Kal (37 page)

Giovanni was close to the voice now, but he could crawl no further. There was a wall of rock before him. He felt about in the blackness. A hand. He clutched at it. ‘Evan! Are you hurt?'

But, even as he said it, his other hand had traced Evan's head, shoulders and chest, before hitting the wall of rock, and Giovanni knew that the Welshman was buried from the waist down.

‘Did the others get away?' the voice asked.

‘Freddie did. Alwyn is hurt—I don't know how bad.'

‘Get him out. The whole drive will go any minute.'

‘Can you move?' Giovanni demanded.

‘I'm buried, man. Get out I tell you.'

Giovanni started to claw desperately at the rocks.

‘Dear God in heaven, man, did you not hear me?' The voice which snarled at him was surprisingly strong. ‘I'm trapped, I can't move. Now get Alwyn out of here.'

Giovanni felt himself start to panic. Evan was alive. How could he leave?

‘You must get him out, Giovanni.' The voice was quieter now, but just as resolute. ‘Alwyn has five daughters.' There was a moment while neither man spoke. Then, ‘God go with you,' Evan said.

‘I'll come back, Evan.'

‘Fine. Fine. But you get him above ground first.'

Giovanni crawled back along the drive until he reached Alwyn. The man was groaning, but unable to move. Giovanni dragged him out of the rubble and several yards further down the drive to where he could stand and hoist him onto his shoulders. As he did, Evan's voice reached him from out of the blackness.

‘Giovanni!'

Giovanni turned and looked back down the drive, into the pitch black.

‘Look after my wife for me,' Evan's voice called to him. ‘Look after my Kate.'

‘I'm coming back.'

‘She is yours, Giovanni. She has always been yours.'

Giovanni paused for only a moment. ‘I'm coming back, Evan,' he called into the blackness. ‘I'm coming back.'

 

E
VAN COULD HEAR
the Italian stumbling through the darkness towards the plat. He concentrated on the sound until he could no longer hear it. Then he stared up at the roof of the drive and filled his head with the silence. He could see the rock formations above him, he was sure of it. And it wasn't silence he was listening to at all. The rocks were talking to him, he could swear it. What were they saying? Was it ‘freedom'?

He'd fallen on his back and felt strangely comfortable lying there. He didn't attempt to move his head or his arms—it was excruciatingly painful if he did. But, oddly enough, he couldn't feel the lower part of his body which was trapped under the rockfall. His legs were numb, as if they no longer existed.

He wondered why he hadn't run faster, sooner, escaped the cave-in. He wondered why he'd stayed those extra seconds.

‘Freedom,' the rocks said, over and over. Perhaps that was why.

He breathed deeply, amazed that it didn't cause him pain, and listened to the rocks. But they were no longer talking to him. He could hear a perfect sound. A perfect voice, joined by other perfect voices. It was a glorious choir he could hear. The rocks were singing to him. And they were singing ‘Calan Lan'.

 

G
IOVANNI COULD SEE
the lights as he stumbled towards the plat. He could see the cage and young Freddie sitting beside it, whimpering like a lost, forlorn puppy.

‘Freddie!' The authoritative voice brought the youth immediately to attention and he sprang to his feet. Someone was going to tell him what to do. Freddie knew no fear if someone simply told him what to do. Giovanni appeared at the entrance of the drive. ‘Help me get him into the cage.'

Strong as an ox, Freddie lifted Alwyn from Giovanni's shoulders and Giovanni gratefully sagged against the wall of the plat. Every bone, every muscle was aching.

It was then that they heard it. A baritone. Strong and clear.

‘Nid wyn gof am bwyd moethus

Aur y byd uw berlei man

Gofyd wyf am galon hapus

Galon lwn a galon lan…'

There was a low rumble and the plat itself seemed to shudder. But the voice sang on.

‘I seek not of worldly treasure,

Gold nor pearls of any mart.

Give me a heart of joyful measure.

Just a guileless, honest heart …'

 

A
S
E
VAN SANG
, he gloried in his voice. ‘Calan Lan' was the finest hymn ever written on God's earth and never had he sung it so well. He wished his choirmaster at
Aberystwyth could hear him now. ‘Sing up, boy!' he could hear the old man say. ‘‘Tis a fine voice, don't be afraid to let it be heard. Sing up!' So Evan sang with all his might. He felt no pain. He felt nothing but the power of his voice as he sang with the rocks. He could see them clearly now, the rocks, his choir. And they were the rocks of the Welsh hillside and the tunnel was filled with light.

