Kal (45 page)

Jack staggered as the force threw him to one side. Tom fell to the ground. But it was Ben and Bill Brereton who suffered the full impact of the blast. The explosives were right beneath them.

As if in slow motion, Tom Brereton watched his brothers fall headlong into the trenches. He lay powerless on the ground as he watched them, in the garish light of the flares, being buried alive. Even as he hauled himself to his knees, dirt and debris continued to fall all around him, but he had no mind for the surrounding chaos as he clawed at the freshly created grave.

‘Tom!' Above the din he heard Jack's voice and turned in time to see the glint of the Turk's dagger. He threw himself to one side, the dagger slicing through his upper arm, and then the weight of the man's body was upon him as Jack's bayonet found its mark. Tom heaved the body aside and once again started clawing at the rubble.

‘Leave it, Tom! Leave it!' Jack was yelling and trying to pull him away.

‘Our own bomb, for Christ's sake!' There was hysteria in his voice as he dug frantically. ‘We blew them up with our own bloody bomb!'

‘It wouldn't do any good, even if you could get them out!' Jack shouted. ‘They copped the full blast; they've had it, mate!' The hysteria in Tom Brereton died as quickly as it had manifested itself. ‘They've had it,' Jack repeated.

Tom nodded, picking up his rifle and bayonet. The Turks had fled the section of the trench which had been directly hit by the explosives but there were whole pockets of resistance where the battle raged on. Jack followed Tom as he charged into the fray.

 

T
HE DAY'S FIRST
light revealed the full success of the attack. Only one portion of the enemy line remained in Turkish hands. Relief forces were called in to build a barricade across the trench and further barricades across communication saps leading back to Turkish positions. The relief forces continued to repel any Turks attempting to return and the victorious men of C Company had been retired to safety behind the lines.

Tom Brereton leaned against the dugout wall, his left arm hanging limply by his side. Blood dripped from his fingers and his face was deathly white. Any minute he was going to faint.

Jack stuffed the letter he'd barely read into his top pocket and crossed to his friend. ‘We need to get you to the iodine king, mate.' He tried to sound as hearty as he could although he felt sick himself at the memory of the Brereton brothers and their moment of death. No time to think about that now.

‘Look at it.' Tom thrust the envelope he clutched in his right hand at Jack. ‘Just look at it, will you? “The Brereton Boys”, that's what it says. Bloody stupid. That's Dad. He thinks we're all going to make it through this war, the stupid bastard. It's a miracle the three of us got this far.' He swayed and would have fallen had Jack not caught him in time.

‘Give us a hand, will you?' Jack turned to the nearest man for help. Rick Gianni was immediately by his side. ‘We have to take him to the beach.'

‘Sure. I'll get a stretcher.'

‘No.' As Rick turned to go, Tom's voice stopped him. ‘No stretcher.'

He wouldn't let them carry him although he was so weak he could barely walk.

‘Lean on me,' Jack insisted, hitching Brereton's uninjured arm over his shoulder and holding him firmly around the waist.

Tom staggered as he tried to pick up his kit.

‘It's all right, mate,' Rick grabbed the rifle and backpack, ‘I've got your kit, don't worry.'

Three times during the trek to the beach he nearly fell and eventually Rick and Jack took a shoulder each and virtually carried him. He didn't seem to feel any pain from his injury, although Rick was covered in the blood which flowed anew from the exertion.

‘Hell of a thing to happen, eh?' Tom talked continuously as they went. ‘Copping it from your own bomb.' He gave a derisive snort, as if the whole incident were some shockingly tasteless joke. ‘I mean, being smudged is one thing, but being smudged by your own bloody bomb! Hell of a thing to happen.' He looked at the letter, now a crumpled blood-stained mess, still clutched in his hand. ‘The Brereton boys! The Bloody Brereton boys! Hell of a thing to happen.'

He was delirious by the time they got him to the medical tent.

‘He'll make it,' the medical officer said on examination. ‘The wound is superficial but he's lost a lot of blood. You should have got him here earlier.'

The officer's tone was censorious and for a moment Rick thought Jack was going to hit the man.

‘Come on, Jack,' he said, ‘let's get out of here. I've
saved my rum ration, I reckon we've earned it.'

Jack followed him automatically and, as they sat on the beach together, Rick handed him the little tin flask of rum from the top pocket of his tunic. The night before a battle, the men were given a rum ration and, not being much of a drinker, Rick invariably kept his.

They sat on the beach together staring out to sea. A Gianni and a Brearley sharing a drink. Rick wondered vaguely what their fathers would say. Rico and Harry would surely disown their sons if they could see them now.

