Kal (16 page)

‘Place your bets,' the croupier called and Harry looked at his sixteen pounds sitting on the red square. A number of punters had decided to take their lead from him and there were several one-shilling chips beside his pile. Harry hadn't given his ostentatious ‘Let it ride', which he always liked—it was a stylish thing to do—because he hadn't quite been able to trust his voice. He was being a fool, he told himself, he should have taken half the money off the table and hustled up a card game with some mugs he could cheat. Roulette was a loser's game.

He sat back, lit a cigar and looked about the room, ignoring the eager, hungry faces crowded around the table, staring, breathless, at the spinning wheel. He could see Norm Whaley walking towards him. The croupier had obviously signalled that there was a possible big win coming up. Norm always arrived when there was a big win, smiling and congratulating the punter but obviously cursing inside and frantically calculating whether or not he should close the bank, cut his losses and call a halt to the game.

‘No more bets,' the croupier called as the wheel started to slow. Norm Whaley arrived at the table as the ball found its slot. ‘Seven, red.'

‘Having a good night, Harry?' Norm's smile was fixed and he tried not to watch as Johann replaced piles of one-pound markers with tens.

Thirty-two pounds now sat on the red, but Harry
didn't look at them. One more spin, that's all I need, he thought. He nodded to Johann to let it ride and smiled at Norm. ‘Yes I am, and a very good evening to you, Norman.'

‘Place your bets.'

Harry felt someone jostling for a place beside him. He didn't like being jostled but, before he could turn to see who it was, a hand reached out and placed five tenpound markers on the red.

All heads turned to look at the man who had placed the bet. All heads except Harry's. Did this mean the end of his run of luck? Jesus Christ, he'd only needed one more spin. Who was this bastard standing beside him? But he smiled at Norm, who'd given up all pretence and was watching the slowing wheel intently.

‘No more bets.' The ivory ball took an interminable time to find its slot. ‘Fourteen, red.'

An audible gasp from the crowd. Slowly Harry looked up at the man beside him. Eyes black as coal met his. Then, as the croupier started to push the one hundred pound winnings towards him, the man held up his hand.

Johann's eyes met Rico's and Rico nodded, just as he'd seen the big man nod. The big man had said, ‘Let it ride', whatever that meant. He looked at the big man and grinned.

You cheeky bastard, Harry thought. Then, before he knew what he'd done, he'd nodded at the croupier to let his sixty-four pounds ride.

Johann looked at Norm. Norm's brow was beaded with sweat. Did he stop the game or not? He raised an eyebrow at Johann and the croupier returned a sign. Five reds in a row. Surely the run would break now, Norm thought. Surely. This was the biggest loss he'd faced yet on the roulette table. One hundred and sixty-four pounds—and probably another five pounds from the
smaller punters—sat on the red. Damn it, Norm thought. The wheel was new, it functioned legitimately. He'd recently arranged to have it rigged to spin in favour of the house, but as yet it hadn't been done. He cursed his luck, breathed a worried sigh and nodded reluctantly.

‘Place your bets.'

Piles of shillings and several one-pound bets were placed beside Rico's and Harry's wagers, everyone trying to cash in on the run of luck. Harry puffed on his cigar and glanced at Norm. What the hell, he thought, it was worth it for the look on the man's face.

‘No more bets.'

Norman Whaley. What a hypocritical bastard, Harry thought. Always there with commiserations for the loser, congratulations for the winner—hoping the punter would come back and lose tomorrow—and never a penny of credit allowed. Of course that was exactly the way Harry would run a gambling house if he ever had the opportunity, but that didn't enter his thoughts. He was enjoying watching Norm Whaley squirm.

Harry didn't look at the wheel, but he heard it slow, and he heard the ball find its slot. Then he heard the words. ‘Thirty-two, red.'

A huge cheer went up from the crowd.

‘Congratulations, gentlemen.' Norm had pushed his way through to them. ‘Well done, Harry.' He shook Harry's hand. ‘Sir,' he shook Rico's. ‘I don't believe we've met.'

Rico had no idea what was being said to him. He looked to the big man, waiting to take his lead from him. But the man who was still pumping his hand was continuing to talk.

‘I'm afraid I must ask you to remove your bets, however. We're running close to breaking the bank and we wouldn't want that now, would we?'

‘Of course, Norman. Anything to oblige. I was going
to let it ride, but to appease you, of course.' The big man was scraping up his winnings from the table. Rico followed suit.

‘Harry Brearley,' the big man said and he rose and shook Rico's hand.

‘Rico Gianni.'

‘You must let me buy you a drink.'

Rico realised the big man wanted him to follow, so he did.

