by Judy Nunn
‘I mean it. You look really, really beautiful.’
Violet’s smile was special, a sharing between two women, and while Peggy felt exposed, she couldn’t help but respond to the girl’s intimacy. She smiled back, then quickly returned her attention to the men, hoping they hadn’t noticed the exchange. They hadn’t: Lucky and Pietro were deep in conversation. Little Vi Campbell had certainly changed, Peggy thought, and it was more than the unexpected blossoming of her body. There was something eminently sexual about young Violet.
After dinner, the four of them retired to the main lounge where the real fun was about to begin. The bars had officially closed, in accordance with the law, but serious drinking continued in the lounge under the guise of a supper licence. Unwanted plates of cheese and biscuits and sandwiches were doled out with the alcohol, and a ‘cockatoo’ was placed on watch outside. If the warning sounded and a copper arrived on the scene, there must be no evidence of excessive drinking. Everything must appear to be in order, and every person must appear to be eating.
When they begin the beguine, it brings back the sound of music so tender …
It was Rita Duncan’s favourite song and she played it with feeling, even though she’d been at the keyboard for three hours solid with barely a break.
It had been a good night. Most of the patrons were happily inebriated, and there’d been no trouble. Bob Duncan and Peter Minogue had evicted one drunk who’d been intent on picking a fight. The man would happily have taken any potential contender out of the bar and into the street, but it would have presented a problem nonetheless. A fight in the street would attract the attention of the coppers, and that must be avoided at all costs. Fortunately no-one had taken him up on his offer.
Now, dozens were gathered around the piano singing along, and several couples were dancing. It was nearly midnight and the lounge would soon close.
Peggy and Lucky’s bodies were one as they moved to the rhythm of the music. They were excellent dancers, and quite evidently in love. Peggy no longer agonised over their relationship, openly admitting to herself that she loved him in a way she had never dreamed possible, and she didn’t care who else knew it. It wouldn’t last. She had no expectations – he had offered her none. But if Lucky was to be her one great affair, then she would enjoy it as much as she could. And, when it was over, she would get on with her life as efficiently as she always had. It was simple, she told herself. It was simple because it had to be.
As Violet swayed to the music, she watched Peggy and Lucky dance. She wished Pietro would hold her close like that, but he always avoided any contact from the waist down, and she knew why. The night of her attempted seduction remained clear in Violet’s mind. There had been no repetition of their passion – if anything, that night had doused his ardour altogether. Pietro kept her virtually at arm’s length these days, he no longer even opened his mouth when he kissed her, and Violet was becoming very frustrated. She knew that she loved him – he was her romantic ideal, the man she’d dreamed of – but she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to marry. Not just yet. There was one thing she was sure of, though. She wanted him to make love to her. She tried to edge her body a little closer as they danced.
Pietro felt her hand move from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and he felt her groin ease closer to his. He twirled her quickly in time to the music – he was a good dancer and she wasn’t, so it was easy for him to avoid the connection. There must be no connection, he had told himself. Not until they were married. And for that he must see her father. The time was right, Pietro had decided, and he intended telling Maureen so. He would go and see Maureen tomorrow at her house before he left for Spring Hill, and if Maureen did not agree to present his case as she had promised, then Pietro would do so himself.
Till you whisper to me once more, darling, I love you and we suddenly know what heaven we’re in …
As she played, Rita Duncan looked at the couples dancing. They were so in love, she thought. And they were dancing to ‘Begin the Beguine’. How perfect. Rita was an incurable romantic.
‘Cam Campbell, what a pleasant surprise! What brings you to town?’
It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? Cam thought – he’d just stepped out of Learmont’s Menswear with a load of shirts tucked under his arm. ‘Bit of shopping,’ he said. What business was it of hers anyway? But he smiled in his customary amiable fashion. ‘How are you, Mavis?’ he asked, preparing himself for the inevitable fifteen-minute monologue – God, but the woman could talk. He usually tried to avoid Mavis when he saw her in the street.