He glanced at Jack and realised that Tom Brereton was not the only one suffering the effects of shock. The little tin flask which Jack had placed beside him had tipped over and rum was spilling out onto the sand. But Jack hadn't noticed. He was staring blankly ahead. His jaw was clenched, his breathing was shallow and fast and a muscle twitched in the side of his neck. Delayed shock. Rick knew all the signs. He'd seen them and suffered them himself. Many times. They all had. Distraction was the answer.

‘I got a couple of letters from home,' he said taking them from his pocket. Better not mention that one of them was from Giovanni, he thought. ‘My sister, Carmelina,' he said, opening the letter he'd not yet read. ‘You remember Carmelina.'

The banal chatter distracted Jack and he turned, irritated by the voice. Bloody Enrico Gianni, he thought. Pity it wasn't him who'd copped it instead of the Brereton brothers. The bastard was only good for playing his bloody concertina anyway.

He returned his gaze to the ocean, but he didn't see the waves lapping the shore, or the clear blue horizon. He saw Bill Brereton's body exploding in front of him. In the gaudy light of the flares, he saw the recognition of death in Ben's eyes as he was hurled into the trench to be buried alive.

‘Who was your letter from?' The voice again. Jack didn't answer. ‘I saw you got a letter,' the voice insisted. ‘Who was it from? Anyone I know?'

Jack turned, and the images disappeared as he saw Rick Gianni nodding, encouraging.

‘Your letter. Who was it from?'

It was then Jack realised that he'd been hyperventilating. He stared down at the sand and noticed that the rum had spilled from the flask. ‘A girl,' he said. ‘No one important. Just a girl.' Jack felt his breathing subside.

The images would return tonight of course. The death of the Brereton brothers would join the list of hideous images which would haunt his sleeping hours for the rest of his life. There was surely not one ANZAC who did not wake with his own image of the horrors of battle. But Jack's shock reaction was abating and he was grateful to Rick Gianni's distraction for that.

He picked up the little tin flask and wiped the sand from it. ‘I'm sorry about your rum,' he said as he handed it back. ‘I'll give you my next ration.'

Rick shrugged. ‘I don't really drink much, it doesn't matter—'

‘I'm no bludger and I owe you.' There was a grudging thanks in his voice. ‘I'll give you my next ration.'

‘Rightio.'

The Cremorne Gardens stood at the top end of Hannan Street not far from the railway station. In an effort to justify the name, the surrounding ten-foot-high tin fence had been scenically painted with trees and bushes and flowers. In reality, however, the Cremorne Gardens was anything but a garden. On the other side of the tin fence, the ground was gravelled and there was not a tree or flower to be seen, just rows and rows of hessian deck chairs under the open sky. All facing the magic, silver screen.

Carmelina Gianni loved the Cremorne Gardens. Every Friday, she and her girlfriends would be the first to queue for tickets. They would sit anchored to their deck chairs, eyes glued to the screen, transfixed by the smouldering intensity of Wallace Reid or the exotic sexuality of Theda Bara and, for a precious two hours, they would escape the humdrum life of Kal.

When Louis Picot invited Carmelina to the Cremorne Gardens, it was a dream come true. Not only was he the wealthy son of the famous Gaston Picot and the new manager of Kalgoorlie's most glamorous restaurant, Louis could have stepped right off the screen himself. His were Hollywood looks. From the dark, curly locks which framed his face to the passionate eyes and pencil moustache.

Louis himself had taken great pains to acquire the image he presented. He had always admired his father's professional Frenchman act and, indeed, Gaston's advice to him had always been, ‘Be interesting, Louis … be different … stand out in a crowd'. So Louis had adopted the Latin lover image. It was quite the fashion of the day and served him well. There were few enough young men left since the outbreak of war, let alone ones who looked like matinee idols. He regretted the fact that he didn't have a foreign accent but his parentage and his name were glamorously European and that sufficed.

Louis and Carmelina met at Smedley's Haberdashery where, for the past six months, Carmelina had been employed to sell the ladies' goods—the gloves, ribbons, buttons and threads—and, at the end of the day, to tidy the displays and sweep the floors. It was a happy arrangement. Smedley found having a beautiful young girl about the shop good for business, and Carmelina was delighted to be out of school, which she had always detested, and earning her own living.

‘Such a sweet girl,' Albert Smedley remarked when he noticed how taken Louis Picot appeared to be with his young assistant. ‘Remarkable to think she has only recently celebrated her seventeenth birthday.'

Louis's eyes were cold. Was there an element of censure in Smedley's tone? Impossible—the man could not afford to lose his prize customer. ‘Which makes her even more attractive surely,' he smiled. ‘The bloom of youth is irresistible, is it not?'

‘It most certainly is, Mr Picot.' Smedley reverted to servility; he had made the gesture after all, that was enough. ‘She is indeed a very beautiful young woman.' He carefully wrapped the silk cravat Louis had purchased and pretended not to hear him ask Carmelina to dine at Restaurant Picot.

