Kal (40 page)

‘I wanted to come back and find you,' he said. It was a lie. He hadn't. He had married Elizabeth only months after his return from Steinach that winter. Everyone had approved. Elizabeth was old family too. A true Bostonian.

She nodded and smiled and he sensed that she didn't believe him, but also that she didn't care and that it didn't matter. He was even more disconcerted. He cleared his throat. ‘Paolo…' he began.

‘Paolo is your son.'

Paul wasn't sure whether he admired her for such a blatant admission or whether he found it tasteless. There were ways of conducting such a conversation, surely.

‘Yes.' He fought against clearing his throat again. ‘Does Giovanni know?'

Kate felt intensely irritated. Not only by his intimation of a secret shared, but by the manner in which he referred to her husband. She understood the protocol within the hierarchy of the Midas, she had learned it through her years with Evan. Paul Dunleavy was ‘Mr Dunleavy, sir' and Giovanni was merely ‘Giovanni', she understood that. But she found the condescension in Paul's tone offensive.

‘I have no secrets from my husband,' she replied stiffly.

Paul realised that he had offended her in some way
but he didn't know how. Damn it, why was the woman being so proud? The situation was awkward enough as it was.

‘What exactly does Paolo know of his natural father?' He thought he had voiced the question delicately. Surely the boy didn't know he was a bastard?

Kate relaxed a little. She wondered why she was being so defensive. Paul Dunleavy was a proper man and he was finding the situation very confronting. But what did he want of her? An oath of silence? Did he fear that she would broadcast the news of his bastard son? Was he afraid that she would blackmail him? She wished he would get to the point.

‘I have not lied to Paolo,' Kate said. ‘I told him when he was very little that his father was an American. No more, no less.'

‘I see.' He seemed about to say something, then thought better of it.

‘What is it you want…?' She couldn't bring herself to call him Paul and she was certainly not going to say ‘Mr Dunleavy'.

Blunt as her question was, there was no animosity in her voice and Paul found himself answering with equal bluntness. ‘I would like to know my son.'

Kate was taken aback—it was not what she had expected. She studied him for a moment. ‘I will speak with Paolo,' she said finally. ‘If he wishes to meet with you I will have no objection.'

Paul rose from the table, relieved that the interview was over. ‘Thank you, Caterina,' he said.

‘Kate.'

 

‘S
HOULD
I
DO
it?' Caterina asked Giovanni that night. ‘Should I tell Paolo?'

To Giovanni the answer was simple. ‘Yes. It is a good thing for the boy to know his natural father.'

Paolo's reaction proved to be just as simple. So the American who happened to be his father was none other than the powerful Mr Dunleavy. Paolo was impressed, but it meant no more than that to him. He couldn't really think of Mr Dunleavy as his father—as far as Paolo was concerned Giovanni was his father. But the boy was proud that the American showed an interest in him.

So each weekend, on a Saturday afternoon, Mr Dunleavy paid a visit and they would talk together. Usually away from the house. Kate would offer tea but invariably Mr Dunleavy would say, ‘Let's have a walk, Paolo, what do you say? I need the exercise.' And the boy came to recognise that Mr Dunleavy was not comfortable in the presence of his mother and Giovanni.

Paolo fascinated Paul Dunleavy. The boy didn't belong in Kalgoorlie. He was a brilliant student, just as Paul himself had been. And, just as Paul had done, he wanted to study mining engineering. He intended to enrol in the Kalgoorlie School of Mines.

There was nothing wrong with the Kalgoorlie School of Mines, Paul thought, it was a recognised place of learning. But it was not Harvard. And when the boy had graduated, what then? He would be stuck for the rest of his life in Kalgoorlie. Looking after his peasant family, marrying a peasant daughter of one of their peasant friends. No, the boy did not belong in Kalgoorlie at all. He didn't even look the part. His was a patrician face, his whole bearing was one of breeding. There was Dunleavy blood in him.

As the months went by, Paul filled the boy's head with stories of his travels. Then he fired the boy with excitement at what lay ahead for a successful man in his chosen field. ‘A first-rate mining engineer has the world at his feet, Paolo.' He wanted to say ‘son' but he dared not. Paul was aware of the bond between the boy and Giovanni, he knew he must tread warily. He talked of
the vast mines in South Africa and North America, all the while watching the growing excitement in the boy's eyes. Paolo wanted to travel, he was hungry to adventure and see the world. And so he would.

