Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  Pete had deserted her, and Ada knew it. Nothing could be gained by trying to deny the truth.

  Caroline dried Ada’s tears and stayed with her for another hour, ignoring the pains which were becoming more insistent. She stroked her friend’s hand until, exhausted, Ada dozed off.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ came a voice from behind the curtains.

  Gene, oh hell, she’d forgotten he was waiting in the car.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she whispered as she parted the curtains. But he wasn’t in the least cross. Gene had the patience of a saint.

  ‘She all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Asleep,’ Caroline nodded. Then, out in the corridor, away from the prying eyes of the hysterectomies and the prolapsed bladders, she said, ‘I think I’m about to have a baby.’

  It became Gene’s proud boast over the years. ‘Caroline’s perfect timing,’ he called it. ‘The gynaecological ward of a hospital, that’s where she chose to go into labour.’

  It was an easy birth with no complications, and just as Caroline had predicted, it was a girl. They called her Emma.

  One month later, Gene left for Melbourne. Excited as he was at the prospect of his new job, he was loath to leave Caroline and the baby.

  ‘It’ll only be for a couple of months, love,’ she said as she helped him pack. ‘You get things all set up for us and we’ll be there before you know it.’ They’d agreed that she’d join him when Emma was three months old.

  She waved goodbye to him at Central Railway Station as the train pulled out. The three of them were there to see him off, Caroline, Emma and Kathleen. Gene leaned from the window and watched them for as long as he could.

  ‘You’ve got a bloody hide.’ It was six weeks later and Pete had come back.

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Caroline?’ The American was dishevelled, and he seemed in a state of shock. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Ada? I went to her house and her brother Brian threw me out into the street. He said if I came back he’d kill me.’

  ‘You’re lucky he didn’t.’

  ‘But why?’ Pete begged. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Caroline didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Ada had an abortion, it nearly killed her.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Pete whispered, ‘oh Jesus.’

  ‘So now you know why her brother chucked you into the street.’ Caroline made to close the front door in his face, but Pete’s hand flashed out.

  ‘I had no idea, I swear it,’ he pushed heavily against the door, it was impossible for Caroline to close it. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’

  ‘She probably didn’t know herself,’ Caroline’s voice was scathing, ‘it takes a while for a woman to know she’s pregnant. But I’ll tell you something, Pete,’ she said with the full weight of accusal, ‘Ada would never have got rid of that baby if she’d thought you were coming back. Now let me close the door.’

  ‘No,’ he refused, ‘where is she? I’m not leaving until you tell me where she is.’

  Pete recalled Norm’s words at the Bird house. Uncharacteristically sober, Norm had screamed through the window, ‘Bugger off you bastard, she’s not here!’ Norm of all people, he’d thought briefly, he’d always been pals with Norm. Then he’d been thrown into the street.

  ‘Have they sent her somewhere?’ Pete was becoming desperate. ‘Where? You have to tell me, Caroline!’ he begged. ‘Please!’

  ‘Why did you do it, Pete?’ She stopped resisting and allowed the door to swing open. ‘Why did you lie to her? Why did you tell her you had to go to America to be demobbed?’

  ‘I thought it was the only way.’ So he was admitting to the lie, Caroline thought, that was a start. ‘I never would have told her that if I’d known she was pregnant.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said grudgingly, thankful that Kathleen was out shopping and she had the house to herself.

  They sat in the front room—only friends were invited into the kitchen—and she rocked Emma in her cradle whilst Pete told his story.

  There’d been a lot of lies, he admitted. In fact just about everything he’d told Ada had been a lie. Except for the fact that he loved her. He came from North Carolina, it was true, but his parents didn’t own a property there, and he didn’t come from a large family as he’d said he did. The truth was he had neither parents nor family to speak of. Just a grandmother who’d begrudgingly brought up her daughter’s illegitimate son.

  ‘She did the right thing as she saw it in God’s eyes,’ he said. ‘She was a religious woman and it was her duty, but she couldn’t wait for me to leave home. So I did. When I was fifteen. I haven’t seen her since. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Which is wrong of me, I guess. I owe her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Ada all this?’

