by Judy Nunn
‘You must not hide yourself away, Pietro,’ the priest said. ‘It is not safe for you to be alone when you have your attacks, you could harm yourself.’
The priest was aware that he was not getting through to the boy, but then he had been unable to make an impression upon the boy since he’d first arrived. No matter, it was the parents’ trust he needed to ensure.
‘Come, Franco, join us,’ he said, and Franco sat at the table, sullen and hard-faced. ‘There is no sin in your son’s illness, my friend, you must believe me. And there is no shame in it either.’
Franco listened to the priest; it was the first time Father Brummer had ever called him ‘my friend’.
‘And Lucia,’ the priest said, turning to the wife, ‘you must not put the rag in the boy’s mouth, he could choke on it.’
‘But he bit his tongue once, Father, so badly that …’
‘Yes, yes, I know, but we must find something more suitable.’ The priest looked around the room and spied the wooden donkey. He crossed to it, pulling the strong, leather belt of its reins through the hole in the donkey’s mouth. ‘This would be excellent,’ he said. ‘Do you have a sharp knife, Franco?’
Franco went obediently to the bench in the corner and fetched his killing knife from the drawer.
‘You do not mind?’ the priest asked, doubling the end of the belt over, the knife poised beneath it.
‘No, Father.’
The priest sliced off a short section from the end of the belt, the sharply honed blade cutting through the thick leather with ease. ‘It is a fine knife, Franco,’ he said. Then he returned the knife to the drawer and brought the piece of leather to the table where Pietro remained sitting in silence, his mother beside him. He put it on the table. ‘When the boy has another fit, Lucia, you must place this between his teeth. And Pietro …’
The priest sat beside him, his face so close that Pietro could feel his breath. He didn’t look at him.
‘If you feel an attack coming upon you when you are alone, Pietro, this is what you must place in your mouth, do you understand?’
‘Answer Father Brummer!’ Franco snapped when the boy remained silent.
‘Yes, Father,’ Pietro said. ‘I will place the piece of leather in my mouth.’
‘Good. This is excellent.’ The priest stood and handed the leather strip to Franco. ‘Feed some string through the hole in the end, my friend, so that your son can wear it around his neck at all times. It is best to practise care, is it not?’
From that day onward, Pietro wore the piece of leather on a string around his neck, and over the next six weeks, in his secret hiding place, he used it. He had two more attacks in that time, both with very little warning. They came upon him more swiftly and ferociously than ever before and he barely had time to slither beneath the house and prepare himself. He blamed the priest. But the priest was right about the leather strap, he discovered. It was far more effective than the piece of rag, which he’d often found himself gagging on as he’d regained his senses.
Pietro now spent more time with the goats than he did at home with his family. The priest was always in the house, and he did not wish to keep company with him. He would rise early and milk the goats, tethering them one by one in the shelter among the trees down by the river, the warm, rubbery feel of their teats somehow comforting. Then he would carry the pail of milk back to the hut and put it on the bench where his mother would later prepare the cheese. He would breakfast with his family, his father ignoring him for the most part, and then he would leave before the priest awakened, returning to the goats.
The morning was cold, and Pietro hugged his coat about him as he carried the pail from the shelter. But despite the cold, the snow was dazzling in the sun’s early rays and he squinted from the glare; soon the spring thaw would come, he thought. Pietro prayed that the spring thaw would see the departure of the priest, although he knew that even if the priest left, things would never be the same.
He walked up from the river very slowly. He always carried the pail with care, but this time he walked more slowly than ever. He could feel the pulse throbbing in his temple and he wondered how much time he had before the fit would strike. They came on so quickly these days that he couldn’t risk taking the milk to the hut. He should have left the pail at the shelter. He set it down in the snow – he would come back for it later. He must get to his secret place.
He clambered up the bank, but, as he came into view of the rear of the hut, he could see his father with the priest. What was the priest doing up at this hour?
He circled around the trees as he made his way to the front steps and, sliding beneath them, he slithered on his belly to his hiding place, where he turned onto his back and waited.