‘Any fitter and I’d be dangerous,’ Mavis said. Her thin face wreathed into a smile and she gave a girlish laugh, her form of innocent flirtation. She liked Cam Campbell, such a man’s man and she wished her Brian was a bit more like him. ‘I’ve just come from a P & A meeting,’ she continued, ‘and your name came up again. We could do with you back on the committee, Cam, you’re sorely missed.’
Cam had lasted all of six months on the Pastoral and Agricultural Association’s Committee, and it had been a whole year ago, but Mavis said the same thing every time she managed to corner him.
‘Too busy, Mavis.’ His reply was always the same too.
‘Yes, I know, such a pity, but you won’t stop me from trying, you know – we need men like you on the committee.’ She changed subjects without drawing a breath; it was a talent of Mavis’s. ‘I saw Vi on Saturday. Well, of course I see her all the time, I’m in Hallidays nearly every day of the week. She’s turned into such a pretty girl, hasn’t she?’ The question was rhetorical and she sailed on, ‘But when I saw her on Saturday night, all dressed up, I must say I was most impressed. She and her young man make a lovely couple.’
Young man? What young man? Cam thought, but he said nothing. Mavis was a garrulous fool of a woman, but she was also a gossip-monger who liked to cause trouble. He waited for her to go on.
‘I’ve seen them quite often around town, they’ve been going out together for some time now, I take it?’ This time the question was not rhetorical, and Mavis looked at him with feigned innocence, awaiting his answer. She was dying to find out if Cam knew about his daughter and the Italian. But Cam’s face was unreadable.
‘Yes, I believe they have,’ he replied. He was damned if he’d give the interfering cow the satisfaction of knowing that she’d dropped a bombshell. ‘Vi’s eighteen now, Mavis. I trust her, and I don’t meddle in her life.’
‘Of course, and so you shouldn’t.’ He knew, and he approved, Mavis thought. Well, fancy that. But then Cam Campbell had accepted the foreigners right from the start. She decided that flattery was the best tactic. ‘I must say, Cam, I admire your open-mindedness. Of course I’ve always believed, like you, that we should welcome the migrants into the area,’ she added, although she didn’t believe anything of the sort, ‘but to welcome them into one’s family, so to speak … well, you’re certainly living up to your principles …’
Mavis knew she’d gone too far. Her flattery had backfired on her, the man looked angry. She’d offended him. ‘I’m not being critical, I know you believe that all men are equals, and I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I can’t help feeling … and perhaps it’s wrong of me, that …’
‘Yes, Mavis. It’s wrong of you.’
He walked off and Mavis was left feeling most put out. She’d been trying to be helpful. If he hadn’t known about his daughter, then it was high time someone told him, she’d thought. And if he had known, as it appeared he did, then she’d been prepared to be malleable. If he’d been upset, she’d have commiserated with him; as he wasn’t, she’d flattered him. And it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t win.
Cam dumped his shirts into the back of his Holden ute and strode off towards Hallidays. His daughter going out with a bloody foreigner? Over my dead body, he thought.
‘G’day, Cam, haven’t seen you for a while.’
Frank Halliday was seated beside the windows. It was Monday and Frank was taking an inventor
y following the busy weekend.
‘G’day, Frank.’ Cam propped himself casually in the open doorway; he could see his daughter further down the counter, stacking tins on the shelves. ‘How’s business?’ He had no intention of creating a scene in front of the shopkeeper, or anyone else for that matter.
‘Can’t complain. You after Vi?’
‘Yes, if you could spare her for a sec.’
‘Take your time, we’re not busy. Hey Vi,’ Frank called, ‘your dad’s here.’
Violet’s face lit up in a smile as she turned. ‘Dad!’ She dumped her armload of tinned tomatoes, circled the counter and ran to him. ‘I didn’t know you were in town,’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him.
‘I was going to call around the house later and surprise you and your auntie.’ Cam returned the embrace, briefly and uncomfortably. She was too old to hug him like that, particularly in public.
