Kal (9 page)

‘Go away, leave me to sleep.' Natale swatted at the man as he would a fly. But Fernando kept shaking.

‘Wake up, wake up.'

Natale was angry. Nobody woke him from his sleep. And certainly not Fernando the Spaniard. Natale sat up and was about to cuff the man when he saw Rico, clawing his way into the tent, his fingers digging into the ground, desperately seeking a purchase as, inch by inch, he dragged himself out of the cold.

‘
Gesù Cristo
!' Natale sprang to Rico's aid. He rolled him onto his back and pulled him inside the tent. ‘Blankets, Fernando, get blankets,' he ordered. Then he saw the blood seeping through the legs of Rico's rough cotton underwear and he looked at the mess that had been Rico's knees. ‘
Gesù Cristo
, what have they done to you!'

 

N
ATALE SAT WITH
Rico and waited for sunrise when a stretcher could be safely carried down the rough
mountain track. Throughout the final hours of the night, although he was in great pain, Rico remained conscious and he whispered the truth to Natale.

‘If the De Cretico brothers find out it was me they crippled and not Giovanni, they will come after him,' he said. ‘You must swear the men to secrecy, Natale. They do not need to know the truth but they must be sworn to secrecy.'

When dawn finally broke, Natale and another of the workers carried Rico down the mountain track to the village. Natale forbade the men to accompany them. It would call attention to the accident, he told them, and Rico did not wish that. The accident had happened at the work site, he stressed, and they were to say nothing more. Each of the men knew something far more sinister had happened but they respected the wishes of Natale and Rico and would keep their silence.

Natale led the way down to the village and to the doors of the Gianni cottage. He was not from Santa Lena but he had been a guest in the Gianni household on many a Sunday after church. Rico was his friend and Natale was ashamed that he had slept while this terrible thing had happened.

It was Vincenza Gianni, Rico's mother, who met them at the door of the cottage. ‘Filomena! Ulanda! Giovanni!' she called as she ushered the men inside. ‘Come! Come quick!'

The two young girls were the first to answer their mother's cries, their hands still covered with cornmeal from mixing the polenta. When Vincenza lifted the blanket and they saw their brother's wounds they screamed.

‘There is no time for that,' Vincenza snapped. ‘Heat some water, fetch me clean rags. One of you …' She looked at the two men. ‘… One of you fetch the medico.' Natale nodded to the other man. ‘The white
cottage three houses from the tavern,' she said. The man turned to go. ‘The one with two chimneys!' she called after him.

Giovanni appeared at the back door, the axe he had been using to chop firewood still in his hand. ‘Rico!' He dropped the axe and ran to his brother's side. Together he and Natale lifted Rico from the stretcher and carried him to the curtained-off section of the living area which housed his parents' bed.

As they eased him gently down, Giovanni was about to say something but Vincenza snapped an order at him also. ‘Fetch me scissors, Gio.' Giovanni ran to do her bidding and Vincenza turned to Natale, her eyes burning with anger. ‘Who has done this?' she demanded.

Natale looked at Rico. The jarring trip down the rough mountain track had sapped what little strength his friend had left and the pain was acute, but he shook his head slowly.

‘It was an accident,' Natale replied.

‘An accident! Hah!' Vincenza scoffed. ‘This is no accident. A man does not have both his knees smashed like this in an accident!'

Giovanni returned with the scissors and Vincenza started cutting the fabric away from the wounds. ‘Gio,' she ordered. ‘Go! Go now! Fetch your father and your brothers. It may take four or five days, but you bring them back as quick as you can. They will want revenge.'

Giovanni knelt beside his brother. ‘Who did this, Rico? Who did this to you?'

‘There will be no revenge.' Rico's voice was weak but insistent.

