Kal (32 page)

‘Men of Harlech, lie ye dreaming?

See ye not their fulchions gleaming,

While their pennons gaily streaming

Flutter in the breeze?'

Evan Jones, Alwyn Llewellyn and Tony Prendergast, another Welsh miner from the Midas, were delighting in each other's voices and the sound of their mother country. Evan had had several beers during the evening meal, just enough to loosen him up. It was rare for him to sing in the company of anyone other than his Welsh friends and tonight, not only was Giovanni there but Freddie too. Evan had decided that his show of support would be less blatant if he were to invite the three-man team rather than Giovanni alone. Freddie, thrilled beyond measure to be a guest in the boss's house, was having the time of his life, clapping along to the music, a little off the beat.

During the meal, Giovanni had spent the entire time resisting the urge to look at Caterina. And Kate herself, unable to eat, had left the table under every pretext possible to spend as much time as she could in the kitchen. No one appeared to have noticed. No one, that is, except
Giovanni. Evan was concentrating on being a good host and Alwyn, Freddie and Tony were too busy concentrating on the excellent meal.

When Kate had cleared the table, the men sat back and lit up their pipes and no one found her absence amiss as she retired to do the dishes. Then it was Briony's bedtime and Kate had to read her a story. She read three stories, until the little girl was fast asleep. Then she sat on the bed for a further fifteen minutes. Now, as the men finished teaching Giovanni the melody of ‘Calan Lan' and launched once again into their three-part harmony, Kate had run out of excuses and had no option but to join them.

She sat in the corner and watched the singers but, try as she might, she could not prevent herself from occasionally stealing a glance at Giovanni. She tried to concentrate on his hands as he played the concertina, tried to pretend her interest was in the music, but every now and then, her eyes flickered to his face. Such a fine face. He was the only one of the men clean-shaven—unusual for a miner. How she longed to touch that face … Quickly she forced her attention back to the singers.

Giovanni could feel her eyes upon him. He concentrated desperately on the music. A hymn. Haunting. A song of great beauty. Far more difficult to play than the march. He focused on Evan who was conducting him through the melody.

‘Nid wyn gof am bwyd moethus

Aur y byd uw berlei man

Gofyd wyf am galon hapus

Galon Iwn a galon Ian,'

Don't look at her, Giovanni told himself, don't look at her. But even as his eyes followed Evan, he could feel her gaze.

‘I seek not of worldly treasure,

Gold nor pearls of any mart.

Give me a heart of joyful measure.

Just a guileless, honest heart.'

He could feel her. Caressing his skin. Her eyes flickering from his hands, as she pretended to heed the music, to his face.

It was because of Caterina that Giovanni had remained clean-shaven. They teased him about it at the mine. A bushy beard was the miner's trademark. But Caterina had touched his face with her hand, and had caressed his face with her eyes that day they had exchanged vows. He did not want to change the face which she had said she loved.

As the men finished their third rendition of ‘
Calan Lan
', Kate realised with relief that it was Paul's bedtime. ‘Come along, Paul, time for bed.' The boy didn't need to be accompanied but she could use it as an excuse to leave the room.

Paul protested. ‘But we haven't had a song of Giovanni's yet.' He turned to his stepfather. ‘Evan, you promised, remember?'

‘Paul's quite right,' Evan agreed. ‘I promised him we would teach each other our songs.' He turned to Giovanni. ‘I have been selfish. We're so used to singing unaccompanied, you see, it is a treat to have a musician play our songs for us.'

‘They are fine songs,' Giovanni said.

‘Now one of yours. Sing us one of your songs, Giovanni.' Evan pulled up a chair and sat alongside his wife. ‘Let Paul stay up a little late tonight, my dear. There's no school tomorrow.'

‘All right, all right,' Kate laughed and surrendered. ‘I give up.'

‘You must sing with me, Paul,' Giovanni insisted.

The boy looked at his stepfather and Evan nodded. ‘Of course. Paul sings with Giovanni's family,' he
explained to the others, adding with pride, ‘he knows all the Italian lyrics.'