Violet, aware of his self-consciousness, broke away. In the instinctive pleasure of seeing her father, she’d forgotten for a moment that things had changed. She wished they hadn’t. She wished her father would still hug her the way he used to.
‘That’d be beaut,’ she said brightly. ‘Can you stay for tea? Auntie Maureen’ll be home by four, she was on the early shift today.’
‘We’ll see. Do you want to pop out for a cuppa?’
Violet looked at Frank Halliday.
‘Go on with your dad, Vi,’ Frank nodded, and she quickly ducked back behind the counter to collect her handbag – Violet never went anywhere without her lipstick and comb.
‘Like I said, Cam, take your time,’ the shopkeeper added. ‘We’re never busy on Mondays.’
‘Thanks, Frank, most appreciated.’ Cam smiled, and he and Violet stepped out into the street. But the moment they were outside, his smile disappeared, and he took his daughter by the arm and started walking her briskly in the direction of the Holden.
‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ she asked, but she’d already guessed. Her father had heard about Pietro.
Cam said nothing until they arrived at the ute. He opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ he said.
‘I thought we were going for a cuppa.’
‘I want to talk to you, Vi.’
‘We can talk over a cup of …’
‘Privately. Get in.’
Violet did as she was told, and her father slammed the ute door a little harder than was necessary. He was furious, she thought. But she wasn’t going to let him frighten her, she decided. She’d done nothing wrong.
Cam drove across the creek and out of town, away from the eyes of passers-by, and stopped the ute by the side of the road and turned to her.
‘Right. Now tell me about this bloke you’re going out with.’
She looked him square in the eyes. ‘His name is Pietro,’ she said. ‘Pietro Toscanini.’
A Dago, he thought. My daughter’s going out with a bloody Dago. But he controlled himself, as any good, responsible father would. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘Five months.’
A whole five months! Jesus Christ, he’d kill the Wop bastard. ‘And why wasn’t I told?’
‘I haven’t seen you since the Show, you haven’t been into town …’
‘There’s such a thing as the telephone, Violet, you could have rung your mother and me.’
She turned away and gazed rebelliously out the window. Although she liked others to call her Violet, she hated it when her father did so – it meant she was about to get a lecture. Well at least he was only mad because she hadn’t told him she had a boyfriend, she thought, he didn’t seem to mind that Pietro was Italian. She’d worried that, for all his talk, he might not be as broadminded as he professed when it came to his own daughter.
Cam was infuriated by her silence. How dare she ignore him and stare out the window. ‘Look at me, girl.’
She did. And her look was cold. ‘Girl’ was far worse than ‘Violet’. She hated him calling her ‘girl’ more than anything.
‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘Nothing. What is there to say?’
Cam was uneasy; she wasn’t behaving like his little girl. Vi would normally protest, ‘Don’t be mad at me, Dad, I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Her self-composure worried him, she seemed too grown up. Did it mean she was sleeping with the boy? His baby girl and a Dago Wog bastard, he was sickened by the thought.
‘How far’s it gone?’ His tone was gruff, and the question sounded blunt, tasteless, but he didn’t know how else to ask it.
‘I’m not sleeping with him, if that’s what you mean.’ Violet could see the relief in her father’s eyes and she would have liked to have added, ‘but I want to.’ Just to shock him. But she didn’t.
‘Of course you’re not, I didn’t think for a minute you were,’ he said. ‘I trust you, Vi.’ He started the ute. End of conversation. ‘But you’re not to see him any more, you hear me?’
‘Why?’ Perhaps she’d been right after all, Violet thought. ‘Because he’s Italian?’
‘Of course not. You’re too young, that’s all.’ Cam checked the rear vision mirror and did a u-turn.
‘We love each other, Dad. He wants to marry me.’
There, she’d said it. And she’d well and truly got his attention now, she thought as the ute slowed to a halt.
Cam turned off the engine. Then he sat and waited, his face giving away nothing.