Italian, Harry thought. A cripple too. Strong-looking bastard, I wouldn't want to cross him. Still, there must be some way I can get some money out of him. I wonder if he plays poker.

At the bar Harry ordered himself a whisky. ‘What can I get you, Mr Gianni? Name your poison.'

Rico looked at him blankly for a moment, then pointed at the barman who was pouring Harry's whisky.

‘Whisky it is then. You're a punter after my own heart. I've not seen you at the Red Dingo before, are you new to Fremantle?' Rico continued to stare at him. What's wrong with the man, Harry wondered. Is he some sort of idiot?

‘
Mio fratello
,' Rico said. ‘
Mio fratello parla inglese
.' And he disappeared into the crowd.

Good God, Harry thought, the man doesn't even speak English. He downed his Scotch and was just about to go and cash in his markers when Rico reappeared with another man. ‘
Mio fratello, Giovanni
,' he said.

‘Harry Brearley. Pleased to meet you, Mr Gianni.'

‘How do you do?' Giovanni shook the big man's hand. ‘My brother Rico, it is true, he has won two hundred pounds?'

‘Well one hundred and fifty to be precise. He put fifty on the red and let it ride.' Harry grinned. ‘It was a lucky night for us both. Now what would you like to drink?'

‘Do not be angry,' Rico whispered while the big man bought the drinks. ‘It paid off, eh? We are rich.'

 

T
HAT NIGHT
R
ICO
and Giovanni became Harry Brearley's partners and co-owners of the Clover. They shook on the deal.

‘No money changes hands until you see the mine,' Harry insisted. ‘It's a man of honour you're dealing with, I want you to know that. And then we'll have a proper contract drawn up and I'll introduce you to Kalgoorlie society. Hannan's Club where all the richest businessmen congregate. I can introduce you to Paddy Hannan himself, I swear. How'd you like that?'

Two days later, together with Teresa and the children, the three of them boarded the train to Kalgoorlie.

As Maudie Brearley stepped out of the bank and crossed Maritana Street she registered the odd glance of disapproval. But she could not have cared less as she walked down Hannan Street. She was proud of her condition. She was due in one month and she intended to work until the very last minute.

A big woman at the best of times, Maudie, in her pregnancy, was enormous. And there was a good reason why. It was only the other week that the doctor had lifted his stethoscope from her massive belly and announced, ‘I swear I can hear two heartbeats, Maudie. I'd wager a pound to a penny there's twins in there.' From that day on, Maudie had been doubly proud as she walked down the main street defying disapproval. Twins! The doctor had suggested she rest up but she wouldn't hear a word of it. She was as fit as a mallee bull. Why, if nature intended it, she could give birth to a litter of five, she said.

Maudie hoped the birth would come mid-week when business was at its slowest. She would allow herself only two days off and under no circumstances were the babies to come on a payday Friday.

Maudie Brearley was proud of herself. She'd turned thirty-one six months previously and had been well and truly pregnant at the time, just as she'd planned.

She enjoyed being married to Harry even more than
she'd thought she would. Of course he had always been able to make her laugh and he continued to do so. Maudie loved a good laugh. And she'd always enjoyed the love they shared for his mischievous son Jack. But she had anticipated Harry's old habits would die hard and that he would continue to exasperate her.

It appeared, however, that Harry had changed. Ever since he'd come back from Fremantle with his partners and had taken over the Clover, he'd become a responsible, hard-working businessman. Maudie was delighted by this transformation and, as she walked down Hannan Street bearing her swollen belly with pride, she was overwhelmed by a sense of happiness. Not one to view life romantically, Maudie would never have admitted, even to herself, that she had fallen in love with Harry Brearley. She simply recognised that he was now an upright citizen and that he would make a fine father for their children.

Lord Laverton and his wife drove past in their trap as they always did on a payday Friday at this time and, as usual, Richard doffed his hat. But Lady Laverton did not give a wave of her gloved hand. She hadn't waved at Maudie for the past several months, signalling her disapproval of the fact that any woman should so flaunt her condition.

Prudence Laverton could not, however, afford to ignore a person as popular as Maudie, so she gave a brief nod through her travelling veil and held onto her favourite picture hat with its ostrich-feathered plume as a gust of wind threatened to remove it.

It didn't altogether surprise Prudence that Maudie Brearley should behave with such a lack of dignity—the woman owned a hotel, after all. Well, hardly a hotel—a ‘pub', when all was said and done. And just recently that braggart of a husband of hers, Harry Brearley, had been appointed to the Town Planning Council. Prudence
shook her head. What was happening to the social conscience of Kalgoorlie? She supposed, with a shudder of disapproval, that the two of them would be present at the Municipal Banquet in the New Year, rubbing shoulders with the dignitaries and top-ranking politicians who would be streaming into Kalgoorlie for the great occasion. Rumour had it that Nellie Melba herself was coming to town. Prudence loved the opera, and had seen Melba perform in London. The prospect of meeting her idol was thrilling. But the thought that a diva of Melba's renown should have to mingle with the likes of the Brearleys and the other Kalgoorlie hoi polloi really was too much.