As he spoke, Evan recalled how uneasy he'd felt in the company of foreigners—not so very long ago either. How self-conscious he was—and how over-protective he'd been of his wife's background. He'd been foolish, he now admitted to himself. They should all be singing each other's songs and sharing each other's heritage. Particularly here, in Kalgoorlie. They were brothers under the sun, after all. He wondered whether it was the beer that was bringing on this rush of bonhomie, or whether it was the glow of national pride and brotherly love which ‘Calan Lan' always inspired in him.

‘What shall we sing, Paul?' Giovanni asked.' ‘Funiculi Funicula?''

‘“
Torna a Surriento
”.'

He should have known. It had always been the boy's favourite. Giovanni hesitated for only a fraction of a second and then he played the opening chords.

‘‘
Vide 'o mare quant' e bello …' '

He did not give himself up to the song. He did not dare. He concentrated on Paul instead, encouraging the boy to sing the lyric.

Kate couldn't help it. Like a magnet, her eyes were drawn to Giovanni. He was smiling at her son. She studied the warmth of his smile … the fullness of his mouth … the curve of his lip … It was only for a few seconds, but her concentration was so total that she wasn't aware of Evan beside her. She didn't register Evan turn towards her; she didn't register his shock. She dragged her eyes away from Giovanni and looked down at her hands, noticing for the first time that her fingers were interwoven and her knuckles white. She regained her composure and looked up, and it was only then that she saw her husband watching her.

She smiled at him. ‘It is a beautiful song, isn't it?
And Paul sings it very well; he certainly knows all the words.'

Evan made a show of watching the boy as the song concluded, but he wasn't listening to Paul. He was trying to analyse what he had just seen. The rapture in his wife's eyes as she had looked at Giovanni, surely he had imagined it. He had drunk more than he was accustomed to, and alcohol always went to his head. He wasn't a heavy drinker like most of the other miners. That must be it. He must have imagined it.

For the remainder of the evening, Evan continued to rationalise what he'd seen and, by the time the men finally departed well after midnight, he was more or less convinced that it had been the beer. So why was he left with a vague feeling of presentiment? He needed to go to bed, he told himself. He needed to sleep it off.

Kate had said a general goodnight and retired to the kitchen to wash the coffee mugs. She could hear the men at the front door, congratulating each other on a fine evening. She leaned over the washbasin and put her head in her hands. Guilt overwhelmed her. She knew that as she had looked at Giovanni tonight, she had wanted him. May God forgive her. She had sat beside her husband and wanted another man. She felt sick with remorse. She must never see Giovanni again, she told herself. Never.

As he walked home, Giovanni, too, felt wretched. Evan had helped and befriended him. The man had invited him into his home and the whole night all Giovanni had been able to think of was making love to his wife. It had taken every ounce of self-control Giovanni could muster simply not to look at Caterina. If their eyes had once met, he knew his desire would have been readable to every man in the room. He must never see her again. She must remain the beautiful memory in the recesses of his mind. He must satisfy his lust elsewhere.

When he had reached the southern outskirts of the town, Giovanni did not head north. He turned into Hay Street and headed for Red Ruby's instead.

 

H
ARRY
B
REARLEY REINED
in Black Bess and checked his fob watch. He was ten minutes early. He sat back in the trap and studied Jeanne's house. It was one of the most elegant houses in Kalgoorlie. Set back from the street, wide, airy verandahs, large windows, with wooden shutters to keep out the harshness of the sun. And a garden. Shrubs and flowers. Hardy shrubs and homely flowers. Geraniums and sweet peas and the like. Nothing pretentious and nothing that could be accused of water wastage. Jeanne was a woman of great taste in every sense of the word.

Harry jumped down from the trap, patted Black Bess and walked about. He didn't really need to stretch his legs but he was too restless to sit and wait.

His double-breasted wool suit was far too warm for the autumn afternoon, but it was in fine check and of the very latest style and he hadn't been able to resist wearing it.

‘Harry, you'll bake,' Maudie had laughed.

‘Madame Renoir is a very elegant woman, Maudie, and if I'm to work with her I'll need to dress accordingly.'

Maudie smiled to herself. He had returned from Perth with a complete new wardrobe, announcing that this was what they were wearing in London and this in Paris—at least, according to Gaston, and he should know.

Maudie was delighted with the lightweight travelling coat he had bought her and the several hats, particularly the one with the sheerest gossamer veil. And she was delighted by the childish enthusiasm with which he handed out the many presents he'd bought for each
member of the family. Soft, cuddly toys for the twins. A double-breasted suit for Jack. His very first.