  ‘I wanted her to like me,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sound interesting. That’s how it started anyway.’ He looked bewildered, he wasn’t quite sure himself how it had happened. ‘Then it kind of got out of hand. I was so crazy about her I said just about anything to get her to marry me.’

  ‘Like a big white family wedding on your parents’ ranch in North Carolina?’

  He nodded miserably.

  ‘You’re a fool, Pete.’ A bloody fool, Caroline thought. Ada would have married you in a backyard dunny, you stupid, stupid man.

  ‘I know. Then I started to worry that maybe she was only marrying me to come to America and live on the ranch and all that.’ He picked nervously at his thumbnail. ‘I didn’t know what to do. So I figured I’d go home and sort everything out, and then I’d come back and …’ He tailed off lamely.

  ‘And then you’d tell her you wanted to get married here and settle in Sydney instead,’ she finished for him.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘And then of course you’d have the ready-made big family you wanted, young Betsy mad about you, old Norm thinking you’re the bee’s knees,’ Caroline sounded brutal, the man was pathetic, ‘and naturally you’d be able to talk the brothers around once you were married.’

  There was a large element of truth in what Caroline was saying and Pete knew it. He ached to be a part of a big family, a family just like the Birds. But she was making it sound as if he’d used Ada. And that wasn’t true.

  He stopped picking at his thumbnail. ‘I love Ada, Caroline,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve done everything wrong, but I love her, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Where are all your belongings?’ Caroline asked after a pause. ‘All the stuff you brought with you to settle in Sydney?’

  Pete answered miserably, ‘There’s not much, it’s in storage at Central Railway.’

  ‘Well I suggest you leave it there when you get the train to Bowral.’ He stared at her, hardly daring to hope. ‘She’s at Bowral, staying with her married sister.

  ‘Good luck, Pete,’ Caroline said at the door as she handed him the address she’d written on a piece of paper. ‘I don’t know if she’ll take you back.’ She would, Caroline knew it, but let him suffer a bit longer. ‘Just tell her the truth and see what happens.’

  She must be getting old, Kathleen thought, she never cried. Well, she was old, wasn’t she, she should be allowed to cry if she wanted to, and she sure as hell wanted to. But it wasn’t fair on Caroline, so she mopped up the stray tear as she heaved the old suitcase from the back of the wardrobe. She lifted out the book, pulled herself together, and went downstairs with it clutched to her chest.

  ‘You must have this,’ she said, placing Hannah’s journal on the kitchen table.

  ‘What a beautiful thing,’ Caroline exclaimed, running her fingers over the old leather. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My grandmother’s diary,’ Kathleen said, opening the cover. ‘You must make your first entry.’

  As Kathleen bustled off to find a pen, Caroline traced with her finger the names and dates on the flyleaf page. There was the neat copperplate writing of young Hannah Kendall. ‘This journal is the property of Hannah Kendall,’ Caroline read to herself, ‘given her b
y her mother, Emily, on her sixteenth birthday, the 13th of April in this year of 1831.’

  Then below Hannah’s writing, in the childish scrawl of a seven-year-old, was ‘Kathleen O’Shea, 1 October, 1882.’ Below that, the dates of the birth and the death of her own father. ‘Robert Daniel O’Shea’ it said, with ‘Robbie’ written in brackets. Then, below her father’s name, was her own name and date of birth, and below that, the date of the death of Otto De Haan.

  ‘It’s a family tree,’ she said as Kathleen returned.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it that. You must write your first entry. Emma’s birth.’ She handed Caroline the pen. ‘And when I die you must record my death. I’m not being maudlin,’ she hastily assured her granddaughter. ‘It’s afine family record to have, and I want you to promise me.’

  ‘Of course I will, Gran. I promise.’