 

F
ROM THE CAGE
in the plat, Giovanni and Freddie stood silently listening.

‘Only guileless hearts keep singing,

Singing day and—'

Then a mighty bellow roared from the very centre of the earth, followed by the crashing of huge boulders, and dust billowed like smoke from the entrance of the drive. And the voice was silenced.

As the cage ascended, Giovanni and Freddie watched the walls of the plat slowly start to crumble. Then, there was nothing but the inky black of the main shaft and the inferno's roar still ringing in their ears.

At the poppet head there was no sound. A hundred people or more were gathered but there was no sound, no movement. The siren had stopped screaming and all eyes were directed at the entrance to the main shaft. Silent, motionless, they waited for the cage to appear.

Tears still streaked the faces of the women who'd watched and waited for their men. Who was dead? Who was alive? Each time the cage appeared, a woman would run to her man, or she would fall to her knees and thank God while the others stood, breathless, some clutching their children to them.

When most of the teams were above ground, the men compared notes. Some had heard noises, some had felt tremors. There had been a minor cave-in on level nine and one man had a broken arm. Level ten was the disaster area, they agreed, as they waited for the final cage.

With them was Freddie's mother and Eileen Llewellyn, Alwyn's wife, her arm around her eldest daughter. And next to her stood Kate Jones.

When the cage finally surfaced, there were three men in it. The first was easily recognisable. Freddie saw his mother, forgot all else and ran to her. But the other two? As one man wearily hoisted the other upon his
shoulders and stepped out of the cage, it was impossible to tell who they were. Covered in dust, they were the colour of the earth.

Willing hands assisted the unconscious man and, as he was gently lowered to the ground, Kate heard the intake of breath from Eileen Llewellyn beside her. Then, the man who had been carrying Alwyn looked up and Kate felt her own intake of breath. The man had no beard.

Giovanni looked out at the crowd and his eyes immediately found Kate's. Slowly, he walked towards her.

She didn't move, but her eyes didn't leave his. She knew that Evan was dead and she knew that God might damn her but she couldn't help it. Giovanni is alive! her mind screamed. Giovanni is alive!

He stood before her and no words were spoken. It was only when he gently shook his head that she finally averted her eyes. ‘I know,' she whispered. ‘I know.'

‘I will take you home.' She did not move. ‘Come, Caterina.' Gently, he took her by the arm but she pulled away from him.

‘I must tell the children.' She turned and walked away from the poppet head. The crowd watched her go. News of the tragedy had spread quickly and people had arrived at the mine to offer help and comfort, but it was obvious Kate did not want either just then.

Giovanni walked beside her, at a loss as to what to do. She was not weeping, she did not want his support. How could he comfort her in her grief?

‘He died bravely and honourably, Caterina. He had thoughts only for the safety of others.'

Still she kept walking and still there was no sign of a tear. She was in torment, Giovanni knew it. If only she would stop, if only she would sob on his shoulder, share the burden of her grief with him.

‘He made his peace with God, I know he did,' he continued desperately. ‘He sang, Caterina. Such a beautiful sound. Evan was not afraid to die, I swear it.'

She stared resolutely ahead and quickened her pace.

‘His last words were of you.'

Finally she stopped. ‘What did he say?'

‘He asked me to look after you.'

Kate closed her eyes for a moment as the full measure of her guilt overwhelmed her. The shame of her joy when she'd seen Giovanni step from the cage. Of course Evan was not afraid to die, her mind screamed. He wanted to die, what reason did he have to live?

‘Come, Caterina, let me take you home.' He took her arm once again, but she pulled away from him more sharply than before and there was anger in her voice.

‘Leave me, Giovanni! Leave me alone!'

Don't you understand, Giovanni, she wanted to shout, Evan knew! He'd known for years! That's why he wanted to die!

‘I must tell the children,' she said. And Giovanni watched, helpless, as she walked stiffly away from the mine.

 

O
N THE EVENING
following Evan's memorial service several days later, Giovanni was sitting on the verandah of the small, dingy boarding house where he lived. He was thinking of Caterina as he sang softly to himself.

‘Non ti scudare di me,

La vita mia legata ‘e' te …'

Many had attended the service for Evan. Giovanni had watched from the back of the church as Caterina sat motionless in the front pew, Paul and Briony on either side.