Prudence was content with her position of eminence in Kalgoorlie. As virtual queen of the goldfields, she was aware that she would never have achieved such prominence back in the old country. There she would simply have remained the nobody who had married Lord Lionel's son. But there were, nevertheless, occasions when the lack of finesse in Kalgoorlie irked her. And having to endure the presence of the Brearleys and their like at the Municipal Banquet was just one of those occasions.

Had Prudence known that Harry and his wife would not only be present on the evening but that Harry had recently been elected to the Banquet Planning Committee, she would have been outraged. The members of the committee, all respectable officials and citizens from Kalgoorlie and the sister town of Boulder a couple of miles south, had not elected Lady Laverton to their midst, although she had hinted heavily that she would be willing to accept. The committee decided that for the organisation of such a gala event, energetic innovative people were needed. People like Harry Brearley. Besides, Prudence Davenport was a snob.

The Municipal Banquet promised to be the most lavish social occasion in the history of the town, the
grand finale to two days of ceremonies celebrating the opening of the Kalgoorlie pipeline.

The first of the ceremonies would be held three hundred and fifty miles away beside the pumping house at Mundaring Weir on January 22nd, 1903. But the real ceremony, certainly as far as those on the goldfields were concerned, would be two days later when, if all went according to plan, the water pumped from the coastal ranges would reach its final destination—the reservoir at Mount Charlotte on the outskirts of Kalgoorlie.

And the festivities would be topped off by the banquet to end all banquets on the evening of January 24th. It was barely two months away. Until Harry had recently come up with the idea, the committee's principal worry had been the venue. Where could they seat five hundred people to table? Even the grandest of Kalgoorlie's hotels, and there were many, could not accommodate such numbers. But Harry had saved the day.

‘The car barn,' he'd announced at the last meeting when the question had been raised yet again. ‘We'll turn the car barn into a banquet hall!' The car barn was the vast iron-roofed shed which housed Kalgoorlie's street cars. While jaws gaped at the audacity of the idea, Harry continued to paint the scene for the less imaginative of his colleagues.

‘Picture it!' he said. ‘Just picture it if you will! The big doors will be open to let the breeze through, decorations will hang from the ceilings. There'll be long tables covered with fine white cloths; with a platform at one end for the speakers …'

Gradually the others started to envisage the scene and, after a further twenty-minute spiel from Harry and much discussion, it was put to the vote and finally agreed—the car barn it was. The committee breathed a collective sigh of relief and, a short while later, Harry left the meeting, triumphant.

 

H
ARRY
B
REARLEY LEANED
forward in his brand-new trap and flicked the reins. ‘Trot on, girl, trot on,' he commanded and the mare picked up her gait. Black Bess was the finest horse in harness, he thought. Finer than Richard Laverton's show pony. Indeed, Richard had had the gall to offer to buy her over a poker game at Hannan's Club only last week.

‘I could give you a fine price for that mare of yours, Harry,' he'd said in that silly posh voice of his whilst he fiddled with his ridiculous waxed moustache. Harry preferred to remain clean-shaven himself—even though it was not the fashion of the day, it set him apart.

Laverton was a fool. Harry had always thought so. No wonder his father had fobbed him off to Australia. Unlike most of the residents of Kal, Harry was not remotely impressed by Richard's title. The man was a sissy-boy, he thought. Good God, he even lisped.

‘Not a chance, Richard,' he'd laughed. ‘Not a chance. Your bid.'

As he bowled through the streets of Kalgoorlie, his planter's hat set at a rakish angle, the chain of his brand-new fob watch dangling from his waistcoat pocket and Black Bess trotting out like a professional harness-racer at the Coolgardie Racetrack, life could not have been better for Harry Brearley.

 

T
HE
G
IANNI BROTHERS
were nowhere in sight when Harry arrived at the Clover, just an impressive fresh mound of ore beside the latest windlass. Rico and Giovanni would be underground working their self-determined ten-hour shift. Harry smiled. Luck had been on his side when he'd chosen his partners. God, but they could work! And they wanted nothing to do with the business side of things. They were more than happy for him to keep the books, register the extension of the claim and arrange for the delivery of fresh supplies. They were
interested in nothing but digging for gold. It could not have been a better arrangement for Harry, who loathed physical work.

