Kal (12 page)

‘Ah.' He nodded, sipped his beer and said no more. Half an hour later, Caterina noticed that he had gone.

‘You're a fool,' Doris said after closing time as they wiped down the bar and washed the glasses. ‘You're a fool, Catie. I told you not to say anything. It's the last you'll see of him, you take my word.'

But four days later Evan was back. ‘I came to say goodbye,' he said. ‘I leave for Kalgoorlie tomorrow.'

Caterina wished him a safe journey and it seemed there was nothing more to be said. But Doris wasn't prepared to leave it at that. As Caterina went about her duties and Evan got up to go, Doris sidled up to him and muttered. ‘She's a widow, you know.'

‘Eh?' He looked at her, taken aback.

‘Catie. She's a widow. She needs a good man.'

He nodded and edged his way to the door, obviously unnerved by the confrontation.

Oh well, Doris thought as she watched him go, it had been worth a try. No harm done, he'd been a lost cause anyway. She simply hadn't wanted him to think that Caterina was a loose woman. Not that Doris herself entirely believed the story of Caterina's widowhood—the girl never spoke about her marriage or the father of her child. But she was certainly not a loose woman, of that much Doris was sure.

 

‘D
O YOU WANT
to come out with me tomorrow?' It was six months later, a busy Saturday night in the late summer of 1897, and Evan was back.

He didn't know why he'd come back. He was no longer looking for a partner, he'd decided to work the Clover on his own. And he wasn't looking for a wife. Certainly not a wife with a young child. Somehow a trip to Fremantle had seemed like a good idea and, while he was there, what was the harm in seeing the girl?

‘Tomorrow is Sunday,' she answered. ‘Sundays I am with—'

‘Yes, your son, I know. I thought we could take him with us. To Perth, what do you think?'

‘Yes,' she smiled. ‘We would like that.'

 

‘P
AOLO, THIS IS
Mr Jones.'

‘Evan. You can call me Evan.' He was a serious-looking little boy with straight fair hair and large grey eyes. ‘How old are you, Paolo?'

The child held up four fingers and Caterina laughed. ‘He will be four in two months,' she said as she pushed the boy's hair off his brow. ‘He wishes very much to grow up fast.'

They travelled by train to Perth and Caterina marvelled at the beautiful coastline as it passed by. They walked down the broad avenue of St George's Terrace and she exclaimed at the gracious buildings. They had morning tea at the grand Palace Hotel and she gazed in wonder at the heavy oak interiors and the chandeliers.

Evan delighted in her childlike enthusiasm. There was more of the child in her than there was in the boy, he thought. Her enthusiasm was infectious. She was quite right, he decided, Perth was a pretty city, sitting sedately as it did on the banks of the peaceful Swan River. They explored the ornate and elegant town hall—convict-built he'd been told—and they walked up the
hill to the army barracks, all the while chatting and clearly relaxed in each other's company. Even the serious little boy seemed to enjoy himself.

After that, Evan stayed on a full two weeks in Fremantle and each evening he went to the Dockside Arms. Several times he took Caterina and Paolo out to lunch during her half-hour break and one Sunday he even hired a sulky. They drove along the coast road, Caterina laughing and clutching her hat to her head as her curls blew free in the hot summer breeze.

Evan knew he must return to Kalgoorlie—he could not afford to spend so much time away from the mine—but he was in turmoil. Caterina enchanted him. Did he dare take a wife? It was something he had never planned. He'd always been a loner in every sense of the word. And the child. How could he take on the responsibility of a child? It had all happened far too quickly. He must get back to the safety of the Clover, he decided. He must have space to think clearly.

His departure was abrupt. ‘I am leaving tomorrow, Kate,' he said. It was her lunch break and they had walked down to the main jetty to look at the harbour and the boats. ‘Say goodbye to Paul for me.' He always called her ‘Kate' and Paolo ‘Paul'—he said he had trouble getting his tongue around fancy Italian names. He hoped she didn't mind.

Caterina didn't mind at all. She was very fond of Evan. He was a good man. A kind man. She knew he was falling in love with her and thought that, if he were to ask her to marry him, she might say yes. He would make a good husband and he would be a good father to Paolo.