Afterwards, she was surrounded by friends and well-wishers and, as she appeared to be avoiding his eyes, he left without formally offering his condolences.

Now, he wanted desperately to go to her. They belonged together. They both knew it. And Evan had known it too. ‘She is yours, Giovanni,' Evan had said. ‘She has always been yours.'

‘Io tamo sempre piu,

Nel sonno mio rimani tu …'

And he had always been hers, Giovanni thought as he sang. Always. Since that very first morning on the mountain, she had owned him, heart and soul.

The street was deserted, people were in the town centre or in their homes with their families. He did not see her standing in the deepening dusk, watching him.

She had been panting when she'd arrived at his house. It was a good twenty minutes from the Golden Mile, and she'd run most of the way.

She'd heard the piano accordion from several houses away. As she caught her breath and stole towards the little verandah, she heard him quietly singing. An old Italian song—one she knew well.

‘Don't ever forget me,

My life is entwined with yours …'

She stood mesmerised, watching him sing to the dusty verandah floorboards. On her way to him, she had felt guilt. But now, with the music calling to her, there was no longer guilt. There was no sin in their love, she knew it. His voice and the music told her so.

‘I love you more and more,

In my thoughts you will always remain …'

As the last notes of the song died away, Giovanni looked around and saw her.

She watched him come to her. They said nothing as they embraced. Then he kissed her and he felt her lips move against his as she whispered, ‘I love you, Giovanni, I love you,' over and over. And he took her into the small dingy room in the small dingy boarding house, but neither of them noticed. It could have been a palace.

 

E
NRICO
G
IANNI HAD
written the words to his love song the very same night he had met Solange. He had weathered the storm of his father's rage and retired to his room with ‘Solange's Song'.

The following day after school, he had waited on the opposite side of the road a block away from Red Ruby's. But she hadn't come. He'd waited the next day. And the next. Then it was Saturday.

He had waited all day, and in the late afternoon had been mustering the courage to cross the road and knock on the door when he saw her rounding the corner in the distance. She was wearing a simple brown day dress and a straw hat with a yellow bow on the front and she was carrying a bunch of wildflowers, vivid red and green kangaroo paws.

Enrico couldn't take his eyes off her. She was as pretty by day as she had been by night. He could see now that her curls, beneath the pert straw hat, were the colour of honey and, to his delight, she was no taller than he was.

As she approached him, Solange became aware of the fact that the boy in the street was staring at her. She gave him a saucy smile, then realised who it was. The boy with the concertina.

‘
Bonjour
, Enrico.'

He was thrilled that she remembered. ‘I've been waiting for you,' he said, drinking in her green eyes.

‘Here,' she said, handing him a kangaroo paw, ‘for you. They are beautiful, yes? But they have no smell.' She kept walking and Enrico was forced to walk with her. ‘The boronia is not so beautiful but it has a fragrance beyond compare. I could find no boronia.'

‘I wrote the words to my song.'

‘Ah
bon, bon
.' He wished she would stop walking. They would be at Red Ruby's any second now. ‘It is so strange, is it not? For such an ugly little flower like the boronia to have such a beautiful perfume.'

‘I have been waiting for you every afternoon this week,' he said. Thank goodness she was there at last.

Solange felt irritated. She didn't like being spied on. ‘I visit my cousin only on a Saturday or a Sunday,' she said primly. ‘And I think it is not a good thing at all for a young boy to be lounging around outside a place like Red Ruby's.'

Enrico registered the rebuke and tried desperately to undo the damage. ‘I wanted to play you my song. With the words. To see if you liked it.'

Solange's irritation dissolved immediately. The boy was so earnest, it was impossible not to warm to him. ‘But you do not have your concertina.'

‘I could go and get it.'

‘No, no,' she smiled. ‘I must visit my cousin.'

‘Tomorrow then. We could meet somewhere.' She seemed uncertain. ‘The rotunda,' he added hastily, ‘we could listen to the brass band and then we could go for a walk and I could play you my song.'

She laughed. ‘Very well. The rotunda. At three o'clock. Goodbye, Enrico.'

They met once a week after that, on either a Saturday or a Sunday. They would go for a walk and gather wildflowers, or they would take a picnic lunch into the bush and Enrico would play her his latest song. He couldn't stop writing songs now; they poured out of him. And every once in a while they would go to the rotunda and listen to the brass band.

