Kal (29 page)

But she couldn't fool herself. She
was
disappointed. Deeply disappointed. Incorrigible as he might be, Harry Brearley had always charmed her, always made her laugh. The eighteen months of their marriage had been the happiest time in Maudie's thirty-one years and, after the birth of the twins, when she was convinced that he had mended his ways, she had finally admitted to herself that she truly did love Harry. Now she wasn't so sure. The blinkers had gone and, with them, the magic. Harry had not mended his ways at all. His charm was turned on when it suited his purpose and when he made her laugh it was because it was to his advantage to do so. Maudie wondered whether she would ever delight in him again the way she used to.

If only he could share the truth with her, she thought. But she believed that Harry had lost all sight of the truth. The more he swore that the Italians had misunderstood the contract, the more Maudie realised that
he believed it. And then when he swore Giovanni had attacked him with a steel pipe …

‘He had a steel pipe?' she'd interrupted, incredulously. ‘Giovanni?' And Jack's eyes too mirrored his astonishment.

‘Yes! A steel pipe.' He held his hands out. ‘This long,' he swore vehemently.

‘And he attacked you with it?'

Was there a momentary hesitation then or was Maudie imagining it? She didn't press the issue. What was the point? She didn't want to discredit him in his son's eyes.

Although she didn't believe Harry, as the days passed Maudie couldn't help but be affected by the self-righteous indignation with which he justified himself.

Damn the Giannis, she found herself thinking. Why hadn't they employed a lawyer to negotiate their contract? Then they could have caught Harry out before his blind opportunism had landed him in this mess.

She would never forgive Rico Gianni for the madness of that night. Nor Giovanni for his attack. Whether the steel pipe was factual or not, both brothers had sought violent retribution, and Maudie abhorred violence.

Yes, damn the Giannis, she thought. If the Giannis hadn't come into our lives…

 

‘Y
OU'VE WHAT
! Good God, man, I sold it to you only a fortnight ago.' Harry stared at Picot in shock.

Picot nodded. ‘And I sold it two days later. I see you have lost some teeth.'

Harry was so appalled he forgot to cover his mouth. ‘But why? To whom?'

‘The Mount Charlotte Mine is extending.' The Frenchman shrugged indifferently. ‘There's no money in
small leases, there hasn't been for quite some time.' Gaston's accent had diminished considerably now that there was no need to impress. ‘I'm surprised Evan Jones didn't sell directly to the Mount Charlotte in the first place, instead of to you and the Italians, but then I have heard that he is not much of a businessman.'

‘You sold the Clover two days after you bought it?'

Picot nodded.

‘Then you must have made a deal with them before me.'

Picot nodded again. ‘They thought I already owned the mine. Gave me double the price I gave you.'

How could the man have done this to him? Harry thought, aghast. And how could he remain so indifferent whilst admitting to such blatant treachery? ‘But we're friends,' he protested lamely. ‘I trusted you.'

‘So? You were friends with the Italian brothers. And they trusted you. Business is business, my friend.' Harry's mouth was still agape and Gaston studied the missing teeth with interest. ‘So it is true what they say.' Harry looked blankly back at him. ‘That the Italian made a mess of you.'

Hastily Harry brought his hand up to obscure his mouth. ‘Who says that?' he muttered. ‘Giovanni?'

‘No, no, the brothers have said nothing. But people talk. He was seen driving your trap into town. You were in it, smashed to a pulp.'

‘An accident.' Harry drained his Scotch. ‘An accident, that's all it was. The Italian brought me home.'

‘That is exactly what I told them at the Club,' Gaston smiled. ‘Now stop looking so betrayed,
mon ami
, and pour me a Scotch; there are things we must talk about.'

Harry found himself automatically obeying and Gaston watched as he fetched the decanter from the corner cabinet. He still felt a certain fondness for Harry
Brearley. Humorous as it was, there was something quite touching about the man's wounded vanity and Gaston, himself extremely vain, sympathised.

‘I return to the city in two days. You must come with me,' he said.

‘Why?' Harry's tone was churlish as he handed the Frenchman his drink.

