Kal (46 page)

‘Of course she should accept—it's a very good job.' Teresa didn't know why they were bothering to discuss it. ‘And I'm sure it will pay more than Mr Smedley does.' She began to clear the table. ‘Giovanni has had a letter from Enrico. He is bringing it around to read to us tomorrow.'

Carmelina rose and started scraping the dishes. She could have kissed her mother. First thing Monday morning, when Louis arrived at the haberdashery, they would tell Mr Smedley, together, that she was leaving. Louis had said that she could start work at Restaurant Picot as soon as possible. ‘Just as soon as we buy you the prettiest black dress in Kal,' he'd added.

‘Will you write to him, Carmelina?' her mother was saying. ‘Write to him from all of us.'

Carmelina was confused for a second. Of course, Enrico. ‘Yes, Mamma, I'll write to him,' she promised.

Rico watched his wife carry the pile of dishes to the sink. Teresa was looking tired, he thought. And old. The fire had left her and she looked all of her forty-three years. And yet their lives had never been easier. The children were no trouble or expense. Carmelina donated half her salary to the household and, although Salvatore was still at school, he earned his own pocket money delivering newspapers. As for Rico himself, he received a far better salary as a miner than he ever had as a timbercutter.

When the vast percentage of miners had joined the army and left to fight the war, the big mines had been desperate. They needed men. Rico had approached the Midas for a job and Giovanni had been only too happy to help, knowing that, with young Enrico off to war, times would be hard for the family.

Rico loved working once more below ground. He felt reborn, stronger and fitter than ever, and it saddened him to see his beloved Teresa tired and worn when she should have been enjoying these comfortable middle years of their life together. He knew why she was weary, her heart was aching. Daily she pined for Enrico. Every minute of her waking hours she thought of him. And he, her own husband, could only watch, powerless, unable to help her.

Rico cursed his eldest son. He was a fool. Only fools fought another country's war. They were all fools. But Enrico was the biggest fool of the lot. Not only was Enrico fighting another country's war, he believed he was fighting alongside his fellow countrymen, his fellow ‘Aussies'. That was the most foolish notion of the lot. Enrico was not an Aussie, the Australians were not his countrymen and they never would be. The good old Aussies themselves would never allow him to be one of them, couldn't he see that? Didn't he hear what they called him? Wog. Dago. Didn't he see the looks on their faces in the street?

Of course the people of Kal wouldn't dare offend Rico Gianni these days. But the feeling was the same. It always would be. And that fool of a son of his couldn't see it. There he was, fighting alongside his good old Aussie mates, risking his life and breaking his mother's heart in the process. Well damn him, Rico thought. Damn him, he deserved to get blown to pieces.

‘So Giovanni is bringing a letter from Enrico with
him tomorrow?' Thinking about his son put an edge to Rico's voice.

Teresa recognised it. Oh please, Rico, she prayed, don't start again, please. ‘He will bring his piano accordion too,' she tried to sound cheerful, ‘and we will sing, all of us, just like the old times.'

‘The boy writes to his uncle and not his Mamma and Papa, that's a good son for you.'

‘Giovanni can read, Rico,' God give me patience, she thought, ‘and we cannot. Besides …'

‘Carmelina and Salvatore can.'

‘Besides he has written to us just recently. Now it is Giovanni's turn.' He looked as if he was about to interrupt again so she raised her voice and continued. ‘And who's to say there is not a letter in the post to us right now!'

Leave it, Rico, she begged silently, leave it. She knew he only berated Enrico because he blamed the boy for her unhappiness. But his condemnation didn't help as, each day, Teresa waited for the news of her son's death.

Rico finally shut up. He could see the tension building in her. It was all Enrico's fault. The fool of a boy. He scowled down at the table.

Relieved by the silence, Teresa started to wash the dishes. She should be feeling happy, she thought. Giovanni was coming around tomorrow with a letter from Enrico. She pushed aside the horrible thought that, by the time the mail reached Australian shores, many more soldiers would be lying dead on Turkish soil. It was foolish to think like that. She must keep her spirits up. Tomorrow they would sing songs and read aloud Enrico's letter.