  Caroline took the pen and neatly wrote ‘Emma Jane Hamilton, born to Caroline Hamilton (nee O’Shea) and Gene Bradford Hamilton, 20 September 1945.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Kathleen said, closing the book. Then she picked it up and ceremoniously held it out to Caroline. ‘There you are. It’s yours.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it belongs here with you.’ Caroline could sense her grandmother was upset. ‘It’s only a year’s contract, Gran, I’ll be back in nine months.’

  ‘It’s a whole new career for him, Caroline,’ Kathleen said brusquely, angry with herself at the fresh threat of tears. ‘If your husband needs to stay in Melbourne for his job, then you and Emma must stay with him.’

  ‘Of course we will if needs be. And if that’s the case, then I’ll come and see you once a year, and you can come and see me. Heavens above,’ she laughed, trying to cheer her grandmother up, ‘Gene works for General Motors-Holden, and this is the age of the motor car, Gran, we’re only a drive away.’

  Kathleen successfully quelled the tears. ‘Yes, of course you are,’ she said, ‘but I still wish you’d take the book.’

  ‘No, Gran.’ For some strange reason Kathleen was being maudlin, and Caroline would have none of it. ‘Hannah’s journal belongs here,’ she said adamantly. ‘With you. In this house.’

  They always took turns in bossing each other about, they had for years.

  ‘Yes,’ Kathleen agreed, knowing her granddaughter was right. ‘It belongs here with me,’ and she put the book back down on the table. ‘Are you all packed? Tim’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘I’m all packed.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll put the kettle on, we’ll have time for a quick cup of tea before he takes us to the station.’ Kathleen busied herself at the stove. ‘And fetch the biscuits, will you, Tim likes those short-bread ones.’

  Kitty Kendall was with her father when he arrived. ‘You didn’t think you’d get out of this town without a proper farewell, did you?’ she said to Caroline as she opened the champagne she’d brought. Since the night at Henri’s she and Caroline had become firm friends. ‘Here’s tofriendship,’ she said. ‘The lifelong kind.’

  Kathleen laughed and chatted with Tim and Kitty. They drove together to Central Station and waved at the train as it disappeared down the track, and all the time she told herself she was being foolish. But try as she might, she could not dispel her fears. And later that day, alone in her little house in Woolloomooloo, Kathleen De Haan gave in to her tears, convinced that she would never see her granddaughter again.

  ‘Now tell me, Artie,’ Ron Benson asked, ‘what sort of job would you like?’

  Arturo studied the employment officer for a moment or two. The man seemed friendly enough, certainly, and his use of the diminutive was an attempt to sound casual and obliging. A number of Australians he’d met had told him Arturo was impossible to pronounce—‘the way you say it anyway, mate’—so he’d accepted Artie as a gesture of friendship. It was certainly preferable to wog, wop or dago, terms with which he’d become all too familiar over the past year.

  But Arturo could sense the man’s disinterest, he’d seen it before. ‘If I tell you what it is I would like, that would make a difference?’ he asked.

  The Italian was being neither insolent nor rebellious, Ron Benson realised; there was no impudence in his eyes, no sullen tone to his voice. But his question, which was more of a statement, was challenging. He was clearly an intelligent young man.

  Tall for an Italian—but then he was probably from the north, and Ron was accustomed to dealing with the more stocky southerners—he had a certain style. He was well mannered and his English was excellent. In fact, apart from his obviously Italian appearance, which could hardly be helped, the bloke seemed exceptionally well assimilated.

  There was something about Arturo Farinelli that commanded respect, and to his surprise, Ron found himself telling the truth.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it probably wouldn’t make any difference, but they tell us to ask you what job you’d like. I suppose because it makes us sound good.’

  Arturo nodded. At least they understood each other. ‘So I go where you send me.’

  They sent him to the Snowy Mountains, to work on the Hydro-Electric Scheme.

  Arturo Farinelli had emigrated in 1949, heeding, along with thousands of his fellow countrymen, the irresponsible advice of Italy’s Prime Minister, Alcide De Gasperi, who exhorted Italians to learn a foreign language and emigrate. Italy had no employment for its workers and Australia beckoned as a friendly, hospitable land. A land of endless wealth and limitless prospects.

