Kal (23 page)

‘Caterina.' Giovanni could not resist saying her name.

She shook her head. ‘I am called Kate,' she said. But, once again, she could not tear her eyes from his. The complacency with which she had layed the ghosts of her past to rest was shattered.

‘I know. Evan's wife and Paul's mother.' He paused. ‘Paolo's mother.' Suddenly, Giovanni understood. ‘You crossed the mountain happy and you come back sad,' he remembered saying to her by the fire in the falling snow.

‘Yes. Paolo,' Caterina whispered. And he knew it was an admission.

‘He is a fine boy.'

She nodded and there was the glint of a tear in her eyes.

The Glengarry waltz suddenly seemed silly to Giovanni. How foolish to be skipping about a dance floor, he thought.

‘Come.' He stopped dancing and took her arm in his. ‘It is too hot. We shall walk outside.'

She hesitated only a fraction of a second, then they walked towards the main doors. And through the crowds from across the room, Evan watched them leave.

They walked. Along the broad pavements, beneath the shop awnings. Neither dared stand still. Kate talked, she needed to talk. And she spoke to him in Italian, the first time she had spoken her mother tongue to anyone other than her son in years.

‘I have left so much behind, Giovanni.' Her arm was linked in his and he could think of nothing but her touch. ‘You bring it all back to me. Is this why I feel the way I do?'

‘So what is wrong with the past? You are Italian. You should be proud.' She nodded. Once again the tears were not far away. ‘And your son. Paolo too should be proud.'

She continued to stare ahead as a tear coursed down her cheek. Giovanni felt guilty. He had not meant to make her cry. He stopped walking and turned her to him. ‘I carry my past with me always, Caterina. The good and the bad. And I carry you with me. Always you are there.'

She looked at him, bewildered, and gently he wiped the tear from her cheek with his finger. ‘You are my girl from the mountain and I have seen you in the streets of Genoa. I have seen you in a knife fight in Fremantle.' He smiled and tried to joke her out of her sadness. ‘See? This is because of you.' He pointed to the scar on his cheek. ‘I should have seen the knife if it were not for the ghost of you.'

Caterina put her hand to his cheek and gently traced the scar. ‘It
was
me,' she whispered. ‘I was there.'

Giovanni looked at her disbelievingly.

‘I was there,' she repeated. ‘Paolo was with me. Two men were trying to kill each other and we were caught in the crowd. I did not know it was you.'

Giovanni laughed loudly. ‘Ah well, at least one time I was not mad, although I swear I thought you were driving me mad. I would have searched the world for you.'

The smile was fading from his lips, his eyes were once more serious. ‘And now I find you it is too late.'

She knew it was not a statement. She knew it was a question. ‘Yes, Giovanni,' she said. ‘It is too late.'

‘I love you, Caterina.'

She knew if she allowed him to kiss her they would both be lost. ‘Kate,' she said. ‘My name is Kate, and it is time for us to go back.' She turned and took his arm and they were silent as they walked through the dusty streets back to the car barn.

Kal was usually quiet on a Sunday. But not this Sunday. The day after the opening of the Goldfields Water Scheme, the streets were strewn with the evidence of celebration. Hundreds of visitors were still in town, some preparing to leave and some staying to see the sights. Many of the die-hard revellers who had celebrated all night were determined not to give in and, well after dawn, the sounds of carousing could be heard in many parts of the town. In private homes, in pubs, and especially in the red-light district of Hay Street.

To Kate Jones, however, this Sunday was like any other. Sunday was her baking day and, as usual, she would cook an extra batch for her son to take to the Gianni household for their weekly singalong. But this Sunday there would be one small difference. This Sunday Kate herself would accompany Paul. She would stay only briefly, just long enough to embrace Teresa and meet Rico and their children. And she would take Briony with her.

Kate had slept little throughout the night. She had lain on her side, feigning sleep, feeling the solid warmth of Evan's back against hers, hearing the slow steady rhythm of his breathing, and she'd reasoned with herself. Over and over.

When they had returned from the banquet Evan had
confronted her, as much as it was within Evan's power to confront. And even then, it had been the red wine which had lent him the courage to speak his mind.

‘I need to know, Kate. What is this man to you?'

She was surprised by the directness of his question. But she did not pretend ignorance. ‘Giovanni?'

He nodded and waited for her to answer.

‘I met him a long time ago. Briefly.'

Evan's mind had run riot the moment he had seen them leave the car barn. There was a bond between these two. What was it? Had they been lovers? Was Giovanni perhaps the father of her son? Conjecture had tormented Evan.

‘Were you … ?' He knew Kate would tell him the truth but he wasn't sure if he could bear to hear it. ‘Were you intimate with him?' It came out in a rush and sounded awkward.

For the first time, Kate recognised his pain. Had she and Giovanni been that transparent? ‘No, my dear. We met twice and we spoke no more than a few words. I did not even know his name at the time.'

Relief flooded through Evan. He knew she was telling the truth. Kate always did. But whether it was the red wine or not, he couldn't leave it alone. ‘The man's in love with you.'

