Elianne (49 page)

‘I’ll manage,’ he replied with an easy shrug. ‘And just think, by the time we get married I’ll have been a good practising Catholic for a whole year. That’ll impress your dad no end.’

‘Yes,’ she replied a little distractedly, ‘it will.’

Paola was shortly to turn twenty and they planned to marry the following year after her twenty-first birthday. But Paola didn’t want to wait another whole twelve months. In fact Paola wasn’t sure if she could. Already she was wondering how she might go about changing the course of events. No one was receptive to her suggestions that perhaps they could speed up the process. Everyone including Alan himself seemed prepared to wait until she was twenty-one. ‘I promised your father,’ Alan would say, albeit reluctantly, and she would spend hours lying in her sleepless bed staring into the black hole of night, pondering a course of action. She must be bold, she knew that much.

She decided to carry out her plan on the Saturday following his baptism and Communion, which marked his official acceptance into the Catholic Church. The timing seemed right, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

‘Let’s go to Bargara this Saturday afternoon,’ she said lingering over the second half of her curried egg sandwich (he’d already scoffed his down and was back at his workbench). ‘I could make us up a picnic lunch.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you’d like – sounds good to me.’

‘Don’t come and collect me though,’ she said, ‘I’ll get the bus into town. It’ll save time.’ Paola had Saturdays off, but Alan always worked through until at least midday.

‘Rightio, but don’t bother packing picnic stuff, we’ll grab some fish and chips, easier that way.’

She arrived carrying a shoulder bag stuffed with swimming togs, hat, beach towel, after-swim robe and a miscellany of other items that from the size of the bag appeared quite unnecessary.

‘Crikey, you’ve come prepared,’ he said. Alan had his togs on under his shorts and a towel slung over his shoulder.

‘It’s the girl scout in me.’ She gave a disarming grin. ‘Well, no,’ she admitted, ‘it’s probably just the girl.’

The weather was glorious, November but not yet scorching, and they drove with the windows down as usual, the wind whipping at Paola’s hair until with her customary deftness she tied it up in a knot.

Once at Bargara they headed directly for The Basin, where they cooled off among the families and young children wallowing in the shallows.

‘Let’s go to the surf beach,’ she suggested as they lay side by side on the sand soaking up the sun.

‘Why?’

‘So you can catch some waves of course – this is far too tame for you. I’m happy to watch.’

‘Nah, can’t be bothered.’ Propping on an elbow he leant down and kissed her. ‘Besides I don’t want to let you out of my sight.’ It was true, he didn’t. She looked glorious in the bright red one-piece costume that set off the silky-olive of her skin and the raven-black of her hair. ‘Anyway I’m starving,’ he jumped to his feet, ‘come on,’ he said, offering her his hand, ‘fish and chips time.’

They bought their fish and chips wrapped up in newspaper and drove to the surf club, where they sat on the grass and looked out at the beach. From somewhere nearby came the sound of a transistor radio. Frank Sinatra was building to the final crescendo of ‘My Way’.

‘This is where I fell in love with you,’ she said matter-of-factly, blowing on a chip that, fresh from the vat was still blisteringly hot, ‘right there.’ She waved the chip at the vast expanse of beach. ‘That very spot.’

Alan laughed at the incongruity. ‘That very spot, eh?’ he said wolfing down a steaming mouthful of fish.

‘Absolutely, I swear it. I can still see the dent in the sand. You told me I looked like Natalie Wood, don’t you remember?’

‘Of course I remember.’

She bit into the chip. ‘I was fifteen years old,’ she said looking down at the engagement ring no longer kept hidden but living permanently on her finger, ‘and I knew right then that I wanted to marry you.’

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I felt exactly the same way.’

They kissed, tasting the salt and the oil of each other’s mouths. Nearby, the transistor radio was no longer playing Frank Sinatra but Stevie Wonder, who was singing, rather aptly ‘My Cherie Amour’.

After demolishing the fish and chips, they sunbaked and had another swim, Alan catching a few waves while Paola dabbled near the shore, and then they drove back to the flat at East Bundaberg, where she made them a pot of tea.

‘Do you mind if I have a shower before you take me home?’ she said. ‘I’m all sandy.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’ He fetched a fresh towel for her and sat in the kitchen finishing his tea.