Carmelina knew that to dine at the restaurant was out of the question—word would inevitably reach her father. ‘I'm afraid I already have a dinner engagement, Mr Picot. Just a family gathering,' she added hastily in case he should think she had a beau.

‘Ah well, no matter.' Louis checked his image in the mirror behind the counter and slightly adjusted his trilby. It was probably just as well she wasn't available, he told himself. He hadn't realised that this luscious-bodied temptress was only seventeen. Of course, that made her all the more desirable, but if the girl's family was around, it simply wasn't worth the trouble. ‘Thank you, Albert,' he said as he accepted the package from Smedley.

‘Thank
you
, Mr Picot.' Albert Smedley bobbed a sort of curtsy.

‘However …' She was at the door in a flash and all Louis could think of was how beautiful her breasts looked under the white, starched blouse. ‘However,' she repeated breathlessly, ‘there is a new picture opening at the Cremorne Gardens and I have made an arrangement to go with some friends and … um …' Her voice petered out as he looked at her with his smouldering eyes. Eyes just like Wallace Reid's in
The Affairs of Anatole
, Carmelina thought, her heart pounding with excitement.

Louis was undone. In an instant, caution was thrown to the wind. The girl was not only beautiful, she was a virgin; he was sure of it. Ripe and ready and panting to explore her own sexuality.

‘Then perhaps, if your friends could forgo the pleasure of your company,' he said, smiling his Latin lover smile, ‘you might allow me the pleasure?' Her brown eyes, wide as saucers, were staring disbelievingly up at him. ‘Would you accompany me to the Cremorne Gardens, Miss …?'

‘Gianni. Yes …' Carmelina couldn't believe it was happening. ‘Yes, that would be nice.'

‘Where do you live? I shall pick you up in my car.'

‘No, no, there's no need, I'll meet you at the picture theatre.'

He'd known of course that she would say that. God forbid he should meet her family. ‘Very well. Shall we say eight o'clock?'

 

A M
ACK
S
ENNETT
film was showing that night but neither of them were really watching. Not even Carmelina, despite the fact that Mabel Normand was one of her favourites. Prior to the interval, all Carmelina could think of was the envious looks her friends cast in her direction. And after the interval, all she could think of was the fact that Louis Picot was holding her right hand in both of his. But he wasn't really holding it at all. He was making love to it. The fingers of his left hand were interlaced with hers and, as he placed their hands upon his knee, she could feel the warmth of his body. With his right hand, he stroked her wrist, her forearm, the back of her hand. And she felt the caress of his fingertips through her whole body.

As for Louis, he had not an inkling of the film they were watching. Neither the title, nor the stars, nor the story. He could feel her quivering. Virgins always excited him. Virgins on the brink of discovery, wanting to know, wanting to experience and be taught. And the tuition was such a delicate exercise. One had to be so careful.

At twenty-six, Louis Picot was a debauched young man. A product of his upbringing, he saw no wrong in his behaviour. He had been taught that one's activities behind closed doors were immaterial so long as, in society, one behaved like a gentleman.

Shortly before his seventeenth birthday, Louis had
lost his virginity to the madam of a high-class brothel.

His father had been proud of his reported performance. ‘Madame Clarisse says that you performed like a man, Louis.
Bon. Tres bon
. It is beholden upon a man to be a good lover.'

Over the following year, proud of his son's good looks and sophistication, Gaston took the boy on many an evening foray, gambling, drinking, womanising. He boasted to his friends that Louis was only seventeen and yet already a man of the world.

‘Discretion is the key to social success, Louis,' Gaston advised. ‘One can move in all circles if one is discreet. From the crudest of whorehouses to the most patrician of homes—why to royalty itself—one can make love to harlots one night and the wives of aristocrats the next … so long as one is discreet.'

Gaston explained all of his business dealings to Louis shortly after the boy turned eighteen, including the string of lucrative brothels in Kalgoorlie. After all, Louis would own them one day. Far from being shocked, Louis was deeply impressed. His father's business profile was so respectable.

It was a lesson which Louis took to heart but, as the years progressed, even the worldly Gaston Picot might have been a little shocked had he known the extent of his son's depravity.

Louis knew he must move with caution. The girl wanted to be taken, certainly, but despite the quickened pulse he could feel beneath his fingertips and the quivering which he knew was coursing through her entire body, he must feed her fantasy until she was ready. If his sexual advances were too overt she would be frightened off.

‘Shall we walk a little?' he said when the film was over.

Carmelina nodded, aware of her friends peering
over the tops of their deck chairs down the front, whispering and nudging each other. She hoped desperately that they would keep her secret and that word would not reach her father, but she was bursting with pride as she walked out of the Cremorne Gardens on Louis Picot's arm. She felt like a Hollywood princess and it was worth risking her father's ire for that. It was worth risking anything for that.