‘Of course there will be revenge.' Vincenza continued to snip away at the cotton. ‘The Gianni family must avenge such an act. Your father would …'

‘There will be no revenge, Mamma!' It was a command and Vincenza stopped, scissors poised. She looked questioningly at her son. Rico? The most headstrong of her boys? The first to wreak vengeance upon any who wronged a Gianni? What was he saying? ‘Put down the scissors,' he insisted, ‘and go and help my sisters.'

Vincenza was about to refuse. ‘Please, Mamma,' he urged. ‘I must speak with Gio. I will tell you all later, I promise.'

Giovanni remained kneeling by his brother, a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

‘They thought that I was you,' Rico said when their mother had left.

‘The De Cretico brothers.' It was not a question. The De Cretico brothers did this.'

Rico nodded.

Giovanni's face was ashen. Shame overwhelmed him and he bowed his head. He could not look at his brother. ‘
Perduna mi
,' he whispered. Then he crossed himself. ‘
Dio mio, perduna mi
.'

Rico was weary and the pain was consuming him. If only he could sleep, he thought. ‘There is nothing to forgive, Gio, it has happened.'

Hatred raged beneath Giovanni's shame. ‘I will kill them,' he said. ‘I will hunt them down and kill them, I swear to you, Rico.'

Rico looked at his younger brother. There was venom in Giovanni's voice and murder in his eyes. Giovanni of all people. Gentle, sensitive Giovanni who would never hurt a soul, who wanted only to sing his songs and play his concertina. This was not the same young man. This young man could kill.

‘Listen to me, Gio, listen to me.' Rico summoned up his strength and his voice had the edge of authority to which Giovanni had always responded. ‘You will do
nothing.' Giovanni shook his head, but Rico continued. ‘If you seek revenge you will bring a vendetta upon our family. There will be war between the De Creticos and the Giannis and they are too powerful for us. Would you have your father and your brothers killed?' His words had reached Gio, he could tell. ‘You see? You must be sensible.'

Rico ignored the helpless rage he could see in Giovanni's eyes. ‘The De Creticos have avenged their brother,' he persisted. ‘To them the score has been settled. We will open no more wounds and you will leave the country as soon as possible.'

‘No.' Giovanni rose to his feet. ‘No, I will not leave and you cannot make me. If the brothers discover their mistake and wish to come for me, then so be it. I will not seek revenge, Rico, I promise, but I will not leave you.'

Rico was too weary and in too much pain to continue. ‘Talk to him, Natale. I am tired.'

‘We will talk when the medico comes,' Natale said. ‘He will give you something for the pain, Rico, something to help you sleep. Rest now.'

When the doctor had been and gone and Rico was finally sleeping, Natale took Giovanni aside. ‘We must talk, Gio.'

They sat on the back step of the cottage. It was cold without their coats and scarves but neither of them noticed.

Giovanni stared at the open woodshed and the chopping block where, less than two hours earlier, he had been happily chopping firewood. ‘You will not persuade me to do my brother's bidding,' he said stubbornly. ‘I will not leave his side.'

‘You must. It is his wish.'

But Giovanni was not listening. ‘Did you hear the medico? He said Rico may never walk again. And if he
does he will be a cripple. Rico, a cripple!' Giovanni wanted to break down and cry but he fought against it. ‘I did that to him, Natale. It should have been me. It should be me in there now, on that bed. It should be me.'

‘Perhaps,' Natale nodded. ‘But it is not. It is Rico.'

Giovanni put his head in his hands. He did not want Natale to see him weeping.

Natale said nothing for a while but, when he sensed that Giovanni was once more in control of himself, he leaned forward and spoke with great urgency.

‘Last night as we waited for the dawn, we spoke, Rico and I. It helped take his mind off the pain. Now you must listen, Gio, it will help take your mind off yours.' Giovanni looked up at Natale, his eyes still wet with tears. ‘You must use what has happened to make you a man, that is what Rico wants. You are a boy, Gio. You are only two years younger than your brother and yet you are a boy.'