Kate smiled. Away from Giovanni it was easy to be confident, sure that she had things in perspective. ‘Giovanni is a romantic. He is in love with an idea.' She kissed him. ‘Now come along, it is late. Time for bed.'

And then she'd lain awake and reasoned. Or tried to. She had told Evan the truth. She had spoken no more than a few words to Giovanni all those years ago and, it was true, she had not even registered his name at the time. Although now she could remember that he had told her. ‘My name is Giovanni,' he had said, just as he did last night. And, on the mountainside, she had been
so distracted she had barely registered his face. The young man was kind, that was all she had thought. And now she could think of nothing but his face. What had happened to her?

She finally decided that it was beyond reason and that common sense must prevail. It had been the headiness of the banquet and the reminders of the past, that was all. It was just as she had told Evan, Giovanni was in love with an idea and he had carried her along with him. She was being romantic and foolish. Tomorrow she would visit the Giannis with Paul and Briony and she would laugh with Teresa and meet Teresa's children. It was absurd to think that their families had lived within two miles of each other for over eighteen months and had never met.

It was nearly dawn before Kate fell asleep, hoping she could persuade Evan to come with them tomorrow.

 

A
S DAWN CREPT
over the Golden Mile, Giovanni sat looking down at Kate's cottage wondering if she was asleep or if she was thinking of him.

When Kate and Evan had made their departure from the banquet Giovanni too had left. But he hadn't gone home. He couldn't. He'd walked through the streets and out of Kal instead. His mind was a blank. No thoughts, no plans, just the vision of Caterina.

On the very outskirts of town, he realised where his feet were taking him.

It was dark but the moon was full and, when he reached the Midas mine, he climbed the dump and looked out over the Golden Mile. Dotted here and there were the dumps of the other big mines. They were formed of the waste rock, or tailings, from which the gold had been extracted. Having been through a water-and-cyanide treatment the tailings were liquid when added to the dump and quickly solidified to form a hill
which grew daily. One day they would be mountains, Giovanni thought. That is if the gold did not run out. And they said that the gold of Kalgoorlie never would.

It was a strange landscape, eerie in the silent moonlit night. Barren. Arid. Here and there the crushing mills where the extraction took place, here and there the huge vats of artesian water used for the cyanide treatments. The bolder of the local children stole in and used the vats as swimming pools during the hot summer nights or on Sundays when the mines were still.

Each mine was represented by its poppet head, standing like a small Eiffel Tower over the main shaft. Twice a day, the poppet heads' pulley systems would lower the cages of men to the honeycombed sphere which lay far below the earth's surface. And, twice a day, they would haul the cages of men back up into the shocking glare of the above-ground world.

Miners were a special breed, Giovanni thought. They loved to be underground. He knew he did. He looked at the poppet heads and wondered what it would be like down the big mines. There were caves as grand as cathedrals, he'd been told.

As the pink of dawn crept into the sky, the air was still and the Golden Mile was silent. It would remain so throughout the day. But come eight o'clock on Monday morning, at the start of the early shift, the air would be dense with steam and dust and the noise would be deafening from the stamping machines in the mills where the ore was being crushed.

Giovanni's eyes searched the outbuildings of the Midas. The offices and the several cottages. Which was Kate's? he wondered. One house was bigger than the rest, surrounded by fences with its own back yard. The mine manager's? No, he had heard that Laverton did not live on the Golden Mile. He had a grand house in town not far from Hannan's Club. Perhaps the accountant's or
the engineer's. Evan would not have been allocated a house like that. Of the several other cottages, one had a small and carefully tended plot of garden beside the front verandah. That was where she lived, he was sure of it. Then he noticed, tethered by a small shed at the rear of the cottage, Evan's horse.

He sat and stared at the house for an hour, picturing her, eyes closed, auburn hair strewn across a white pillow, her hand curled beneath her cheek. And it was only when the sun was in the sky and an early morning group of city visitors arrived to look at the Golden Mile before the heat of the day set in that Giovanni finally left his post and walked the two miles home.

 

‘A
H, THE CONQUERING
hero returns!' Rico was up to his elbows in flour, a tablecloth wrapped around his waist, helping Teresa make the ravioli for the evening feast. ‘Look at him, all dressed up. And who did we conquer last night, hey? A fancy woman from the city, was that who, Gio?' Rico was in a fine mood and appeared to have completely forgotten the previous evening's incident. ‘You tell your big brother everything.' His grin was lewd.

‘Shush, Rico.' Teresa was rolling out a fresh batch of dough and she gestured at the children. Little Salvatore was asleep in his cot in the corner and five-year-old Carmelina was at the end of the table making shapes out of the off-cut dough. ‘Anyway,' she added, ‘Giovanni is engaged to be married, He has been with Alice. Tell us about the night, Gio, was it grand? Did you dance?'

Alice! Giovanni had completely forgotten. He had promised to go to her after the banquet. Not once had she entered his thoughts.