  It was all propaganda, they were shocked to discover. The Australian Immigration Department had spent much money and effort in order to attract European migrants, but upon their arrival, very little was offered by way of assistance. Like many, Arturo was quickly disenchanted, but he did not scrimp and save for his fare home like so many others unable to accept the sordid conditions and the isolation. Arturo had no intention of running back to his starving country, his tail between his legs. If the Australians would not come to him, then he would go to the Australians.

  Ron Benson was right. Arturo was intelligent. Observant and quick to learn. He had taught himself the basics of English before coming to Australia, and he quickly soaked up the classes at Bonegilla, the former internment campwhich had been hastily converted for temporary migrant accommodation.

  Men languished at Bonegilla, situated near Albury on the Victorian–New South Wales border, while they awaited employment, frustrated and helpless in their isolation. Many had young wives and families to whom the dank huts were depressing, the ill-taught English lessons confusing, and the stink of cooking lard in the canteen and the fatty taste of mutton foreign and abominable. The standard of teaching was so poor that Artie and Nick Steriakos, who had lived in London for three years and spoke fluent English, coached the less fortunate.

  Artie and Nick the Greek became very good friends and shared their confined space amicably. Surprisingly enough, most of the migrants did. Arturo was constantly amazed at the lack of conflict between the many nationalities gathered at Bonegilla. Italians, Austrians, Greeks, Czechs, Poles, Russians, the most devout and the most orthodox of Catholics and Jews, all had no trouble getting on together. Yet, when they were sent out to work as seasonal labourers on nearby properties, the Australians’ antipathy was palpable. What were they afraid of?

  ‘Are they frightened of us?’ he asked Rube one night.

  Artie had the greatest of respect for Hermann Rubenstein. Rube was a very cultured man, a concert musician. Or he had been at one time, many years ago, a violinist with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra no less. Now retired, he was a music teacher by trade. At least he had been, he said, until Hitler had decided otherwise.

  Rube knew everything, or so it seemed. It wasn’t that he was showing off, Arturo knew that, he just liked to talk. Well, to him and Nick. Rube would talk about any subject under the sun to him and Nick. Apart from himself or his family. And Artie and Nick knew why, they’d seen the tattoo on his wrist.

  Hermann Rubenstein was a Jew, a Pole from Warsa
w, and he’d been through all that the Holocaust had to offer. Except death. His own anyway, the daily prayers he’d made in that direction having remained unanswered during his final weeks at Auschwitz.

  Rube could have told them such stories. He could have told them about the ghettoes and the stand that the Jews of Warsaw had taken. He’d been a leader then and proud of it. He could have told them about Eichmann’s Final Solution. The term mystified Rube, it sounded so pure. It should have referred to the clarification of a long-lost algebraic formula, not to the extermination of a race of people. He could have told Nick and Artie about the cattle trucks. And the gas chambers. And more. Much more. But he didn’t. And of course Nick and Artie didn’t ask him.

  But that was all behind him now, and Rube had decided that he would not give up after all. He was going to Melbourne, he told Artie and Nick, where he would teach music. There was a big Jewish community in Melbourne, and he’d heard that Melbourne was a civilised city. More or less. By Australian standards.

  Nick wasn’t interested in Melbourne. Nick the Greek was going to Sydney. He had a cousin there who owned a fishing boat. As soon as he’d made some money he was going to join up with his cousin, ‘and we’ll have a fleet of boats, you just wait and see’.

  With the exception of Nick and Artie, Rube kept fairly much to himself, which was a pity really, Arturo thought, because he spoke six languages and could have been helpful to the others. He suggested as much to Rube.

  ‘No, Arturo,’ was the blunt response. Rube felt no obligation to assist the peasant migrants with their problems, they must fight their own fight as he had his. ‘It is good that you help them with their English, but I am too old, I have taught enough.’ Which was strange, because several times a week he gave Artiewriting lessons, Artie having never mastered the art of writing English. It was because of the talks, Artie realised. Rube liked the talks that went with the lessons.