His mother and Catie were preparing breakfast. He could see his mother’s old shoes, and Catie’s slippers that his father had made of goat hide, crossing to and from the table directly above him.
Several minutes passed. The tic in his left eye started, and he placed the strip of leather between his teeth. Then someone else entered the room. Pietro could see the shadow of another pair of shoes at the door. But they were not the boots of his father, and they did not thump as they crossed to his mother and sister who were laying the table together. They were the priest’s shoes, and they trod very softly. So softly that he could not hear them at all as they arrived beside the shoes of his mother.
Pietro’s jaw clenched and his eyes rolled back, and he heard and saw nothing more. He failed to hear the crash of the chair and the thud of the bodies as they fell to the floor. And he did not see the priest’s shoes cross quietly to his parents’ bedroom.
The priest moved quickly and purposefully. He took the peasant’s identity papers from the dresser where he knew the man kept them. He took his birth certificate and his marriage certificate too; he’d been prepared, he knew where everything was. He took the haversack from the peg behind the door and bundled some of the man’s clothes into it, then returned to the main room. Taking the knife from the table where he’d left it, he stepped over the bodies and crossed to the bench in the corner where he poured water from the jug into the basin. He washed the knife and put it into the haversack’s side pocket along with the papers, and the money that he poured out of the glass jar. From the larder, he packed a supply of bread, salted goat’s meat and cheese, and then he left. The whole exercise, including the killings, had taken only minutes. But then, he was an expert. There was only the boy to dispose of. He set off for the goat’s shelter down by the river.
Pietro could hear his name being called and he opened his eyes, unsure of where he was; it always took him several moments to recover his senses.
‘Pietro! Pietro! Pietro!’
The voice kept calling his name. He took the leather strap from his mouth, alarmed. He was under the house, he’d had a fit. The voice was nearby. Did they know he was here? Was that why they were calling him? But it was not his father calling him, he realised, it was the priest’s voice. He peered out from his hollow in the ground and saw the priest’s shoes. They were silhouetted in the light that shone through the front steps. Pietro lay back, very still. He could not leave his secret hiding place while the priest was standing on the steps.
‘Pietro! Pietro! Come here, my boy!’ the priest called. ‘Your father wishes to see you!’
Why was his father not calling for him himself? Pietro wondered. Something was wrong. Through his open coat, he could feel his shirt wet against his skin, and he knew it was not the sweat and drool that resulted from his fits. Something was dripping through the floorboards above. In the darkness, Pietro could not see what it was, but there was a sickly smell that he recognised. It was the smell of the goats when his father hung them up to bleed. He was drenched in blood.
Pietro lay in his shallow grave, unable to move, listening to the priest call out his name. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but it was long after the priest had stopped calling and all was silent that he finally crawled from be
neath the house. He walked up the two front steps and opened the door.
His mother and sister lay where the priest had left them, on the floor beside the table, their throats efficiently slashed with the killing knife. Just like the goats.
He ran, his mind numb, unwittingly heading for the river, and as he did, he tripped over the body of his father. There was a trail of blood on the snow where the priest had dragged it out of sight among the trees.
Pietro continued to run. He ran and he ran. Away from the horror. Away from the images his brain refused to recognise.
The fit did not last long, although to Lucky, watching, powerless, unable to help, it seemed interminable.
As Pietro came to his senses, he looked around vaguely, wondering why he was sitting in the snow, wet and uncomfortable. Someone had been calling his name. ‘Pietro! Pietro!’ Over and over. Then he realised he’d had a fit. Often when he emerged from a fit, it was to the sound of someone calling his name.
‘Pietro.’
The voice was concerned. Lucky was kneeling beside him. What was Lucky doing here?
‘Pietro, are you all right?’ he asked in Italian.
‘Yes. Yes, I am fine.’ He wasn’t, his head was splitting and he was exhausted, but he started to struggle to his feet.
‘No,’ Lucky stopped him, ‘rest for a minute. You’re still weak.’