Giovanni looked confused. Natale continued. ‘Let us suppose you stay in Santa Lena and let us suppose the De Creticos realise their mistake,' he explained. ‘Suppose they come one night and they cripple you too—what does that do to Rico? He has sacrificed himself for nothing.'

Giovanni stared back blankly at the older man.

‘It takes two blows to break a man's knees, Giovanni. After the first blow Rico could have told them the truth. But he did not. It was his choice.' Natale could see that the boy was deeply shocked but he continued, brutally. ‘He will never tell you this himself and if you ask him he will deny it. He doesn't want you to live with guilt. But you will not be a man if you don't make something of your life to repay your brother.'

Giovanni looked at the ground and nodded dumbly as he once again fought back the tears. Natale embraced
him. ‘Now weep, Giovanni. Weep. There is no shame in tears.'

 

L
ATER THAT DAY
the whole of Santa Lena was agog with the news which spread like wildfire throughout the village. Sarina De Cretico was dead. A terrible accident. A senseless death. She had tripped at the top of the staircase; the servants had witnessed it.

The following day, further news set the tongues wagging. There was to be a grand funeral. The De Cretico brothers would be arriving with their families in three days' time, the servants said. They had sent word. And all arrangements were to be made for a ceremony of such pomp and splendour as had never before been seen in the village. Everyone was very excited.

 

‘Y
OU MUST LEAVE
tomorrow, Gio.' Rico was propped up in bed, a tent erected over his legs to keep the weight of the linen from his knees. Already he felt stronger, he said, and he scorned the doctor's prediction. ‘Not walk? Rico Gianni? Hah, the medico is a fool. He can barely cure the animals he treats, what would he know?'

It was true the medico was really an animal doctor and, even in the area of veterinary science, his credentials were suspect. But he was educated. He could read and write and whether his potions were magic or medical miracles, he had saved many a life in the village so the peasants credited him with the title medico.

‘Not only will I walk, Gio. I will run, I will jump. Maybe not as fast or as high as I once did, but still I will beat you in a wrestling match, you wait and see.'

Giovanni did not know how much of Rico's boasting was for his benefit or whether his brother genuinely believed his own bravado. But he knew he must not question it. ‘Yes, Rico, sure,' he said.

Giovanni had given nearly all of their savings to
Vincenza, leaving just enough to get to Genoa. He would find work at the docks there and save again for his passage to Australia. ‘Rico must go to a hospital, Mamma,' he had said. ‘A big hospital in Milano where they have the best doctors who can mend his legs. As soon as I leave you must arrange it.'

‘Tomorrow, Gio,' Rico insisted. ‘You are leaving tomorrow,
si
?'

‘
Si
.'

‘You have the money?'

‘Yes, I have the money.'

Rico grinned. ‘Find gold, Gio. Get rich. And when you are rich, Teresa and I will come and join you.'

‘Yes, Rico.'

They hugged each other and there were tears in Rico's eyes as he held his brother tightly to him. ‘Find gold for me, Gio. Find gold for me at the bottom of the world.'

Maudie Gaskill stepped out of the Kalgoorlie branch of the National Bank of Australasia into the dry and dusty heat of Maritana Street. She held her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the shock of sunlight. Although it was late afternoon the glare was relentless and the heat oppressive. It was a goldfields midsummer.

She rounded the corner into Hannan Street. It was Friday, payday, and the bank had been busy. Maudie paid her staff every second Friday. The same Friday that the bank paid out the gold sovereigns preferred to banknotes by many of the contract miners. As usual on a late payday afternoon, the main street of Kalgoorlie was bustling with activity. Fashionably gowned women in ornate hats were strolling along the pavements towards the Palace Hotel. Others, in bonnets and worn cotton dresses, were shopping with their children, scrounging in their purses for the last pennies to buy a bargain. Men in wide-brimmed hats, well scrubbed after their eight-hour shift in the mines, were on their way to the pubs for a hard-earned beer and a game of billiards.