‘Well, I know of a good dentist for one. He will give you brand-new teeth. Ivory. Better than the ones you have lost. Friends of mine say he is a genius.' The gleaming smile was proof positive of the dentist's talent. Although it was a fact he would never admit, Gaston's teeth were not all his own.

‘Besides,' he continued, ‘I have a business proposition which I think may interest you. Salute.' And he raised his glass.

Harry continued to glower but it was becoming difficult to remain churlish in the face of the Frenchman's good humour.

‘You need to get away from Kalgoorlie,' Gaston continued, ‘just for a month or so, while the townspeople find fresh gossip. You will holiday with me and my family, we can discuss our business and all will be forgotten when you return.'

Harry was aware of the honour being bestowed upon him. There was not a person in Kalgoorlie who wouldn't be flattered to receive an invitation to the Picot mansion in Cottesloe. And not only would it give the Kalgoorlie tongues time to find something else to wag about, it would give Maudie time to calm down, time to get back to normal. Harry desperately missed his good-humoured Maudie.

Attractive as the offer was, however, Harry's pride stood firm. The Frenchman had used him, even made a fool of him, and yet he was expected to forgive and forget in return for an invitation to the home of the great
Gaston Picot. Well, not Harry Brearley. Harry Brearley was not so easily bought.

Gaston smiled to himself, fully aware of Harry's dilemma. He threw in his trump card. ‘And of course you must bring young Jack with you. He would like a holiday by the sea,
n'est-ce pas
?'

It worked, as Gaston had known it would. He'd heard of the man's devotion to his son.

‘The boy would be able to come for only a week,' Harry replied, wavering already. ‘Maudie wouldn't have him miss too much school.'

‘Of course, of course. We can send him back on the train, that will make him feel very grown up.' Gaston offered his hand. ‘It is a deal then?'

Harry accepted the offer as graciously as he could. Not only could he lick his wounds, spend some time alone with Jack and come back with his new teeth to woo Maudie all over again, there was another consideration altogether. One that made the proposition doubly attractive to Harry. It would put time and distance between him and Rico Gianni.

 

‘H
E HAS RUN
! The man is a coward! A snivelling coward!' Rico drained his glass of red wine, poured another, then slouched over his steaming bowl of minestrone, shovelling it into his mouth with a spoon, oblivious to the fact that much of it was running down his beard. ‘Some bread, Carmelina.'

The family was seated on benches either side of the big wooden table which Rico himself had made. Two-year-old Salvatore, perched on cushions beside Teresa, was trying to feed himself but more soup was landing on the table than in his mouth.

‘Slow down, Rico, you will give yourself indigestion,' Teresa said. ‘And wipe your chin,' she added, ‘you're spilling more soup than Salvatore.' She tried to
take the spoon from the little boy but, intent upon feeding himself, he refused to allow her.

Rico ignored the cotton napkin beside his bowl and wiped his beard with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘In the soup,' he said to Carmelina as she tore his bread up for him. ‘Put it in the soup.' Carmelina meekly obeyed. Normally she answered back to her father, but lately even Carmelina trod warily around Rico.

Giovanni dipped a hunk of bread into his own soup and tried to ignore his brother. For three weeks now Rico had been sitting around the house with his arm in a sling, venting his anger on those about him. Giovanni was grateful for the long, hard hours he worked at the Midas. He would have preferred to have moved out altogether but, until Rico was fit enough to work, every penny earned was necessary for the family's survival.

‘He thinks running away will save him? Well, he is wrong.' Rico stirred the bread around vigorously, soup slopping over the sides of the bowl. ‘I will be here when he comes back.' He swigged from his fresh glass of wine.

Teresa had given up any pretence of eating. She had not been hungry from the moment they had sat to table. As she mopped up Salvatore's mess with her napkin she could feel her anger mounting, the anger she had been suppressing for days. She had excused Rico long enough. He was in pain, she had told herself for the first week after the shooting. Then the week after that she had told herself it was his boredom and frustration, the hurt to his male pride as he watched Giovanni go to work every day to support his, Rico's, family. But she knew it was more than that, she knew he was allowing his desire for revenge to devour him.