 

A
T FIRST
H
ARRY
had reacted badly to Gaston's suggestion.

‘He wants to make that dandy of a son of his the
manager of Restaurant Picot!' he complained to Maudie the night after Gaston's telephone call. ‘And he's actually pretending he's doing me a favour! “Have a well-earned rest,
mon ami
,” he says, “you've earned it.” What does he take me for, a fool? That boy has been in Kal for two months, “to learn a little of the restaurant trade” I was told, and now he knows it all, and he and his father want to kick me out.'

Maudie chose not to enter into the conversation. The outcome of the disagreement would make very little difference to Harry's lifestyle anyway. He spent his evenings at Restaurant Picot gambling with his friends. If he now needed to change his venue, what difference would it make? Surely it was immaterial whether he gambled at Restaurant Picot or at Hannan's Club.

Maudie had given up nagging Harry about his gambling. If he wanted to throw his money away, then he could, she'd decided. It had been unrealistic and foolish of her to ever presume she could make him change his ways.

But no amount of self-chastisement could alter the fact that Maudie was once again disappointed in Harry—he seemed hell bent on presenting her with a lifetime of disappointments—and she kept her own money well and truly locked away. Just as well she was a self-sufficient woman with a healthy business, she thought, Harry was not a good provider.

He was still a good father to the twins, however, and for that Maudie was thankful. The twins worshipped him, just as little Jack Brearley had done.

Jack. God how she missed him. Of course he was probably giving the army as many headaches as he'd given her—he was trouble, that boy, she thought, with a wistful smile.

Maudie never let herself think of Jack dying. Even as she read the horrific newspaper accounts of the
casualties at Gallipoli, she told herself that it wouldn't happen to Jack. The boy would come home, she told herself. He was the sort that did.

‘What good will Louis Picot do for the restaurant anyway?' Harry was still ranting on. ‘He's a poseur. All he cares about is the cut of his hair and the clothes on his back.'

Maudie didn't point out that, for the whole of Harry's life, he had been consumed by self-image and was a slave to fashion. He was probably envious of Louis Picot, she thought. These days, because of his weight, Harry opted for bulky comfort rather than slenderness of cut, although he still insisted upon the very finest of fabrics. Yes, that was it, she thought, he was envious of young Picot.

It was true that Louis Picot's sartorial elegance irked Harry who, in the main, successfully avoided full-length mirrors and anything else that would tell him the truth. Until recently, he had enjoyed cutting a fine figure as he circulated amongst the diners. He was still a splendid-looking fellow, he told himself. His face was still handsome; he still had a fine head of hair and he certainly felt as young and debonair as ever.

But these days, when young Louis Picot walked into the restaurant, Harry would watch the heads turn and he would catch sight of his own reflection in a window or mirror and realise that he was a bloated middle-aged man with a florid nose, puffy eyes and rather large ears. It was always a shock and he hated it.

The mere thought that this arrogant young peacock was going to usurp his position was intolerable and, for days, Harry fumed. Whether the boy was Gaston's son or not, what right did the Frenchman have to make such a decision? Harry had shares in the restaurant, after all; surely he had some say as to who should manage the place.

But, after the initial assurance that Harry should take a rest, Gaston had studiously avoided him. And now he had left for Europe. Or so Gabrielle had informed Harry when he'd telephoned Maison Picot. Not that Harry had believed her. Picot would be a damn fool to go to Europe now there was a war on. There was little Harry could do but wait for Gaston to contact him.

He'd be waiting a long time, however.

Gaston Picot had finished with Harry Brearley. His own son now had the maturity and experience to take over Restaurant Picot, the legitimacy of the brothels had long been established and, as far as Gaston was concerned, neither Harry nor his position as Deputy Mayor were of any further use. Indeed, it had only been Gaston's money and influence that had kept Harry in office over the last several years, the people were no longer interested in him and the next elections would certainly not see him reinstated. If, after that, Harry were to become too much of a nuisance, the Frenchman held the final ace. Harry had used his shares in Restaurant Picot as collateral to raise money and pay off his gambling debts. It would be simple for Gaston, through his contacts, to have the loan called in. That would certainly finish flashy Harry Brearley.