‘Oh my God,’ he said when she reappeared to stand before him fifteen minutes later. He rose and stared at her in shock, mesmerised by the sight. She was wearing a knee-length cream-coloured nightdress, lace-trimmed and of the sheerest silk. With shoe-string shoulder-straps and a deep décolletage nothing was left to the imagination and, although the fabric was not altogether transparent, from the way it caressed her skin she was clearly naked beneath. He remained speechless, unable to do anything but drink in the sight of her.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, but went on without waiting for an answer. ‘It’s a nightie, but the lady in the shop called it a
chemise
– it’s French. I told her I was buying it for my trousseau and she said it was exactly the right thing for a bride on her wedding night.’

Paola was aware she was probably talking too much, but she didn’t dare risk a pause that might appear like uncertainty. She was not asking a question, she was making a statement. ‘It’s time, Alan,’ she said, ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ and she crossed to him, arms outstretched, offering herself. He was powerless to resist.

As they made love on the little single bed with its threadbare mattress, Alan tried to be as gentle as possible and, surprisingly enough, despite his own mounting passion, it did not prove difficult. Looking into her eyes, watching the wonderment unfold, feeling the response of her body after the initial pain of penetration, he was lost in his love of her. And even more, he was lost in her love of him. The touch and texture of her body was as thrillingly sensual as he remembered a woman to be from his experience in Brisbane, but this was not like the sex he’d had with the girl whose name was long forgotten. This was not sex he and Paola were sharing at all: this was something far greater. The willingness with which she gave herself to him and the responsibility with which he embraced her trust was a sharing of love, an exchange of vows.

‘We really are married now,’ she said as they lay naked, her head resting on his chest.

‘Yes.’ Alan refused to feel guilt, at this stage anyway. He knew that would come later, and he knew it would hit him hard, but for now he could live only in this moment. ‘Yes, Paola, we’re married.’

He was surprised when she told him she was staying the night.

‘Of course I am,’ she said with a laugh when he queried the fact. ‘This is my wedding night. A bride doesn’t go home on her wedding night.’

‘No I mean how have you managed it? What will your parents say?’

‘I told them I was going to a Wyper Brothers pre-Christmas staff picnic at Bargara,’ she coolly explained. ‘Wypers always have a staff party in November. And I told them one of my girlfriends at work suggested I stay overnight at her flat.’

‘And they believed you?’

‘Of course. I said I’d meet them in town for Mass tomorrow morning.’ She smiled at his open incredulity. ‘My church dress and scarf and shoes are in your wardrobe,’ she said.

‘You really did come prepared, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve had this planned for a fortnight.’

They ate Heinz baked beans on toast for dinner – as this was the bachelor meal of Alan’s choice there was always a healthy supply of tins in the kitchen cupboard. Then they made love again. This time, free of any pain and discomfort, Paola’s response was unrestrained. She was a sensual girl to whom sex came naturally.

They made love again in the morning, languidly, with no sense of urgency, luxuriating in each other’s bodies. It was as if they’d been lovers for years.

‘I like being married,’ she said.

She made them toast and a pot of tea, but as she set breakfast out on the kitchen table before him, chattering away and glowing like a young wife serving her husband’s first meal, guilt started to creep over Alan.

‘We’ll have to arrive at the church separately of course,’ she said, oblivious to his concern as she poured the tea. ‘How exciting that this morning’s your first Communion service,’ she beamed happily, ‘that’s why I planned things the way I did. We get married and you get accepted into the church all at the same time –’

‘But we’re not married, Paola.’ She was halted abruptly by the sternness of his voice. ‘We’re not married and you know it. I’ve betrayed your father’s trust. I gave him my word.’

For the first time she recognised his genuine worry. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she assured him, keen to allay his fears, ‘Papa doesn’t need to know. We’ll just tell him we want to marry sooner. I’ll tell him myself. I’ll say, “Papa, I can’t wait any longer, it’s not fair you should ask me to.” He’ll understand, I promise . . .’