As the summer passed and the goldfield's brief suggestion of autumn slid into winter, Paul became obsessed. Soon he would be returning to Boston, to the home where the boy belonged. The boy was his son. His only son and heir. The boy belonged to him.

 

‘I
T'S A VERY
generous offer, Paul.'

Kate had become comfortable enough with their first-name basis, Paul noticed, but Giovanni had not.

‘Yes, it is very generous,' Giovanni agreed. ‘Have you spoken to Paolo?'

‘No, no, no,' Paul waved a magnanimous hand as if outraged by the suggestion. ‘I couldn't possibly fill the boy's head with such dreams if his own parents were against the idea. But I know that he is very keen to travel, and Harvard will most certainly accept him, be assured of that.' He smiled and added, ‘I happen to be on the board of directors.'

‘Why would you wish to do this?'

It was the question Paul Dunleavy had been expecting. Kate's eyes were searching his, measuring his every word, and he knew he must answer carefully. He had the feeling that Kate didn't particularly like him, although he didn't know why, and she certainly didn't trust him. Giovanni was the simple one, Paul had come to realise. A good man who expected goodness in others. There was a shrewdness in Kate and she was the one he must convince.

He leaned forward in his chair in the little front parlour of the Giannis' house where they were taking afternoon tea, and spoke with the earnestness of truth.

‘He is a fine student, Kate. You know that. With his
academic abilities there is no limit to the heights he could achieve. And the Kalgoorlie School of Mines, excellent as it is, could never offer the connections he would make at Harvard. One must not underestimate the power of the old school tie.'

‘That doesn't really answer my question.'

Paul refused to be disconcerted. ‘I am deeply fond of Paolo, as I'm sure you're aware.' He addressed himself to Giovanni as well as Kate now. ‘But I have no wish to interfere with his family life. It would mean only four years at the university and then he could have his choice of positions right here in Kalgoorlie.' He grinned at Giovanni. ‘Why, he could even qualify for my job. How would you like your son as a boss, Giovanni?'

Giovanni smiled politely back. He saw no reason to distrust Mr Dunleavy. It seemed a fine opportunity for Paolo if he wished to accept the offer.

Paul relaxed. ‘And of course it would allow you the financial freedom to concentrate upon your new arrival.' He glanced at the cradle in the corner where the three-month-old baby girl lay peacefully asleep. ‘That is surely worthy of consideration.'

‘It is worthy of no consideration at all.' Paul was taken aback by the edge in the Italian's voice. ‘There will be money enough to educate Paolo, you need have no fear of that.'

‘Well of course, Giovanni, of course.' Paul cursed himself. Damn it, that had been a mistake. ‘I'm merely offering—'

‘It is a generous offer, as we have agreed,' Giovanni cut him short, ‘but it is Paolo's decision. He is of an age when he can choose his own future. I will fetch the boy.' He left abruptly and Paul was nonplussed. He had expected to win the Italian over with ease. Kate was the one whose arguments he'd feared. But he had a further weapon to use if necessary, and now was the time.

‘Life's opportunities, Kate, one must always seize them when they arise, God knows they may never materialise again.' He smiled and leaned back affably in his chair. ‘Giovanni, for instance. It's a rare thing for an Italian to achieve the status of underground boss. There is an element of dislike for foreigners here in Kalgoorlie. Of course I personally disapprove of such discrimination—the best man for the job is what I say, and Giovanni is certainly that—but I would hate to see my successor revert to the discriminatory pattern which seems to be the rule.'

‘You would go that far?' Her voice was cold.

‘Oh no, Kate, no. Good God, you misunderstand me.' Excellent, he thought, she had read his veiled warning and he was glad that he'd been saved a more explicit threat. ‘Of course I shall ensure that Mr Vandenburg honours Giovanni's contract. I'm merely pointing out how advantages must be grasped when they are offered.'

The blue eyes drilled into his. ‘Why? Why do you want to do this for Paolo? You have still not answered my question.'

‘I want to see the boy realise his potential, Kate, no more than that. I want to offer him the opportunity to do so.'

‘Very well.' She didn't believe him for a minute and he knew it. ‘As Giovanni says, it must be Paolo's decision.'

‘Fine, fine.' Paul relaxed. He knew what the boy's decision would be.

In eighteen months' time, when he was eighteen, Paolo would come to Boston. It was a pity he had to wait so long, Paul thought, but Kate would most certainly be suspicious if he urged the boy to join him before his eligibility for Harvard. In the meantime, he would write regularly to Paolo, and keep the fire of excitement raging in the boy.