They walked past the Mount Charlotte Mine. The night was soft and dark, the barest of crescent moons in the sky. He stopped and, without a word, drew her to him. She said nothing, but she felt herself tremble.

Their bodies were very close and his hands were caressing her hair, and her shoulders, and the small of her back. His mouth was gently kissing the side of her neck. Up towards her ear. Her chin. Her mouth. When their lips finally touched, it was not experience that opened her mouth to his, it was something she had never felt before. An urgency. And her breath came in short gasps as she pressed every inch of her body against his, her mouth now open and hungry.

Louis was pleased—she was more ready than he'd thought. It appeared he didn't need to wait at all. ‘Shall we go to my room at the Palace?' he whispered.

It was the shock Carmelina needed. The spell was broken. She had been mindless to everything but the touch of his mouth and his hands and the closeness of his body.

‘No,' she said breathlessly. ‘No, I must go home, my father will kill me if I'm late.'

Louis was fully aware that he could have had her, right then and there on the ground, but he didn't want it that way. It would be over too quickly and the pleasure would be wasted. Besides, the night was dark and he wanted to see her body; to watch her moan and writhe and beg for more as he played the master.

‘I must see you again.' He tucked her arm caringly into his and they walked back towards the Cremorne Gardens.

‘Yes.' Carmelina was still fighting for control. She had shocked herself. It was passion she'd felt, she knew that. But where had it come from? She'd felt like an animal. Like a bitch on heat. ‘Will you be coming to Smedley's Haberdashery again soon?' She must try and sound normal.

‘Oh my dear,' he smiled, ‘how many gloves, cravats and stick pins does one need?' That sounded too flippant, he decided, it would be wiser to play the young Lothario. This one was worth more than a single experience. This one was very young and very passionate and could be trained. ‘Besides,' he added gently, ‘I would prefer us to be alone. I don't care to share you with others.'

Carmelina was once more in control of herself. Her heart still beat wildly, but now it was for sheer romance. Everything he said was straight out of a Hollywood picture.

Louis stopped as an idea occurred to him. ‘How would you like to work at Restaurant Picot?' he asked abruptly. In the stunned silence which followed, he added, ‘It would be a very respectable position. You would greet the guests and help them on and off with their shawls and cloaks and hats.'

He was struck with the brilliance of his idea. A pretty young girl as cloakroom attendant would be far more effective than the current uniformed bell-hop. But of course that was why his father had recently appointed him manager of Restaurant Picot. ‘Innovative ideas, Louis,' Gaston had said, ‘that is what what we need. Innovative
young
ideas. Harry Brearley has become too complacent, too middle-aged. Naturally,' he'd added, ‘you must not tell him I said that. Let him parade
around—as he will wish to of course—but you, my son, will be the driving force behind Restaurant Picot.'

‘We will buy a beautiful black evening dress for you,' Louis went on, genuinely enthusiastic, ‘and you will look like a film star when you greet the guests.'

‘Oh.' Carmelina could barely breathe for excitement.

 

‘I
AM GOING
to say yes, Papa. Whether you like it or not.'

Young Salvatore grabbed another hunk of bread and watched his sister do battle. She certainly had guts, he had to give her that. But, as always, she was the one most likely to get around their father's defences.

This time, however, Rico would have none of it. ‘It's Harry Brearley's place,' he said. As far as Rico was concerned, that was the end of the matter.

‘No, Papa, it's not!'

Carmelina had told Louis that Harry Brearley would be the reason her father would object and Louis had come up with all the right answers, many of them bordering on the truth. ‘But your father must tell no one,' he'd warned.

‘That is why Mr Picot has taken over,' she continued. ‘His father is getting rid of Harry Brearley but no one is supposed to know yet. Not even Harry himself. Mr Picot's father says that Harry Brearley is finished in Kal.'

Rico looked at Teresa across the breakfast table. ‘That is something I would like to see,' he said.

‘I can tell you everything that is going on there, Papa.' Carmelina could see that the idea intrigued her father so she went in for the kill. Defiant, proud, she played the scene just the way one of her Hollywood heroines would have played it.

‘It is a very respectable position I am being offered, greeting the guests as they arrive at Restaurant Picot. I will be looked up to and admired.' Now the emotional plea. ‘Oh Papa, I don't want to spend the rest of my
life sweeping up the floor of Smedley's Haberdashery.'

It was all that was needed. Of course Rico gave in, as Teresa knew he would. Laughable as she found Carmelina's performance, she rather envied her daughter's ability to manipulate. Was it just the moving pictures which had taught her, Teresa wondered, or was it born in her?

‘What do you think, Teresa?' Rico's voice interrupted her thoughts.