The Winter Sea (36 page)

‘I suppose you were so good in your theatre work that you didn’t have a lot of trouble getting into the movies,’ said Carlo a little peevishly.

‘No, little brother. Like so much in life there was a lot of luck involved. How about you pour me another drink?’

The conversation paused while they all got themselves another drink and Joe tiptoed over to Emilia to see that she was all right. When they settled themselves back down again, Pietro continued.

‘When I first arrived in Hollywood I knocked on a lot of doors. Eventually I managed to get a job with one of the smaller studios working with the construction manager, making sure that the sets were properly built, when the art director was killed in a car accident. The picture was nearly finished, so they made me the art director – just to get the job done – and I managed to do a satisfactory job, so I was hired for another film. I’ve worked on several movies over the last few years, working with the set designers, with the construction managers and the people who do the set decoration, props and so on. On some films I have to work with the costume designers as well so that every visual aspect of the film is co-ordinated. And I have to make sure that everything stays within budget. That’s the really hard part.’

‘It sounds complicated,’ said Ricardo.

‘It can be, but if you really enjoy doing something, I don’t think that matters,’ replied Pietro.

‘Have you met any famous movie stars?’ asked Patrick.

‘Dozens.’

‘Who do you like the best?’ asked Carlo, now very curious about his brother’s career.

‘I think that the nicest one I know is James Stewart. I wasn’t the art director for
Rear Window
, but I did help with the set, so I met him a few times.’

All the Aquinos looked very impressed.

‘Did you meet Grace Kelly, too?’ asked Carlo.

‘I did.’

‘Wait till I tell Gail. Grace Kelly is her favourite actress,’ Carlo said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

The men continued to quiz Pietro about Hollywood. It seemed incredible that one of the Aquino family should have such an exotic life.

‘Son, what you are doing sounds wonderful. I am very proud of you,’ said Joe.

‘That’s nice, Pap
à
,’ said Pietro. ‘There is one more thing that I want to tell you all, that I think is very exciting. The studio has told me that my work on their latest film is so good that they expect it will be nominated for this year’s Academy Awards. Imagine an Aquino with an Oscar!’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Patrick. ‘Do you have to do anything more to win it?’

‘No, if the Academy thinks my work’s good enough, it will nominate me and then my peers on the Academy will hopefully give me their votes. So for now all I have to do is to keep my nose clean and my fingers crossed.’

‘What do you mean, keep your nose clean?’ asked his father.

‘Pap
à
, the Academy doesn’t like to have any scandal associated with the awards, so I have to be a very good boy for the next few months. But I’ve got so much work coming up, I won’t have time for anything else . . . Enough about me! Tell me what you lot have been up to, apart from producing children.’ As Pietro said this, he winked at his older brother.

Ricardo explained how the Aquinos had moved into tuna fishing and then added, ‘While you’re here, we could all go out and chase some big ones. Like the old days. Come with us, Pietro.’

Pietro flung up his arms. ‘I don’t think so. I have lost the touch. If I ever had it.’

‘The gear is much better now,’ said Carlo. ‘You should see how we work. Or are you too afraid of getting dirty these days?’ He smiled but there was a challenge in his words.

‘I’ll think about it.’ Pietro was rescued by the children, who had returned from their walk and now wanted Uncle Pietro to play with them.

*

One of the most important events on the Whitby Point social calendar was the annual mid-winter dance, which was always held at the local School of Arts. Probably m
ore than any other function, this event united the community, regardless of age, background or occupation.

A barbecue was set up under the trees at the rear of the hall, while inside a refreshment table, staffed by women from the Country Women’s Association, served soft drinks, punch and snacks. But the main attraction was the music and the dancing. A four-piece band from Wollongong – saxophone, drums, accordion and piano – sawed and thumped away with enthusiasm.

The Aquinos always took a big table. This year, as usual, Joe sat at the head of the table surrounded by his four sons. Ricardo and Rosina had brought their children, and Carlo and Gail had brought Greta. Franco and Silvio and their extended families had come down from Wollongong and would stay the night at Joe’s and Ricardo’s houses.

Everyone stopped at the Aquino table to chat, drink a beer, try the wine, to sample an oyster or a prawn from the giant platters of seafood, or taste the home-baked bread, pickles, cheeses and Emilia’s famous salami. But mostly it was to ask Pietro about the movie stars he knew and what they were really like.

The music catered for everyone. The Italians sang along lustily when Neapolitan songs were played. Most people got up to dance under the swirling lights covered with red and orange cellophane. The dance floor was constantly crowded for the barn dance and the Pride of Erin. The older people showed off their quickstep and foxtrot, while the younger ones wanted to dance the latest craze of rock and roll. When the band did manage to play a fast-paced jive, the teenagers had the floor to themselves for their gymnastics, as Joe called it. And as long as there was music playing, the younger children gyrated and bopped around the fringes of the floor, where nearby adults kept an eye on them.

The watchers were country women with their strong arms, wind-reddened cheeks, cushioned hips and sensible shoes, who were happy to dance a slow waltz, but nothing more. Another group of watchers were the Italian women of the community. Knitting needles clacking, crochet hooks dipping rapidly in and out of lacy concoctions of collars and doilies, chattering in the language of distant Italy, and dressed in their uniform of black modesty, they kept a wary eye on their charges.

The girls had spent weeks preparing their outfits. Laughing late arrivals caught everyone’s eye when they entered the hall. They had travelled from their homes out of town standing in the backs of utility trucks so their layers of skirts and stiffened petticoats weren’t crushed, their beehive hairdos protected by scarves. Even though Emilia’s eyesight was not so good, she had helped put together the party frocks for little Greta and Ricardo’s girls, who had all insisted on stiffened petticoats and frilled socks.