Fashionable sulkies drawn by pairs-in-hand shared the street with heavy drays hauled by Clydesdales and men on horseback from out of town. A man in a passing trap doffed his hat to Maudie and the woman
beside him gave a graceful wave of her gloved hand. Richard ‘Lord' Laverton and his wife, Prudence. Laverton was the General Manager of the Midas Mine and one of Kalgoorlie's elite. He wasn't really a lord at all, but his father was. Lord Lionel Laverton of Hampshire, England, was chairman of the mine's London board of directors. Having given his youngest son an Oxford education and a place in the family firm only to discover that the boy was a wastrel, he had bought Richard an important position in Kalgoorlie, hoping that the rigours of Australia might make a man of him. The people of Kalgoorlie were dutifully impressed and, although the upper echelons were aware that Richard wasn't really a lord in his own right, they were quite prepared to grant him the title. He was General Manager of the Midas, after all. That in itself made him one of the hierachy, and no one could question the fact that he was genuine aristocracy.

To be openly acknowledged in the street by Lord and Lady Laverton was an indication of one's standing in Kalgoorlie society, so when they waved to her from their passing trap, Maudie waved back. It meant little to her personally but it was good for business. As she looked down Hannan Street, many passers-by smiled a greeting, doffed their hats or openly called, ‘Afternoon, Maudie', and she nodded to each in return.

Everyone knew Maudie. And not just because she owned one of the most popular pubs in town. Maudie Gaskill was physically imposing, a person who stood out in a crowd. Five feet ten inches in her stockinged feet, she had a build to match and was as strong as a man. Hers was not a handsome face. Having spent all of her life in mining towns, the outback sun had weathered her skin and squinted her eyes and she looked a good ten years older than her twenty-nine years. But Maudie was not ugly. There was humour in
her eyes and bravado in her carriage. With her thick brown hair drawn back in its customary bun at the nape of her neck and her black straw bonnet adding extra inches to her height, Maudie was an impressive woman.

She and her mother, Iris, had been two of the first women to arrive at the goldfields. After the death of Iris's husband, Bill, they had stayed on in Coolgardie and run a sly grog shop. Until the discovery of gold by Paddy Hannan and his partners in 1893. Then Iris and Maudie had sold up and joined the Kalgoorlie goldrush. But they did not mine for the precious metal. Alongside the other merchants, they set up their shop: a wooden-fronted billboard announcing their wares and behind it, serving as home and store, a simple corrugated iron hut. Soon, however, word spread that in Iris and Maudie's hut, along with the sugar and tea, the flour and tinned goods, the kerosene and candles, the cheapest and strongest illicit liquor in Kalgoorlie could be purchased, but only on Sundays.

Was that only six years ago? Maudie wondered. She looked down the long, broad boulevard which was Hannan Street and marvelled at the changes. Of course there were some things that never changed. The camel teams still paraded through the centre of the township bearing their loads of precious drinking water and provisions and the endless wood supply for the mines' furnaces. In fact, the camels were the reason for the width of the street, the cameleers needing the space to turn their teams. And, of course, the dust never changed. The red, swirling, outback dust. Even as Maudie watched, a small willy-willy swept its way down the centre of the street. People stepped into shop doorways or turned their backs or simply stopped in their tracks and covered their eyes as the stinging funnel of dust swirled past. Then, seconds later, as quickly as it had ceased, the
chatter and bustle of the street resumed and people continued to the relative comfort of the pavement and verandahs and shop awnings as if the willy-willy had never happened.

But it was only yesterday, Maudie thought, that there were no pavements, no verandahs, no shop awnings. Just squat hessian huts and lean-tos and corrugated iron sheds baking amongst the red dust. All goldrush towns grew quickly, but Kalgoorlie's growth seemed to have happened overnight.

Across the street was the impressive Palace Hotel, heralded as one of the grandest in the country. In the airy shade of its wide verandahs well-dressed ladies were sipping tea and affluent-looking gentlemen were drinking cold beer as they watched the passing parade. On the opposite corner was the Australia Hotel, its balconies overlooking the huge intersection of Hannan and Maritana Streets.