The brothers were not fools, Harry was aware of that. But they were simple. Ignorant. They couldn't read or write and he'd even had to teach them how to sign their names when he'd had the lawyer draw up the contract. ‘Sure, you can make your mark,' he'd said, ‘a great many miners do. But you're my partners. It's a little more dignified for a partner to have a signature, do you not agree?' Giovanni had translated for Rico and both brothers had been very pleased. Yes, they'd agreed, a signature was much more dignified.

Little as the brothers cared for the paperwork or the general running of the mine, they kept an eagle eye on the yield, the assaying and the payout. They stood in the bank with Harry and watched the teller meticulously as he weighed in their precious gold. And they knew within a pound sterling what the yield would be worth. Later that same day, they would again watch meticulously as Harry counted the money out in three equal shares back at the Clover.

Harry unharnessed and watered Black Bess. When he'd tethered her in the shade he walked over to the humpy which had been converted to an on-site office. He took off his hat and jacket, sat down and started on the figures for November. It had been a good month. A very good month. They could look at once more extending the claim. He waved away the ubiquitous flies, barely noticing them as he opened the supplies ledger. He could have pulled the hessian curtain closed to keep them out but he needed what little breeze the open doorway afforded. Wood supplies. He entered the order he'd placed that very morning. They needed more gimlet gum. Gimlet, the strongest of the local wood, was always used as ‘toms' or wall and roof supports for the drives.

Through the open door, he could see clouds of red dust in the distance, near the windlass. He could vaguely discern two figures. The brothers had finished digging for the day and were starting on the exhaustive process of separating the gold from the ore.

‘Eh, Harry!' Giovanni yelled, spotting Black Bess. ‘You want to come down here and get dirty?'

Harry walked to the doorway and waved back. ‘I'd be only too happy to, Gee-Gee, as you very well know. But I'm waiting on a wood delivery.'

Giovanni grinned and walked back into the dust. He ‘very well knew' that there was no way Harry would risk getting dirty. It was a running joke between them. Giovanni liked Harry. He even liked the way Harry called him Gee-Gee.

He remembered the first time Harry had used the nickname. He hadn't much liked it then.

‘Evan, these are my partners,' Harry had said as he introduced them to the previous owner of the Clover. ‘Evan Jones, Rico and Giovanni Gianni.' The alliteration of the name had suddenly hit him as humorous and he'd laughed. ‘Giovanni Gianni—we'll have to call you Gee-Gee.'

Giovanni wondered for an instant whether it was a deliberate insult—he'd heard the locals refer to horses as gee-gees. Then he realised that Harry was joking. He glanced at Rico who was smiling and shaking hands with Evan. He hadn't understood a word. It was just as well. If Rico thought for one moment that Harry Brearley was belittling the name of Gianni there would be hell to pay. Giovanni grinned and nodded amiably at Harry. If the man wished to call him Gee-Gee then he'd let him, he decided.

Evan took them over the mine, then down the shaft where he showed them the latest drive and the signs to look for. Like many on the goldfields, he was a little
uncomfortable with foreigners, but he felt genuinely sorry for the brothers. They seemed rather naive and he hoped Harry wasn't swindling them.

‘I'll leave you to look around for a while,' he said as he started to climb the shaft. ‘Come up to the hut in about ten minutes and I'll have some billy tea ready.'

Harry had already climbed back up the shaft—he didn't like being underground any longer than necessary—and he joined Evan as he walked to the hut.

Evan no longer lived in the old humpy. He'd been working at the Midas for a while now and he and Kate had moved to the Golden Mile itself, not far from the mine, into a nice little wood-framed tin house surrounded by verandahs.

‘They seem like decent enough fellows,' Evan said warily as he filled the billy can from the waterbag.

‘For foreigners, you mean.' Harry leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. He knew the proprietorial action would irritate Evan but he didn't care. Evan had sold the mine to him and there was no way he could back out now. ‘Yes, they're good men. They'll make good partners.'

Evan did feel irritated. The brashness of Harry Brearley always irritated him. ‘Are they sure they know what they're getting into? One of them doesn't even speak English.'

It was Harry's turn to feel annoyed—he recognised the inference-but he didn't show it. ‘I'm having the partnership contract drawn up, all legal and proper. It's a great chance I'm giving them and they know it.' He smiled, a lazy, superior smile. ‘Just because they're Italians doesn't make them dumb, you know.' He was aware the remark would further irritate Evan but Harry wanted to annoy him. Evan's criticism rankled. The man was boring. He plodded through life. If he, Harry Brearley, chose to take chances, to soar with the eagles, what
right did such a man have to criticise him? He couldn't resist goading Evan further. ‘What have you got against Italians, anyway?' he asked. ‘You married one.'