She didn't listen to Doris, who warned her to be careful. ‘He wears the same jacket and vest, Catie. And the same shoes—that's a bad sign. I'm not saying he's not clean, mind—his shirts are always fresh. But you
need someone with more money, there are bigger fish in the sea, believe me.'

But Caterina paid no heed. ‘Paolo likes him; he would make a good father.' Doris tried to interrupt but Caterina continued. ‘If I tell him “yes”, Doris, then I will tell him the truth. I will tell him that I do not love him, but that I will work hard to be a good wife.' Finally Doris gave up.

‘Goodbye, Evan,' Caterina said, by now used to him disappearing as suddenly as he arrived. ‘I will see you when you are next in Fremantle.'

 

S
IX MONTHS LATER
, something happened which made Caterina pray that Evan would return. Fremantle was too dangerous a town for a single woman with a small child. She needed a man's protection.

It was a Sunday evening. She had taken Paolo down to the harbour to watch the sunset over the ocean. The night was still and calm and the water rippled silver before them. There was a bank of cloud on the horizon and the sky was vivid with colour. Reds and oranges and pinks fanned out as far as the eye could see.

‘Look, Paolo,' she breathed, ‘look at our beautiful world.'

The child was staring out over the water, awestruck. He smiled up at her, his eyes wide with excitement, then returned to gaze again at the sky.

‘It is magic,' she whispered. And he nodded.

She wanted to walk back to the hotel well before dark but Paolo begged to be allowed to watch the last rays sink below the horizon.

‘Until the sun goes to bed, Mamma. Please. Just until the sun goes to bed.'

It was against her better judgement but Caterina allowed herself to be persuaded. As they walked back through the dockside streets, she started to regret it. She
had forgotten how quickly the dark descended on these winter nights. It was not good to be out in this area after sundown, particularly not on a Sunday when the pubs were closed and the gambling houses with their plentiful supply of illicit liquor did a roaring trade.

‘Hurry up, Paolo. Walk as fast as you can.'

It was a cloudy night, there was little moon, and the light from the streetlamps was gloomy. The walk to the Dockside Arms was uphill and the boy was tiring, so their pace was slow. Slow enough to attract the attention of the men passing by and those leaning in darkened doorways.

Only one more block, Caterina thought. And then she saw the group of men up ahead. She would have to pass them. To avoid them would mean cutting through a back alley and that would be more dangerous. She picked up the protesting child and quickened her pace.

The men were gathered on the pavement outside the Red Dingo. The pub was in darkness, it was not conducting its licensed trade, but she knew there were gambling rooms out the back.

There were twelve or more of them, roughly dressed, some in cloth caps, some bare-headed, and they were jostling each other. She could not hear what was being said, but the voices were angry; a fight was imminent.

As she drew abreast of them, Caterina hugged Paolo to her and walked well out into the street. The men were too intent on each other to notice her. She would soon be safely home, she thought.

‘Bloody dago!' a voice shouted and the group suddenly split its ranks and formed a circle. Two men were in the centre, crouched, prepared to fight. Caterina was caught amongst the spectators. She tried to back away but the surrounding men did not notice her as they locked together to watch the fight.

‘Get him, Bailey!' someone yelled. ‘Get the scab!' And the fight was on.

The two men struggled briefly, locked in each other's embrace, before one gained the advantage. He forced himself free and drove his right fist hard into his opponent's solar plexus. The man fell to the ground moaning and the victor stood waiting for him to rise.

‘Come on, Bailey!' the onlookers urged the man on the ground. ‘Come on, get the scum!'

Bailey rose and charged, and the two of them once more locked together. But again the first man had the advantage and Bailey was smashed to the ground, blood oozing from his temple.

The mob didn't like it. They booed the victor and jostled each other as they jeered at their would-be champion. ‘Come on, Bailey! What are you made of? Show the scab!'

Caterina felt herself stumble. Any moment she was going to drop Paolo. She grasped the man next to her to steady herself. He didn't even notice. ‘Get up, Bailey!' he roared. ‘Get up!'

The man who was winning scanned the onlookers as he waited for Bailey to rise, wary that a supporter may come to the aid of his adversary. Something seemed to suddenly catch his attention and for a second he remained frozen to the spot.

