contis, they have no choice. They leave. They lose everything.”

  Rosie drew her lips together. “How would you know if I’ve been here a long time? I could have arrived last week.”

  “You are Rosie Stanton, no?”

  “What? You’ve been spying on me?” The shock sent shivers down her arms. “I need to go.”

  Rosie spun on her heels and took a few steps, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Let go!” Rosie shook free and ran. Abato was on her tail.

  She picked up her pace and a moment later, she heard a set of feet gain on her. Spinning to face him, she said, “Seriously, leave me alone!”

  Abato pulled a large piece of paper out of his jacket and shoved it in her face.

  She should have kept running.

  She should have run to Kitty’s and locked herself away.

  She should have done many things, but the one thing Rosie shouldn’t have done was look at the photograph.

  Chapter 31

  Rosie’s first reaction to the photo was one of disbelief. She stood on the footpath of the main street, gasping for air and staring at an image of Tomas standing with a bunch of men. They all wore black shirts—the uniform of Mussolini’s militia.

  The muscles across her shoulders and neck tensed. Her heart beat rapidly.

  In the image, Tomas leant over a large table covered in paper as he looked directly into the camera. She couldn’t work out what the insignias meant on the shirts of the men next to Tomas, but judging by how many stripes they had, they must have been ranked highly.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. “It has to be a fake.”

  “Oh no,” said Bruno, “it is no falsehood.”

  She had to play this down because too much interest would only cause Bruno Abato to hassle her even more. “The past is the past. Australians are not interested in whether someone is a fascist.”

  As much as she wanted to believe her own words, she wasn’t so sure how much truth was behind them. Even now, Italians suffered the barbs of people blaming them for Mussolini’s actions, no matter the beliefs of the Italian in question. Ken Ridley was a classic example of someone who could not leave the past behind and preferred to create a future full of hate.

  Pretending to Abato that she didn’t care would at least buy her some time until she got to Tomas and asked for an explanation. Surely she should give him the benefit of the doubt. Although what the hell was Tomas doing with a bunch of Blackshirts? He didn’t look under duress in the photo; in fact, he appeared relatively calm.

  Turning, sh
e made an attempt to go but halted when Bruno said, “He leave me for dead.”

  “Tomas would never do that.”

  “You think he is good man?” Bruno shoved the photo near her face. “Look! Look at Tomas Conti, a fascist with the men of Mussolini! He kill many people. Innocent people. The Tomas Conti you know is not the real man!” Bruno’s voice carried down the street and the young mothers he’d been so friendly to now looked at him with displeasure. They quickly moved around the corner and out of view. “Look!”

  Once again he shoved the photo in her face and, as much as she wanted to deny it, the image didn’t lie.

  Rosie’s lungs couldn’t fill with air. Tomas had told her he was a partisan. That he’d fought against a government that treated a majority of their people as second-class citizens. That he’d done what was needed in order to get the desired result. Not once did Tomas ever mention that he had swapped allegiances and sided with Mussolini. The photo, however, told an entirely different story.

  * * * *

  Rosie sped to Il Sunnu, her head a crazy mess. When the pristine Queenslander came into view, she slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. How on earth would she broach this subject?

  There was only one way.

  Turning the steering wheel, Rosie put her foot down as the ute climbed the hill leading to Il Sunnu. Inside a minute she’d parked and found herself at the front door, rapping on it anxiously.

  “Rosalie!” came Nonna’s voice from the darkness.

  “Is Tomas here?” She shouldn’t be so abrupt, but Rosie didn’t have the patience for pleasantries right now.

  Nonna pushed open the screen door, her large eyes staring up at Rosie. “He has gone to help the Clarks.” Nonna motioned for her to come inside. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t stay, but thank you all the same.” She turned to go, then stopped and faced Nonna again. “I need to tell you something. It’s about a man who visited here.”

  “That no good lout, Abato?” Nonna asked. Normally Rosie would have smiled at Nonna’s excellent use of Australian slang but not today. Perhaps Rosie was rubbing off on Nonna as much as Nonna was rubbing off on her.