Maudie walked several blocks down Hannan Street. Past the confectionist and tobacconist. Past the barber's shop with its hairdresser's chair in the window. Past the drapers and the general stores and the Japanese-run laundry. She looked across the street to the newly completed York. Hotel with its silver cupolas and stone arches.

Kalgoorlie was becoming an elegant town, thought Maudie as she pushed open the door to the main bar of the Lucky Horseshoe and breathed a sigh of relief at the movement of air from the two huge ceiling fans. The Lucky Horseshoe was hardly competition for the Palace or the Australia or the York, but it thrived. It was a miners' pub and it catered for the hard-working man. Despite the emblem of the silver horseshoe on its facade it was known to all as Maudie's.

The four o'clock shift was over and the bar was crowded. Noisy. The air was thick with miners' talk.
Business was good. Maudie nodded to the two barmaids and acknowledged the greetings from the men as she passed.

‘'Lo, Maudie.' At the end of the bar, near the doors which led to the billiard room and lounge and her offices out the back, a thickset man with ginger hair and a red bushy beard stopped her. ‘Got time for a chat? There's something I'd like to put to you.'

‘Evan. Hello.' Evan Jones was a Welsh miner with a lilting brogue that gave him away every time he opened his mouth. Not only was Evan's beard red, everything about him was red. A reddish-brown. His face, his hands, his clothes. Evan was an independent miner who worked his own small lease for alluvial gold. One could always pick the men who mined their own leases. They were ‘dry-blowers'. The big mines, with their access to underground water, could flush the gold from the ore. But the dry-blowers still used the old-fashioned method of bellows, or they would shake the gold-bearing dust through mesh frames or simply shovel it into the air to separate the heavier grains of gold. Inevitably they ended up covered in red dust. Water being precious and bathing a weekly custom at best, the men took on the hue of the land.

Evan Jones was one of Maudie's favourites. Her father had given him his first job as a miner ten years previously in Coolgardie. In fact, Maudie had secretly set her sights on Evan when she had decided she should marry two years earlier. Like most men, however, Evan barely thought of her as a woman at all. She was just Maudie. Straight-talking Maudie. A good mate and a strong ally. So when Evan had returned from one of his regular trips to Fremantle with a brand-new wife, Maudie had heaved an inward sigh and decided that, if she was ever to marry, she would probably have to settle for Harry Brearley after all.

Of course, Evan Jones had no idea that Maudie had ever harboured feelings for him beyond that of mateship, and he was never likely to either—Maudie Gaskill was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve.

She looked at the clock above the bar. A good half-hour before the staff would line up at her office for the payout. ‘Of course,' she said. ‘Come out the back. A couple of beers, Alice,' she called to the wiry brunette behind the bar.

She led the way into the lounge with its brand-new billiard table of which she was very proud. Maudie's lounge certainly did not compete with the billiard rooms of the Australia and Palace hotels where full-time managers presided over championships and big-time gambling was promoted, but many a friendly wager was lost and won at Maudie's table on a Saturday night.

‘Take a seat. What can I do for you, Evan?' She had gestured to one of the comfortable armchairs away from the billiard table where a group of men was laying bets on a game in progress. Then she realised that Evan was waiting for her to sit first. He was such a mixture of a man, she thought. Tough, strong, a man respected by other men and yet, with women, a gentleman. A little lacking in humour perhaps, but as honest as the day was long. A good man.

‘How's Kate?' Maudie asked as she sat. ‘Must be getting near her time.'

‘Three weeks now.' An involuntary smile sprang to Evan's lips and the red beard twitched. ‘Do you know when Harry'll be back?' Gentleman that he was, Evan was not given to small talk.