‘Pietro’s been wanting to ask your permission for ages, but Auntie Maureen thought it was best to wait until we were sure.’
‘Oh yes?’ Maureen, he thought. Bloody Maureen. He should have known better than to leave his baby girl in the care of bloody Maureen. She’d messed up her own life and now she was going to mess up his daughter’s. Well, bugger that. ‘And you’re sure now, are you?’ he asked, studying her carefully. Something wasn’t quite right, he thought, there was too much bravado about her, as if she were trying to shock him, and convince herself at the same time.
Violet’s answer was strangely indirect. ‘Pietro came to see Auntie Maureen yesterday,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t there, but they talked, and Auntie Maureen promised that she’d go out home and see you.’
‘Did she?’ Bloody Maureen and the Dago prick appeared to have it all figured out, he thought. God alone knew why. ‘And you wanted her to come out home and see me, did you?’ Cam kept his voice steady, though he’d have liked to strangle his sister: why hadn’t Maureen just told the Dago to piss off? ‘You want to marry this bloke, is that it?’
Auntie Maureen had asked her the very same question, Violet thought. She hadn’t really been sure of the answer then, and she wasn’t sure now, but her reply was the same.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Cam continued to study his daughter. She looked vulnerable. Lost and uncertain. She wasn’t sure of herself at all, he thought, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been worrying about nothing. It was a bloody joke, the whole thing. Romantic bullshit. The girl went to the pictures too much, that was the problem.
‘Don’t you worry, baby girl.’ He put his arm fondly around her, uninhibited this time, and for a moment he held her close. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, we’ll sort this out.’ Then he started up the ute.
He hadn’t called her ‘baby girl’ for a very long time, and he hadn’t cuddled her like that either. Comforting as she’d found it, and relieved as she was to have avoided his anger, Violet sensed that things hadn’t gone quite according to plan. Her father was treating her like a child, he wasn’t taking her seriously.
‘I love Pietro, Dad,’ she said. She’d said the same thing to Auntie Maureen when Auntie Maureen had told her she had only two options.
‘Marry him, or stop seeing him, Violet, it’s that simple.’ Her aunt had spelled it out bluntly. ‘Make up your mind.’
‘I love him,’ she’d said. And, without insisting on any further discussion, Auntie Maureen had nodded knowingly. Something had passed
between them, Violet had thought, and she’d been grateful for her aunt’s understanding.
Cam glanced affectionately at his daughter. She was just a kid, he thought. ‘Of course you do, baby girl, but don’t you worry, I’ll have a chat to your boyfriend and Auntie Maureen, we’ll sort things out.’
They’d sort things out all right, he thought. He wanted to kill his bloody sister, and he wanted to kill the fucking Dago too. They’d given him one hell of a scare there for a minute.
He dropped Violet back at the store. ‘See you later, love,’ he said as she climbed out of the ute. He’d go to the Billiards Club, he decided, and while away the time with some of the blokes until Maureen got home from the hospital. Four o’clock, Violet had said.
She was about to ask him if he was going to come home for tea, but the ute pulled out from the kerb. ‘Bye, Dad,’ she called instead, and he waved at her through the open window.
Violet stood in the street and watched as the Holden drove off. She expected to see it turn left into Vale Street, on its way to the hospital only a couple of minutes’ drive up the hill. But it turned right instead. There was time for her to warn Auntie Maureen. She ferreted about in her purse for some coins and walked to the public phone box just down the street. Mr Halliday didn’t mind his staff using the store’s telephone so long as they were brief, but Violet didn’t want anyone overhearing.
‘Dad’s in town,’ she said when Maureen’s voice came on the line, ‘and he knows about Pietro.’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Ah well,’ Maureen said in her practical fashion, ‘it’ll save me a trip out there. What did you tell him?’
‘That Pietro wants to marry me.’
‘And what was his reaction?’
‘He didn’t get mad. But he didn’t seem to take me seriously, Auntie Maureen. He said he’d sort things out with you, so I thought I’d ring before he turned up at the hospital.’