Struggling to stay on her feet, it was Caterina who saw the knife first. A flash of silver in the dim light of the streetlamps. She watched horrified as the man, Bailey, slowly rose to his feet. ‘Dago pig!' he shouted and, knife held high, he hurled himself at his opponent.

As quickly as the mob had formed its circle, the men dispersed. Any moment the police would arrive. In an instant the street was deserted, except for the combatants. Bailey stood panting, knife in hand, and the man
he'd called dago lay bleeding in the street, his face cut open.

In the melee, Caterina had fallen. She'd tried to support Paolo as she went down but she felt the child's head crack against the pavement. Then the boot of a fleeing man caught her in the ribs.

She struggled to sit up, a jarring pain in her side. ‘Are you hurt, Paolo?' she whispered urgently. ‘Are you hurt?' The boy was groggy and there was blood on the side of his face but he was conscious.

‘Sssh. Do not cry. Sssh.' Caterina stood up. As she lifted the child to her hip a searing pain cut through her ribs but she took no notice. She ran, as fast as she could, up the hill to the Dockside Arms.

 

G
IOVANNI HAD NOT
seen the knife. He was too busy searching the faces in the surrounding circle, looking for the first sign of attack. Then he saw the girl. Or he thought he did. The girl from the mountain. It was her. It had to be her. But in the split second that his attention was caught, he saw her eyes focus on something. He turned. Too late. ‘Dago pig!' he heard and the man was upon him.

Giovanni felt the knife rip his face open. There was no pain but the blood flowed instantly and he fell to the pavement.

As the onlookers fled, the man Bailey stood for a moment, disconcerted, unsure whether or not he should flee himself. It was all the time Giovanni needed. He flung himself at his opponent. Bailey was no match for him and Giovanni knew it. He grasped the wrist that held the knife and the man fell, the full weight of Giovanni on top of him.

Bailey still held the knife and, with both hands, he tried to force the blade towards Giovanni's chest, but his strength did not equal the Italian's. Giovanni sat astride
him, locked his hands around the man's wrists and slowly twisted the knife until the tip of the blade rested under Bailey's jaw.

‘
Vuoi morire
, eh? Eh? You wish to kill yourself? Let me help you.' Slowly Giovanni dug the knife into the flesh. There was a lot of give in the skin beneath the jaw and it was a second or so before blood was drawn.

Bailey was whimpering and trying desperately to release his grip on the knife, but the grip was no longer his—Giovanni's hands were over his own, forcing him to dig the knife into his own throat. A thin trickle of blood started to stream down his neck. It mingled with the blood that dripped upon him from the deep gash in Giovanni's cheek.

‘Please. No. Please.' Bailey begged for his life.

‘
Basta
? You have had enough?' Giovanni released his grip and the knife fell to the pavement. As he picked it up and rose to his feet he noticed his shirtfront was covered in blood. His face was starting to hurt.

For just a moment, Bailey lay in the street, surprised that his life had been spared. Then he crawled to his feet and staggered off into the dark.

Giovanni walked back to his lodgings, a boarding house only several blocks away. He gripped the gash in his cheek and held his head to one side trying to stem the bleeding. How had this happened? he wondered. He had been in Fremantle barely three weeks. He had caused no trouble, he had looked for none. He'd accepted work on the wharves from a subcontractor and when there had been murmurs about his non-union status the boss had assured him that all was above board.

‘They don't like you Italians because you work too hard, that's all it is,' the boss had said. ‘You work hard for me and I pay you well, and if they want to complain, let them.'

Giovanni had thought no more about it until that
night, when he'd gone to the Red Dingo to make contact with the timbercutters who gambled there on Sunday nights. That was where the money was, he'd been told. Cutting timber down south paid far more than he could earn on the wharves.

But instead of the timbercutters, he'd run into a group of wharfies waiting for the gambling den to open. One of them asked him what he was doing there. He answered the man in Italian. That was the first thing that angered them. The wharfies didn't like Italians.

‘Speak English, you bloody dago.' Then the recognition. ‘It's the dago scab,' someone else said. And then it had started. Why? Giovanni wondered. What had he done wrong?