Aware that he was not convinced, Paola went on to tell him a secret. ‘I’ve heard my mother and father over the years, Alan,’ she said. ‘I admit these past few years I’ve listened. I’ve listened as hard as I could for the noises, wanting to know what it’s like, imagining it’s you and me. They think they make no sound, but they do, and the walls in our house are thin. I’ve heard them making love.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘Papa and Mamma will understand, truly they will.’

‘Ah well,’ he smiled in return, not wishing to worry her, but despite her worldly confidence he remained dubious, ‘we’ll see.’

Papa and Mamma will probably understand only too well, he thought. Luigi will anyway, I’ll bet on it. The moment we ask permission to marry earlier than planned, Luigi will know I’ve betrayed his trust. And what of the other possibility, what if she’s pregnant? That hasn’t even been mentioned. We made love three times without protection.

As he sipped his tea Alan made a mental note that first thing tomorrow he must buy some condoms.

They arrived at the church separately to meet up with the family, kissing each other on the cheek in greeting as they always did, and upon entering the church they sat side by side in the pew as usual, although he was aware that she was snuggling up to him a little closer than normal.

When he rose to take his first Holy Communion, Alfonso and the brothers patted him on the back as he joined them in the queue, but kneeling before the priest, Alan was barely aware of receiving the Eucharist, by now he was so riddled with guilt.

Throughout the service he’d been unable to meet Luigi’s eyes, which he knew were upon him and had been from the moment they’d entered the church. He felt wretched and now that he was taking Communion doubly so. Not only was he a liar who had broken an oath sworn to the man who’d saved his life, he was a fraud. How dare he pose as a Catholic, what right did he have to deceive these good people?

As young Alan Durham went through the motions, accepting the body and blood of Christ, he didn’t know where to look or how to hide his shame.

Luigi and Maria had recognised the signs. Maria particularly had known in an instant and she’d nudged her husband, whispering in his ear. Alan’s guilt had been readable from the outset, but Paola’s boldness had been the true giveaway. Paola had met her parents’ eyes with a defiance that was undeniable, an expression even of triumph. It was obvious to them both who had been the true seducer.

At the conclusion of the service, when the families filed out of the church and were heading for their respective vehicles, Paola accompanying her parents, Luigi waved Alan over.

‘You will come back to the house?’ He posed it as a question, but Alan rightfully took it as a command.

‘Of course,’ he agreed, and he followed them to Elianne in his Holden.

When they were gathered in the Fiorellis’ kitchen, Georgio once again discreetly absent, Luigi, Paola and Alan sat at the large wooden table while Maria brewed the coffee.

Luigi solemnly addressed the young couple. ‘There is something you wish to say to me?’

‘There is, Papa.’ Paola took it upon herself to answer, coming out with her prepared response. ‘I don’t want to wait a whole year before I marry,’ she said rebelliously. ‘It’s not fair you should ask me to. Alan and I wish to marry as soon as possible.’

‘Yes,’ Luigi’s reply was not directed to his daughter, but to his future son-in-law, ‘I believe that you should.’ His wife nodded agreement as she set the coffee pot on the table.

Alan couldn’t believe things had been resolved so simply. It appeared Paola had been right: Luigi and Maria really did understand.

Stanley Durham, however, did not. How could such a situation have come about without his knowledge, he demanded when his wife informed him of the news. The world had gone quite mad.

‘You’ve had your head in the sand, Stanley,’ Hilda said with her newfound confidence, ‘everyone knows Alan and Paola have been officially engaged for some time, and with her parents’ approval.’

‘I thought that nonsense had been long forgotten.’

‘No, you just wished that it had.’ Hilda’s confidence occasionally bordered on courage.

‘Is that right? Well how the hell are they going to get married when she’s a bloody Mick?’ Stan growled triumphantly, ‘you tell me that!’

‘Alan has converted to Catholicism, or so he has confided to me – rather difficult to believe, I know, but there we are.’

Stan, rendered speechless and already maddened by his wife’s complacency, left the room.

He did not go to the wedding, which was held a month later, refusing to set foot in the Catholic Church. But Kate did. Kate flew up from Sydney. And she brought Frank Madigan with her.

‘Would you mind an extra house guest for a few days, Marmee?’ Her query over the phone had been deliberately casual. ‘Frank’s a good friend and I’ve told him so much about Elianne. I’d love him to see the place for himself.’