‘Within a couple of months I'd say.' Maudie nodded to the barmaid who placed two beers in front of them. ‘Thank you, Alice.' She undid the strings at her neck, raised her strong arms above her head, and carefully removed her bonnet, smoothing back the sides of her
hair although there was not a strand out of place. ‘He says he's raised enough funds for a half share in a lease and now he's looking for a partner.' Coincidentally, a telegraph had arrived from Harry at the post office just several days previously. ‘Says he'll be back as soon as he's found someone to match his input.' Maudie downed most of her beer in one draught.

‘By April, would you think?'

‘Yes, I reckon he might. Why?'

‘The lease he'll be wanting to buy, do you think he'd be interested in the Clover?' Maudie stared at him, amazed. ‘I said do you think he'd want to buy the Clover?' he repeated.

‘You want to sell your mine?'

Evan Jones? Selling out? It was unbelievable. Evan had been mining the Clover for six years, the last three of them on his own. His partner had opted for the security of contract work with one of the big mines so Evan had bought him out, and since then he had been the sole operator. A ‘loner', as they were called. The Clover had had its ups and downs. A healthy yield one year, a poor yield the next but, amongst the ranks of the small leases, it was considered to have good potential. And Evan was a good miner who knew his business. The only mystery was why he hadn't taken on a new partner with funds to extend the lease and develop the mine further. But Evan liked his own company, he preferred to be a loner.

‘Why?' Maudie asked. ‘Why do you want to sell the Clover?'

‘Security. I'm signing up with the Midas. Starting April.' He took a hefty swallow of his beer. ‘With the new baby I'll be needing security, you see.'

A tousle-haired five-year-old tottered up to Maudie and tugged at her skirts. ‘Maudie, I'm hungry.' He reached up and grabbed at her beer.

‘Uh, uh,' she said, rescuing the glass.

‘Just a sip,' he begged. ‘Only a sip.'

‘All right,' she relented. ‘Just one.' She held the glass while the child took a gulp. He screwed up his face—he didn't really like the taste, he just wanted to be grown up. ‘Go and see Dickie in the kitchen and tell him to give you two biscuits. And Jack,' she called after him, ‘only two, mind, you're not to spoil your tea.'

Evan watched the boy go. ‘Harry must be missing him,' he said.

‘Yes,' she replied. ‘He idolises the boy, even wanted to take him to Perth.' She downed the rest of her beer. ‘God only knows what Harry gets up to when he's out there “raising investment”. That's what he calls it you know, “raising investment”. Gambling's what I call it. And he wants to take his son along! I ask you! Jack's only five! I wouldn't have it, put my foot down. No good for the boy.'

‘Harry's got a real find in you, Maudie, you're a good mother to the child.' Evan took several swigs of his beer and grinned. ‘If the man has half a brain he'll marry you quick smart before somebody else snaps you up.'

Evan's attempts at humour were always clumsy, so Maudie changed the subject. She didn't like talking about herself anyway. Good heavens, she thought, it wasn't as if Harry hadn't proposed to her often enough. She'd been the one to set the ground rules. ‘Mend your ways, Harry,' she'd said. ‘Give up the gambling and make a success of your life, then I'll marry you.'

But she knew she'd give in, and soon, even though she suspected Harry was marrying her for her money. She wanted to be Jack's mother, she loved the boy deeply. And she wanted a child of her own. Yes, she'd marry Harry Brearley and she'd be carrying his child
before she turned thirty. That was her plan. If Harry hadn't changed his ways by then, Maudie would set about doing it for him.

‘Have you thought about taking on a partner?' she asked.

‘Yes, I've thought about it.'

‘What about Harry?'

‘No.' There was no hesitation in his answer. ‘No offence, Maudie. I know he's your intended and he's a good man, but he'd not be the partner for me.'

Maudie was not at all offended, she'd known what the answer would be even as she'd asked the question. Harry was not a ‘good' man at all and it was kind of Evan to say that he was. Not that Harry was a
bad
man but, for all his charm, he was definitely lacking in moral fibre.