Kate believed in the power of her influence over her son, Paul realised. She believed that, after his schooling, he would return to the family fold. She was wrong. Once Paul had him in Boston, the die would be cast. His son and heir would never return to Kalgoorlie. Paul Dunleavy would see to that.

‘It's a matter of days I tell you.' Lord Lionel Laverton took a final sip of his tea, placed the Royal Doulton cup and saucer back on the lace-clothed table and blotted his heavy handlebar moustache with a damask napkin.

‘Call for another brew, my dear,' he muttered to Prudence and without drawing breath continued loudly, ‘it's been going on for forty years or more, ever since the Germans took Alsace-Lorraine from the French. “The weak were made to be devoured by the strong”, that's what Bismarck said then and, by Jove, it's what that megalomaniac of a Kaiser is saying right now. It will only be a matter of days before it comes to a head.'

Godfrey Brigstock and Paul Dunleavy were taking afternoon tea at the Ritz Hotel in London with Laverton and his daughter-in-law. When the three men had concluded their business meeting in the boardroom of Lord Lionel's offices in Piccadilly, Godfrey had suggested they adjourn to his club, but Lord Lionel wouldn't hear of it.

‘I am to meet Prudence for tea,' he'd said. ‘You must join us.'

No one refused Lord Lionel and so Godfrey Brigstock found himself sipping Darjeeling in the intricate elegance of the Ritz tea lounge when he'd far rather have been swigging on a large gin and bitters in the comfortably masculine surrounds of his club.

Lord Lionel was fully aware of Godfrey's irritation and didn't care one whit. Lord Lionel himself regularly enjoyed a good cognac and cigar in the comfort of his Mayfair club and in the company of his fellow members, all men of the old school, but never before seven of an evening. Four o'clock in the afternoon was far too early for a respectable man to be seen drinking alcohol in public. Furthermore, he wouldn't be caught dead in Brigstock's Knightsbridge club which catered to dandies and poseurs. In Lord Lionel's opinion, Godfrey Brigstock was not only a dipsomaniac, he was a fop.

‘Mind you, Kaiser Bill's all talk,' Lord Lionel continued, ‘he's been blustering for years. Why, he all but threatened war on Britain when he proposed a German protectorate in the Transvaal. Well Britain won't turn a blind eye much longer, I tell you.'

Paul Dunleavy well recalled the South African crisis, he'd been working in Rhodesia at the time, but he didn't join in the conversation. No one did when the old man was ranting. Paul watched the others instead, fully aware of Godfrey's discomfort—he was certainly an alcoholic—and Prudence's boredom. Lionel Laverton was a monster, he thought, but one had to respect the old boy. He was in his mid-eighties and yet his mind was as sharp as a tack. He was a little deaf and his hair was white but he walked briskly, without the aid of a stick, and seemed in fine fettle for a man of his years.

‘Now, with Austria all out to attack Serbia, Germany extending her control over the Turkish army, and Russia seeking a Balkan alliance, all hell's about to break loose.' The old man was really warming up. ‘They're talking war every one of them, but that's all they're doing. Talking. Britain won't talk I tell you. She won't desert France, whatever the wretched Kaiser threatens. There'll be no “mailed fist” from this side of the Channel.' He smashed his own fist so hard on the table that the Royal
Doulton rattled alarmingly and people seated nearby cast glances in his direction, but there was no stopping him now. ‘The Kaiser won't know what hit him, mark my words. It'll be war I tell you. Global war!'

Paul stopped himself saying that America would certainly not involve herself in a European war, so it could hardly be global. It was never a good idea to disagree with the old man.

Paul was becoming bored with the talk of war. It was a pity the turmoil in Europe was going to involve Britain, he'd so enjoyed his stay in London, as he always did. The sooner he got back to Boston the better, he thought.

‘There, there, Daddy, don't upset yourself.' It was Prudence, patting her father-in-law's hand. She couldn't really care less whether the old man upset himself but she wished he wouldn't do it in public, everyone in the lounge was staring.

‘Yes, you're quite right, my dear, quite right.' Lord Lionel had had his say and was content to let Prudence think she'd calmed him. ‘No point in getting all worked up over the inevitable, is there?' He rose abruptly from the table. ‘Come along. Time we were leaving.'

Prudence could see the waiter approaching with the tea. The old man had forgotten that he'd asked her to order a fresh pot; his short-term memory was becoming more and more erratic lately.

‘The tea, Daddy,' she reminded him.