He changed quickly and left the house with barely a word. Rico and Teresa exchanged looks and Teresa ran to the front door.

‘Gio!' she called after him. ‘You will be home for supper?'

‘Yes,' he called back. ‘I will be home.'

Giovanni felt deeply sorry for the hurt he was about to cause Alice but the simple fact was that he could not marry her. He could not marry anyone. He accepted that he could not have Caterina. But in his heart she was his and she always would be. No one could stop him worshipping from afar.

 

‘I
AM SORRY
, Alice. About last night.'

They were sitting by themselves in the smaller upstairs parlour which Maudie allowed the staff to use as their private sitting room. Alice had suggested they adjourn to the parlour. She hadn't wanted them to talk in her room where they had made love so many times.

‘It's all right, Giovanni. I know you had to take Rico home. I watched the procession with my friends.'

‘I am sorry I did not come to you after the banquet.'

‘I had not expected you to.' It was true. She had somehow known he would not come back. But it hadn't stopped her crying most of the night. In the morning, however, she had been resolved.

Giovanni was surprised. ‘But I had said I would. It was wrong of me. I am sorry, Alice. Please forgive me.'

‘It is you who must forgive me, Giovanni. I cannot marry you.' It took Alice all the courage she could muster to meet Giovanni's eyes as she said it. But she did. And her tone did not waver.

‘I am sorry to be so blunt,' she continued, ‘but I thought for a very long time last night and … No please,' she interrupted as she sensed him about to apologise again. ‘It's not because you didn't come back after the banquet. I decided earlier. We're wrong for each other. There are people better suited for you and people better suited for me.' She rose. ‘And I decided it was
better if we didn't marry. I'm very sorry to be so sudden about this, it's just that I …' She had to get out of the room. And quickly. His look was so tender, so concerned, and his lips were parted and all she could think of was the fact that she had kissed that perfect mouth. ‘Well, it all happened so quickly you see, I suddenly realised it would be wrong if we married …'

His instant acceptance confirmed her fears. He was not disappointed, in fact he was possibly relieved, and he was about to say something. Probably something like, ‘I shall always be fond of you, Alice' or ‘I shall always be your friend'. Well, this had been her decision she told herself. Hers, not his. And with a strength and dignity she mustered from she knew not where, Alice leant up and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I shall always be your friend, Giovanni. I wish you well.'

Safely in her room, Alice blubbered into her handkerchief, but she felt proud. She'd stood by her resolution; she hadn't faltered. The lectures she'd delivered herself in the early hours of the morning had paid off. What had happened to her pride? she'd asked herself. Over the years there'd been men by the score who'd made proposals to her, she was one of the most popular barmaids in Kalgoorlie. And not all the proposals had been indecent either; she must have had at least half a dozen marriage offers, serious ones, over the years.

This was Kalgoorlie, she'd told herself, there was a shortage of women and she was a good catch. And she was only thirty-eight years old, that wasn't altogether over the hill. So she wasn't going to marry a younger man who looked like a god, so what?

Fired with self-derision and armoured with the knowledge that others had probably been laughing at her, Alice had found the strength to confront Giovanni.

For the rest of that day, however, she allowed herself
to cry. She cried for the loss of her one true love. A magic love that only lived in storybooks. And then, first thing Monday morning, she was back in the bar and, on the outside at least, as chirpy as ever. Alice was a survivor.

 

W
HEN
G
IOVANNI RETURNED
home from seeing Alice he offered to help Teresa and Rico with their elaborate preparations for the evening meal but Teresa wouldn't hear of it.

‘You have been out all night. You look tired, Gio. Go to bed. Sleep.'

He allowed himself to be persuaded and retired to his room. Not to sleep—he knew he would simply lie there and think of her—but to avoid conversation. He lay on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling seeing Caterina's face as the household noises reached him through the thin partitioning walls. Teresa was scolding Enrico.

‘You have been swimming in the vats again, haven't you? Just look at the back of your trousers, they're soaking.'

‘How many times do we have to tell you,' Rico joined in. ‘It is dangerous. One day you will drown and then you will be sorry.'

‘How can I be sorry if I'm drowned, Papa?' Enrico only ever answered his father back if he sensed he was in a good mood. And today was Sunday. Rico was always in a good mood on Sundays. ‘Anyway,' he added, when he saw the familiar scowl appear, ‘there was no danger. Jack was with me.'

Enrico was, by nature, a cautious boy and would not have swum in the vats at all were it not for Jack. At the best of times one needed to be a good swimmer, which Enrico was not, and if the water level was low, it took a great deal of strength to haul oneself out of the vat. Jack was not only a confident swimmer but a strong boy and
Enrico felt safe with him. Jack would drag him out of the water if need be.

‘Jack Brearley. Hah! He will get you into trouble, that one. He is like his father. Not to be trusted, you wait and see.' Rico had no reason at all to dislike young Jack but the boy's natural high spirits reminded him constantly of Harry Brearley and Harry Brearley rankled with Rico.