‘I am sorry.’ Pietro looked away, mortified, aware that Lucky must have witnessed his attack.
‘Why? What do you have to be sorry about?’ When the boy still refused to meet his eyes, Lucky persisted, gently but firmly. ‘There is no crime in your epilepsy, Pietro, but we must do something about it.’
Pietro was startled. How did Lucky know about his epilepsy? Had he told him himself? He couldn’t remember. He remembered carrying a man out of the tunnel, but he could remember nothing after that.
‘We must take you to the doctor, we must seek help …’
‘No! No-one must know about my fits. You must swear to me, Lucky! You must promise to tell no-one. It must be my secret.’
‘Ssh, be still, be still.’ The boy was alarmed, and Lucky put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When Pietro had calmed down, he asked, ‘Why must no-one know? Why must it be a secret?’
Someone else had asked him those questions many years ago, Pietro recalled.
Why do you wish no-one to know, Pietro? Sister Anna Maria had asked. She had discovered him in his hiding place in the garden and she had witnessed his fit. She had called for the doctor and Pietro had admitted to the truth. Why have you kept it a secret? she’d asked when the doctor had gone.
Pietro had told her that his fits were a sin. They are shameful, he said. And when she’d asked him why he believed such a thing, he hadn’t been able to tell her.
Pietro no longer believed that his fits were a sin, but he could not eradicate the sense of shame he felt when he knew someone had witnessed them, much as he tried to convince himself it was merely embarrassment. Now, however, there was a reason far greater than embarrassment, or even shame, which dictated the need for secrecy. Here on the Snowy, where he was happier than he had been for as long as he could remember, it was of the utmost importance that no-one know of his illness.
‘They would not let me work,’ he said. ‘If they knew of the fits, they would not let me work on the Snowy.’ Lucky’s silent response was confirmation to Pietro, and an edge of desperation once again crept into his voice. ‘But I have not had a fit since I have been on the Snowy, I swear it, and I am a good worker, Lucky, you know I am.’
‘Yes, yes, Pietro, I know this.’ Lucky was in a quandary. The boy was quite right, he would be considered a safety hazard, and Lucky was already wondering where to place him on the team to ensure he was no risk to himself or others.
‘Promise me you will say nothing. Please, Lucky, I beg of you.’ Lucky’s silence was frightening.
‘I promise to say nothing on one condition …’
‘Yes?’ He would agree to anything.
‘That you will come with me to the doctor …’
Pietro’s hopes were dashed. He might as well announce his illness directly to his employers. ‘But the doctor would report me.’
‘We will not go to the doctor at Spring Hill,’ Lucky continued. ‘I will take you to see Maarten Vanpoucke in Cooma.’
Pietro had not met Doctor Vanpoucke, the Dutchman with whom Lucky played chess. Could Doctor Vanpoucke be trusted not to report his condition to the SMA?
‘Maarten has no ties with the Snowy Authority,’ Lucky assured him, aware of the reason for Pietro’s reluctance. ‘He never has – he came to Cooma before the Scheme was even started. There would be no report to Selmers or the SMA.’ When the boy still hesitated, he added firmly, ‘This is the condition for my silence, Pietro.’
Pietro nodded.
‘Good. I will speak to Maarten, and we’ll make an appointment for this Saturday. Now come,’ Lucky helped him to his feet, ‘we must get back to the others.’
Pietro saw that his clothing was drenched in blood, and he remembered the accident. ‘Karl,’ he said, concerned. ‘How is Karl?’
‘He has a bad leg wound, but he will live.’
‘That is good, I am glad.’ Pietro looked down again at the mess of his shirt. ‘He is very fortunate. Such a lot of blood.’
The following Saturday afternoon, Lucky and Pietro visited Karl in Cooma Hospital, after which Lucky had arranged for them to see Doctor Vanpoucke in his consultation rooms just a block away. Maarten Vanpoucke had been most obliging. ‘Saturday morning’s always busy,’ he’d told Lucky. ‘Best I see the boy after surgery hours when I can give him more time. Why don’t you bring him with you when you come to the house?’ The two men played chess every third Saturday afternoon. ‘I’ll examine him before I thrash you,’ he’d laughed.