‘Ah yes. Don't feel like it now. Come along, m'dear.' And to her utter humiliation, they left without paying the bill. Prudence didn't quite have the nerve to remind him the tea had been at his invitation. One reminder of a memory loss was acceptable, two irritated him. But was it a memory loss? she wondered. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

‘Put it on my bill,' Paul said when, seconds later,
Godfrey fled for a cab to Knightsbridge, ‘and bring me an afternoon paper.' He drank three more cups of Darjeeling and read the
Daily Telegraph
.

 

‘
PAA-EEP-ER
! P
APER
!'
THE
newsboy chanted on the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly. ‘Archduke murdered, read all about it!'

Paul shoved a shilling in the boy's hand and didn't wait for the change. It was lunch time on the 28th of June, 1914, and the afternoon tabloids had just hit the stands. He looked at the headlines as he walked down Piccadilly. ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND AND WIFE SOFIA SHOT DEAD AT SARAJEVO.

‘My God,' he said out loud.

Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to Francis Joseph, was murdered by Slav nationalists with the aid of a Serbian secret society known as the Black Hand. And it had happened that very morning. At eleven o'clock. Ten o'clock Greenwich Mean Time. Less than three days after their tea at the Ritz. The old man had been right.

 

W
HEN THE
A
USTRALIAN
newspapers announced the murder of Franz Ferdinand, conjecture of a war in Europe was rife. Many were disinterested and said it could hardly affect Australia. Others said that if Britain entered the war, the Commonwealth countries would be called upon as allies. ‘Why should Britain declare war?' was the reply. ‘What does Britain care about Serbia?'

But, a month later, when Germany issued an ultimatum to France giving her eighteen hours to declare her neutrality in a Russo-German war, it was obvious to all that Britain's involvement would be total. And, on the 2nd of August, when Belgium refused Germany free passage for her troops, the die was cast.

Two days later Germany invaded Belgium and, on
that same day, the 4th of August, at 10.00 pm Greenwich Mean Time, Britain was at war.

In Kalgoorlie, wagers were placed as to when Australia would enter the fray. It was only a matter of time, they said. Excitement was in the air. Many on the goldfields wanted to go to war. The world price of gold was down, the big mines were in trouble and miners were being laid off by the dozen. A war was just what they needed. A man could sign up. He could join the army and see the world.

 

T
HERE WAS CHAOS
at Kalgoorlie railway station as the special Perth-bound train prepared to leave. Hundreds of people crowded the platform. Somewhere in the street a military band played. There was always a military band playing these days. The lads were going to war. Mothers hugged sons, wives clung to husbands and lovers exchanged hungry kisses. Hampers of food and bottles of beer were thrust at the departing heroes by people they'd never met. The whole town, it seemed, had turned up to wish the boys of the 11th Battalion godspeed.

The recruiting office in Kalgoorlie had been besieged by volunteers from the moment it had opened its doors. Not just the boys from Boulder and Kal but from towns much further afield. Workers from the construction camps of the Transcontinental Railway had downed tools and caught the first westward-bound train when they'd heard that recruiting had started in Kal. Amongst them were the three husky Brereton brothers, Tom and Ben and Bill.

Many lied about their ages in a desperate bid to be accepted by the army. Some succeeded, some didn't. Rico and Teresa's thirteen-year-old son, Salvatore Gianni, was laughed at—‘Come back for the next war,' the officer told him—but forty-year-old Tony Prendergast was not. Like
all the men of the goldfields, he was a fine physical specimen and, like many, quick of wit—‘The sun withers the skin out here, man,' he'd answered immediately when the officer from Perth said he looked older than his thirty-four years.

At the railway station, Tony Prendergast promised young Freddie's mother he'd look after her boy—Freddie was twenty-eight now but, simple as ever, he was still ‘young Freddie' to all.

Jack Brearley and Enrico Gianni were typical of the stream of volunteers who queued outside the recruiting office. Nineteen years of age, fit, eager to join the army and excited at the prospect of fighting a war on the other side of the world.

 

‘G
IANNI, IS IT
?' the recruiting officer asked.

‘Yes, sir. Rick Gianni.'

‘Born here?'

‘Yes, sir,' Enrico lied. ‘My Dad's Italian.' Enrico ‘Rick' Gianni had decided that he was as Australian as the next man and he was going to fight alongside other Australians in the 11th Infantry Battalion of the 1st Australian Division.