 

L
OUIS SEDUCED
C
ARMELINA
two weeks after she commenced work at Restaurant Picot. He could have accomplished the seduction much earlier, probably on the first night, but he so enjoyed tantalising her that the wait became exquisite.

For days, in dark corners when no one was watching, Louis had kissed and caressed her and whispered such passionate endearments that, by the time they were actually alone in his room at the Palace Hotel, Carmelina couldn't wait for him to undress her. Any modesty she might once have felt at the prospect of appearing naked
in front of a man had vanished. Her passion had been teased beyond endurance, and she now needed to feel his caresses upon her bare skin and to feel his flesh against hers.

Louis was as gentle as possible when he entered her. In total control, he nursed her through the initial pain. ‘My darling,' he whispered over and over again, ‘you're beautiful. You're beautiful, my darling.' And, when he sensed that she was beyond the pain and there was nothing left but pure pleasure, he brought her to the brink of fulfilment, then withdrew. Again and again he teased her until she was begging him, clutching him, trying to draw him deep inside her. But he wouldn't allow it. Not until he sensed that she could not be tantalised once more without climaxing.

‘No,' she begged as he withdrew. ‘No.'

‘One more time, my darling.' It had been dangerously close then, he thought. ‘Just one more time.' Then one more time after that. And yet again. ‘Just one more time, my darling, one more time.'

Louis was enjoying himself now. This was the way he liked it. He was the master and she the slave, begging for pleasure. Or pain. It made little difference to Louis so long as he was the one in total control.

It was only when she was close to passing out, when she was hyperventilating and her eyelids were fluttering, that he delivered her from her torment. By then, the ecstasy of her orgasm was born of sheer relief and she cried out as she clung to him, her body heaving.

Louis finally allowed himself to ejaculate but, as usual, his climax was the least important aspect of the exercise. A necessary release of energy, that was all. It was Carmelina's responses which had truly excited him. And this was only the beginning. There was so much for her to learn, so much for her to discover, and Louis's pleasure lay in her discovery. He would teach her. He
would help her to explore herself and then he would watch as she surrendered to the sexuality which raged within.

Carmelina was the new jewel in Louis's crown and already he had plans for the next step.

 

‘“… T
HE ATTEMPT TO
capture the Dardanelles, and eventually Constantinople, has been acknowledged by the High Command as a complete failure”,' Carmelina read out loud. ‘“Tomorrow, Monday, the 20th of December, will mark the completion of the evacuation of Australian troops from the bloody shores of the Gallipoli peninsula.”'

Teresa and Salvatore sat beside her listening in rapt attention as she continued, whilst at the head of the table sat Rico, feigning disinterest.

‘“The now legendary valour of the ANZACs has cost Australia dearly. Over 8,000 dead and over 19,000 wounded on this barren finger of land …”'

There was silence as she put down the newspaper.

‘At least they are away from that dreadful place,' Teresa said. She crossed herself and silently prayed that Enrico was amongst the soldiers evacuated.

‘I must go now, Mamma.' Carmelina rose and carefully smoothed down the skirts of her new dress which she'd taken care not to crease as she sat at the table reading.

‘But Caterina and Giovanni will be here soon,' Teresa said, taken aback. ‘And Briony and little Rosalina.'

‘Where do you go?' Rico demanded suspiciously. ‘Where do you go in your new dress?'

Rico was scowling but Carmelina interrupted before he could say anything. ‘You like my pretty new dress, Papa?' She twirled about flirtatiously. ‘That's why I'm wearing it. To show it to Maria.'

‘But why do you go to Maria's today?' Teresa argued. ‘Today your uncle is coming, and your cousins. Why do you go to Maria's this Sunday?'

Carmelina stopped twirling and picked up her purse. ‘Because I promised.'

‘You stay here,' Rico commanded. ‘You stay here and entertain your cousins.'

‘But Sunday is the only day I have off, Papa,' Carmelina protested. ‘It's the only day I have to see my friends.'