Over and over, she and Giovanni had told Rico that Harry Brearley's treachery had been avenged, that there must be no more violence.

‘His woman shoots me in the back and I am not to avenge myself?' he'd raged.

‘If a man threatened my babies I would shoot him too,' Teresa retaliated. Although she would never forgive Maudie Brearley her complicity in their betrayal, Teresa had been shocked when she had heard the true facts.

Rico had abandoned his attack upon Maudie, but no amount of reasoning could turn him from his desire for revenge. On and on he raged until their home was poisoned with his hate and Teresa felt she could stand it no longer.

And now Harry had left town.

Enrico had heard the news at school. He and Jack Brearley were in the same class and today Jack hadn't been there.

‘I bet you don't know where Jack's gone,' one of his classmates had jeered. Everyone knew about the recent enmity between the two boys.

‘I know where I hope he's gone,' Enrico had replied. ‘Hell. That's where I hope he's gone. Hell.' ‘Hell' was a word he had learned from Jack, a word he got into trouble using at home.

His reaction was pure bravado. Enrico was not a naturally aggressive boy, preferring to remain quietly in the background. Until it came to singing along with Giovanni and his concertina. Giovanni said that Enrico had the voice of an angel but Jack sneered and said that singing was for girls. Which didn't bother Enrico at all—Jack always mocked him. Good-natured mockery. They were brothers after all. The broken finger proved it.

But the fathers had injected their poison into the veins of their sons. No longer were they brothers.

‘He's gone with his dad to Perth,' the classmate had boasted. ‘And him and his dad are going to stay with Mr Picot and Mr Picot's one of the richest people in the
world and Jack's dad's going into business with him. And when Jack's dad gets really rich and your dad and your uncle are still poor it'll serve them right for bashing Mr Brearley up with a steel—'

‘I hope they all go to hell,' Enrico had interrupted. ‘And I hope you go to hell too.'

Enrico would have been able to forgive Jack just about anything. It was not Jack's fault that his father had brought ruin upon the Gianni family—that was between the grown-ups. And, in his very young heart-of-hearts, Enrico could even believe that his own father had done something terrible, like smash up the Brearleys' pub in the middle of the night. His father sometimes acted crazy, Enrico knew that. But he could never forgive Jack the lies about Giovanni. Giovanni would never attack a man with a steel pipe. Giovanni was a man of peace. And Jack Brearley was a liar, just like his father.

Now Enrico sat staring at his untouched soup, no longer hungry, wishing that he could leave the table.

‘And if the coward does not come back,' Rico continued, pushing his emptied soup bowl to one side, ‘then I will find him.'

‘I'm going for a walk.' Giovanni rose from the table. He'd listened to as much as he possibly could in silence. He knew if he said anything it would start an argument and that was the last thing Teresa wanted. He had sensed her tension. It was palpable as she toyed with her food and stared at the tablecloth.

Now she looked up. ‘But the pasta…'

‘I am not hungry, Teresa. The soup was excellent. Thank you.'

‘Giovanni …' But Giovanni was already out the door.

‘He wants to walk,' Rico growled dismissively. ‘Let the man go. I tell you, Teresa, when I am mended I will
hunt Harry Brearley down. I will hunt him down and …'

Giovanni had been wrong. An argument was exactly what Teresa wanted. More than an argument. Far more. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw Rico's soup bowl across the room and watch it smash against the yellow daisy wallpaper. She wanted to hit Rico as hard as she could, to feel the palm of her hand sting as it slammed against his cheek. Anything to shut him up. She'd been quiet too long and she could take no more.

‘Enrico, Carmelina, put Salvatore to bed please.' She wiped the toddler's face and lifted him from the bench.

Enrico knew something was about to happen. He rose, circled the table and took the child from her. The little boy squirmed and squealed, insisting he be put down so that he could walk on his own.

‘But, Mamma,' Carmelina protested, ‘the pasta.'

‘You can have some pasta when you have put Salvatore to bed.'

Carmelina recognised the steel in her mother's tone and offered no further argument. The two children, Salvatore toddling clumsily between them, walked to the door of their parents' room where the toddler slept.