‘Hell, Pa, where am I going to wear that?'

Maudie didn't admonish the boy for swearing. She smiled instead. ‘A funeral maybe?'

‘One is never too young to develop a sense of style,' Harry said defensively and Maudie, realising that he was a little hurt, came to the rescue.

‘We'll have afternoon tea at the Palace on Saturday and he'll wear it then, won't you, Jack?' She winked at the boy and he grinned and nodded good-naturedly. He'd do anything for Harry, even if it meant dressing up like a toff. It was good to have his Pa back. ‘And he'll look so handsome that all the girls will stare at him,' Maudie teased. Jack crossed his eyes at her.

But it had been Harry himself who had delighted Maudie more than anything. ‘I'm sorry, Maudie,' he'd said. ‘And I'm going to make it up to you. You'll be proud of me, I promise.'

Maudie knew, deep down, that Harry would never really change. But she also knew that she loved him. She hoped that this partnership with Gaston Picot would keep him on the straight and narrow path. It certainly sounded as if it would.

‘Monsieur Brearley. Do come in please.' Jeanne smiled and stood to one side and, from somewhere in the house behind her, Harry could hear a clock chiming. ‘You are exactly on time.'

‘Madame Renoir.' He lightly kissed the hand she offered him and she nodded her approval.

‘I admire punctuality,' she said. She had seen him arrive early and watched him as he waited. ‘And you must call me Jeanne. I may call you Harry,
oui
?'

She was wearing a two-piece afternoon dress in pale grey and pink silk. The high-necked lace bodice accentuated her neat waist, the extended lace cuffs
highlighted her neat, perfectly manicured hands. Her abundant light brown hair, secured in a soft chignon, had not a strand out of place. Jeanne Renoir was a neat woman. Which somehow made her even more seductive, Harry thought, as he followed her along the hall, noting the soft sway of her hips and the subtle rustle of her petticoats.

‘This is my secretary and companion, Miss Emily Laurie,' Jeanne said as she glided into the main drawing room.

Behind her, Harry quickly averted his eyes from her hips, hoping that he had not been caught out. ‘Miss Laurie,' he said.

The Englishwoman rose from the hardback chair in which she'd been sitting. ‘Mr Brearley.' She did not proffer her hand as Jeanne had done, but Harry was not offended. He had heard that Jeanne Renoir's companion was English and Englishwomen did not proffer their hands. Besides, her smile was welcoming.

‘Do please sit, Harry.' Jeanne gestured to one of the elegant carvers and when the ladies had seated themselves, Jeanne on the divan and Emily once again on her hardback chair, Harry did as he was instructed.

‘Tea?' Jeanne asked.

‘Lovely. Thank you.'

‘A glorious day, is it not?' Emily Laurie made polite conversation as Jeanne lifted a small silver bell on the table beside her. One sharp tinkle and seconds later a maid appeared.

‘It certainly is,' Harry agreed.

While Jeanne ordered afternoon tea, Harry studied his surrounds.

‘Autumn can be quite the pleasantest time of year in Kalgoorlie, don't you agree?' The Englishwoman was studying Harry as he studied the room. An arrogant man, she decided. Convinced that his looks and his
charm were enough. Vulgar too. She had noticed his concentration upon Jeanne's hips as he followed her into the drawing room. Of course Jeanne never minded that sort of thing. Indeed she viewed it as flattering, Emily reflected with irritation. Probably because she was French. But Emily believed in social decorum. There was a time and a place for everything, and lewd glances did not belong in the drawing room over afternoon tea.

Having surveyed the room, Harry had once more turned his attention to Jeanne. It fascinated him to think that she had been Gaston's mistress. Not that Gaston had told him so, of course—they were both gentlemen after all—but the inference had been there. ‘She was married to a dear friend of mine, alas now gone,' he'd said. ‘We have been very close, Jeanne and I, and I am sure you will like her.' That was all—certainly no admission that they had been lovers—but it was the manner in which he had said it. And here, in Jeanne's house, Gaston's influence was conspicuous. The fine lace curtains, elegant furnishings and Persian scatter rugs may well have been Jeanne Renoir, but the French-polished jarrah-panelled walls and the jarrah parquetry floors—a la Maison Picot—were pure Gaston.