Pietro sat by Karl’s bedside, the odd man out while Lucky and Karl conversed in German. Karl had been told that Pietro had carried him from the tunnel, and had thanked him profusely in his barely comprehensible English. Then he’d broken into German, as he and Lucky discussed the damage to his leg. It would be some time before he could report back to work, Karl said.
‘A severed tendon, they had to operate. And they tell me that I will walk with a limp.’ Karl shrugged philosophically; he was a tough little man. ‘Still, men have suffered far more than a limp, eh, Lucky?’ he remarked with characteristic irony. There was always a touch of cynicism about Karl, as if he wanted it known that he was one step ahead of whatever life had in store.
‘This is true,’ Lucky smiled, ‘you’ve a lot to be thankful for – things could have been far worse.’
Pietro was bored; he couldn’t understand a word of the men’s conversation. He was restless too, nervous about his meeting with Doctor Vanpoucke – he didn’t relish discussing his fits with anyone, least of all a stranger. He looked at his watch. Two whole hours before he was to meet Violetta.
Lucky caught his eye and signalled that he wouldn’t be long, and Pietro wandered out into the waiting room. Perhaps he’d get a coffee. His face lit up when he saw Maureen. She looked different, he thought, in her neat, white uniform. Not at all like the woman he’d previously met, homely and comfortable in her floppy trousers and big checked shirt. She was talking to a young nurse. Pietro wasn’t sure whether he should say hello. But she noticed him and waved, so he stood politely waiting, and, when she’d finished giving her instructions to the girl, she turned and greeted him warmly.
‘Pietro.’ She crossed to him and her handshake was energetic. Everything about Maureen was energetic. She was a positive woman, strong, practical and good-humoured, with a what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude. ‘You’re quite the hero, I believe. I heard all about Karl. You’ve come to see him, I take it?’
‘Yes, but his English, it is more bad than me. Lucky and Karl they speak German, so …’ He shrugged.
‘Well, why don’t we grab a cup of tea?’ she suggested. He looked lost, and in
a strange way Maureen felt responsible for Pietro. ‘I drove in today, so I’m early. I’m not actually on duty yet.’
She only drove to the hospital when she was on night shift, she told him as they made their way to the newly constructed canteen. Or when the weather was awful, and today was both. ‘Night shift and nasty,’ she said, ‘so I drove.’ Normally she walked. ‘My twenty-minute constitutional,’ she said, patting her sturdy frame and laughing. ‘Heavens above, I can certainly do with it.’
Pietro wasn’t sure what a ‘constitutional’ was but he laughed anyway, pleased to find that Maureen was as easygoing in her nurse’s uniform as she was in her floppy trousers.
‘We’ve been undergoing extensions for the past several years,’ Maureen told him as he followed her down the corridor. ‘Extra wards and nurses’ quarters.’ She didn’t explain that the ever-increasing stream of patients the hospital had to accommodate were mostly accident victims from the Snowy workforce.
‘And a canteen,’ she announced as they arrived at the sterile, spotlessly new room with its shiny Laminex-topped tables. ‘We’re rather proud of our canteen.’
They took their cups, her tea and his coffee, to a table in the corner.
‘Violet tells me you’re going to the pictures tonight.’
‘Yes. Marilyn Monroe. Violetta very much like Marilyn Monroe.’
‘She certainly does,’ Maureen agreed dryly, wondering if Pietro knew this would be the third time Violet had seen Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. She recalled how, when her niece had first come to stay, she’d asked her what she wanted to do with her life. The girl had appeared to have no idea; she didn’t want to be a grazier’s wife, she said, and she didn’t want to be a career woman either. ‘I’d like to be a film star like Marilyn Monroe,’ she’d said, and Maureen had had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t joking. Maureen worried about Violet.
‘I bet you’re a bit partial to Marilyn Monroe yourself, Pietro,’ she grinned, ‘most men are.’