At the railway station, Jack Brearley was too delirious with excitement to worry about the two girls who'd come to see him off. He'd been sleeping with both of them and neither knew of the other's existence. Who cared? He was going to fight a war.

Solange was not there to see Enrico off. She had returned to France six weeks earlier. ‘You'd be much safer in Kal,' he'd argued, but she wouldn't listen. ‘Who cares for safety?' she'd shrugged. ‘If there is to be a war I must be with my family.' They'd made love, and she'd kissed him tenderly and told him that she would always love him.

Enrico pined when Solange left. Not a day went by when he didn't think of her. But, on the railway
platform, as he hugged his mother and Giovanni and Kate—his father was not present, Rico thought his son a fool to fight for a country which was not his by birth—Enrico too was imbued with the excitement of it all.

The train journey to Perth was extraordinary. A party all the way. At every station they passed, cheering crowds of well-wishers were gathered and, at every stop the train made, the boys were plied with yet more beer and wine and whisky and food.

They were in fine spirits when they tumbled out of the train at Bellevue Station and, during the march to Blackboy Hill Training Camp just outside Perth, there was much ribaldry directed at the uniformed officers. But it was good-humoured and the officers accepted it. They knew that a certain amount of larrikinism was to be expected from the boys from the bush.

Blackboy Hill Camp was a camp in name only and the men arrived to nothing but gum trees and scrub. Orders were issued to draw tents for shelters and, when they'd pitched camp, details were allotted.

It was Tony Prendergast who scored the cook's detail and he elected young Freddie as his assistant but, when the steaming cauldrons were lifted from the fire, the contents were found to be inedible.

‘What the bloody hell's this?' Jack Brearley demanded as, squatted on the ground outside their tents, dixies in hand, a gathering of twenty or so men dug their bread into the brown gruel.

‘Stew, boyo, what do you think it is?'

Rick Gianni was seated beside Tony Prendergast. ‘Never hire a Welshman to do an Italian's job,' he muttered and pretended to choke on the food.

The surrounding Aussie bushmen and miners and shearers and railway workers took up the joke. ‘Cripes, it's enough to make a man spew,' Tom Brereton said, feigning a noisy vomit.

‘I've been bloody poisoned,' his brother Bill moaned, holding his stomach and rolling on the ground.

‘You've killed us, mate.' Ben Brereton clutched his throat and gagged. ‘You've bloody killed us!' Soon, every man present was groaning and retching and choking.

‘I like it,' young Freddie said, but nobody heard him above the din so he just kept eating.

‘Hey, Lieutenant,' Jack Brearley stood and called to the adjutant who was checking the supply tent fifty yards away, ‘I'm going into town for some decent tucker,' and he swaggered off in the direction of Perth, the Brereton brothers immediately joining him. The other men, including Tony Prendergast, fell in behind and Freddie, who wasn't really hungry any more but who didn't want to be left out of the fun, joined up the rear.

The lieutenant didn't stop them. These were early days, there was plenty of time for discipline. He'd have to watch young Jack Brearley, he thought, you didn't want a troublemaker in your midst, but they were a hardy bunch these outback boys. They'd make good soldiers.

It wasn't long before training at Blackboy Hill started in earnest. Drafts arrived from all over the State and the men were formed up into the eight companies which were to constitute the 11th Battalion. Of the twelve infantry battalions in the 1st Australian Division, the 11th was the battalion from the western State and, as far as possible, each of the eight companies within it was composed of men from the same portion of the State. The boys from the goldfields and surrounding areas were therefore destined to remain together through the thick and the thin of it all, which suited them just fine.

An undeclared truce existed between Jack Brearley and Rick Gianni. They made sure they were not allotted the same tent or allocated fatigues and duties together,
but friction inevitably occurred. Particularly as, in their own way, they were both popular with the men. Jack invariably led the way into town and the pub, closely followed by his mates the Brereton brothers. But, around the campfire, it was Rick who won the votes. With his battered old concertina he led the singalongs, just as his uncle Giovanni had done each childhood Sunday he could remember. But, unlike Giovanni, the songs Rick played were not Italian. Rick Gianni had quickly taught himself each of the men's choices and played every one of them upon request, sometimes over and over if they happened to be a common favourite. ‘Bound for Botany Bay' was a popular one and ‘Click go the Shears Boys' for the shearers. But there was always the Scot who wanted ‘Ain Folk' or the Irishman who demanded ‘Rose of Tralee'. Rick knew them all. The general favourite though, was the parody of the popular song ‘I'd Love to Live in Loveland'.