Sometimes Solange would look at Enrico and think fondly that her young brother in Houilles would be close to his age now. It was good to have such a friend, she thought. Outside of the brothel, she had no friends. Few of the prostitutes did. They kept to themselves. It was better that way.

 

F
LAGS WERE FLYING
in the streets of Boulder and lines of
bunting stretched across Burt Street, the main thoroughfare. The Municipal Brass Band played ‘Land of Hope and Glory' and hundreds of sightseers lined the pavements as the Governor's party and guests of honour arrived for the official opening of the Boulder Town Hall.

The weather was not in keeping with the celebrations. It was a bleak, damp winter afternoon in June, but Paul Dunleavy was thankful as he watched the ceremony with the Kalgoorlie mayoral contingent and other select guests of honour. Paul had arrived on the goldfields in February and he'd thought the summer would never end.

The official party was received by a guard of honour from the Goldfields Infantry Regiment and, as His Excellency the Governor Sir Frederick Belford opened the front door of the hall with a souvenir gold key, the crowds applauded vociferously.

Inside the hall, Paul sat next to Kalgoorlie's Deputy Mayor Harry Brearley and his wife Maudie and studied the architecture. It was simple but of a pleasing design, he decided, casting his eye over the high wooden-panelled ceilings and the heavy carved dress-circle balcony.

‘Impressive, isn't it?' Maudie whispered, her mind numbed by the endless official speeches.

Paul smiled. ‘More impressive than Mr Gribble,' he whispered back as the Boulder Town Clerk concluded his speech. Paul liked Maudie. He wasn't so sure about her husband, ‘Flash Harry', although he'd agreed that the Midas Christmas party was to be held at Restaurant Picot. It was a whole six months away—he wondered how he'd allowed himself to be persuaded. But then, Harry Brearley was a difficult man to say no to.

Paul had met Harry at Hannan's Businessmen's Club several months after his arrival and had accepted the Australian's offer to dine with him and his wife at Restaurant Picot. After a superb meal of international
standard, which had greatly surprised Paul, Harry had cross-examined him about the Midas.

‘Rumour has it the Midas is going to be closed down,' Harry had said, leaning back in his chair and lighting up his Havana. He'd registered Dunleavy's surprise at the service and cuisine and was proud of himself. He'd shown the American they had style here in Kalgoorlie. ‘Is it true?'

It was certainly true that Paul's initial impulse upon inspecting the mine had been to advise Lord Lionel Laverton and the London board of directors to cut their losses and close down the Midas, but he was hardly going to admit that to Harry. He was taken aback by the man's presumption in questioning him so. Despite his conviviality, his tailored clothes and social flair, Harry Brearlely was crass, Paul decided.

‘No,' he answered simply, ‘no, the Midas will not be closed down.' He hoped that the brevity of his answer would terminate the conversation.

‘But the mine manager's been dismissed,' Harry insisted, ‘and workers are being laid off, left, right and centre.'

Paul had indeed dismissed the mine manager, along with a number of employees in key positions. The manager had been the second appointed since the Laverton debacle and he and his predecessor had both been utterly incompetent. Not criminally so, but they had been incapable of repairing the damage wrought by Richard Laverton.

‘We will appoint a new manager in due course,' he replied, wishing the man would shut up.

‘And the miners … dozens of men laid off I'm told.'

‘Harry!' Maudie had recognised Paul's reticence. ‘Stop pestering Mr Dunleavy,' she said good-naturedly.

Paul appreciated Maudie's motives but the forthright way she expressed herself didn't really help
matters. He was, after all, Harry's dinner guest. ‘It's perfectly all right, Mrs Brearley, I assure you. We will, of course, be re-employing miners when further assessments have been carried out.' He nodded gratefully to the waiter who offered to refill his coffee cup.

Paul had quickly realised that his impulse to recommend the closure of the Midas had stemmed from his desire to return home—he had taken an instant dislike to outback Australia. But such an action would be cowardly. It was his duty to rescue the Midas, and to restore it to its past glory. It wasn't as if there was a lack of gold to be mined, the problem was merely finding a cost-effective way of going about it. The fact that the underground manager, employed since the disaster of the previous year, had been dishonest hadn't helped. Gold stealing was rife amongst the miners. He'd dismissed at least fifty per cent of them and set about finding a trustworthy underground boss.