Ranged around the dance floor were the over-protected Italian beauties and their brothers, who strode the stage of the dance floor with suave nonchalance, confident in their handsome looks, while the uncomfortably shy Australian boys looked longingly at the Italian girls but felt warned off. The cheerful, pretty Australian girls flirted and teased all the boys.

Joe and Franco had not the slightest interest in dancing and they sat quietly together, talking about the old days. Seeing Patrick wander towards them, Joe asked if he would get them a couple of drinks.

‘We might be too old for dancing, but we’re not too old for the vino, you understand,’ he told Patrick with a smile. As Patrick walked off, the two resumed their conversation.

‘Of course I didn’t have to spend as much time as you did in that wretched internment camp, Franco, but I can appreciate what you’re saying.’

‘How I missed my family, Joe. Years without seeing them. And for what? I wasn’t a common criminal. There was no justice.’

‘You are right. We were not common criminals and yet I felt as though I was because there I was, locked up behind barbed wire. It was as though I had done something to disgrace the name of Aquino, and yet I had done nothing. Sometimes I still think that because of the internment camp I have brought shame to my family. Shame is a hard thing to live with.’

As Patrick leaned over to put the drinks in front of Joe and Franco, he patted Joe’s shoulder. ‘Pap
à
, you could never bring disgrace to the Aquino name. We are all so proud of you.’

‘Thank you, Pat. That is a kind thing to say. The Aquino name is very important to me.’

‘Who knows, maybe Pietro will bring it even more prestige if he wins an Academy Award,’ Patrick replied.

‘Who knew that Pietro would have such a career? He has done well, Joe,’ added Franco.

It was getting late. Emilia, Rosina and Gail had taken the children home, but the men insisted that they were not yet ready to go. The teenagers had taken over the dance floor and the crowd had thinned as some of the men had gone outside to talk and drink. Suddenly one of the men hurried back into the hall, looking for Joe.

‘Joe, quick. There’s a fight outside. It’s your sons!’

‘What!’ Joe jumped to his feet and hurried out, followed by Ricardo.

The fight appeared to be more than threats and a scuffle. Patrick and Carlo were struggling together, panting and cursing, their bodies locked, their free arms punching each other without restraint.

‘Hey, you two! Break it up. Who started this?’ Joe and Ricardo immediately tried to get between Patrick and Carlo. Eventually they managed to separate the two brothers who stood glaring at each other, fists still raised.

‘It started over the footy. They argued about the results of the last game,’ said one of the onlookers. ‘But it seemed to get out of hand. Those two are certainly hotheads.’

‘They’re always arguing,’ said another. ‘Righto, come on, boys, do as your father says, settle down. Enough.’ But even as the onlooker spoke, Carlo lunged again at his brother and threw another punch. Patrick lifted his arms to protect his face.

‘
Basta!
’ bellowed Joe. ‘That is enough.’

‘You bloody idiots. Stop right now,’ said Ricardo. He moved between them and hissed at them. ‘You are disgracing our family. Think of Pap
à
. Pat, go and get cleaned up. Carlo, come with me. But first, you two shake hands.’

Patrick held out his hand but Carlo turned on his heel. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Carlo, don’t be stupid. Get back here. You can’t let Gail see you like that.’

But Carlo, nursing sore hands and a grazed cheek, slipped away into the darkness.

‘Patrick, you look a mess. I hope that eye looks better in the morning,’ said Ricardo.

‘I can’t believe you got into a brawl in public over a football game. I thought you had more sense,’ said Joe sadly. ‘What will people think of us?’

‘I’m sorry, Pap
à
, but sometimes Carlo really gets up my nose. It wasn’t the stupid game, it’s just that Carlo makes me see red at times and I suppose this was one of those times. But you’re right. We are getting a bit old to carry on like this.’

‘Yeah. And Carlo should grow up, too. You two have always been competitive since day one. I, for one, am sick of it,’ said Ricardo, but he put his arm around Patrick as the three of them walked back into the hall. ‘If you ask me I think that life’s too short to waste it fighting. Find yourself a nice girl and settle down.’

*

Life resumed its routine. Franco and his family returned to Wollongong and Pietro decided to go to Sydney for a few days to visit friends. When he returned the family had only a few more days of his company before he returned to Los Angeles.

In those last days, Ricardo tried to talk Pietro into joining them all on a fishing expedition. ‘The weather is good and there are fish out there. We’ll just go out for a few hours. Come on, Pietro, you’ll enjoy it. It’s not often that we get to fish just for the pleasure of it and it would be fun if you came.’

Pietro laughed. ‘I don’t think so. But I tell you what, anything you catch, I’ll help you eat.’

‘If you don’t help catch them, why should you get to eat them?’ asked Carlo.

Joe shrugged. ‘Don’t push him, but you boys do what you want. I’m going to Wollongong to see Franco and Silvio. I expect to see a fish feast waiting when I get back this afternoon!’

The day had started out calm and grey, the ocean flat, the air still, as if the world was holding its breath. People went about their business, though the streets were quiet at this early hour. Life in Whitby Point was going on in warm rooms, behind closed doors. As Joe drove past the harbour on his way to Wollongong he could see men working in the brisk air, dressed warmly in heavy jumpers and beanies. The water in the harbour was so still that it looked almost like a lake, the boats hardly rocking. In Wollongong a few hours later, Joe felt a change coming before he’d even looked out of the window.

‘I think we’re in for some nasty weather,’ said Silvio.

Joe glanced at the sky as the clouds began to darken. From Franco’s house he could see that the surface of the sea had begun to ruffle and move in slow heaving breaths as if preparing for an outburst. The small boats around the Wollongong harbour and outside the seawall turned back into the curve of the sheltered bay. White caps started to form at the crests of rolling waves. In the distance, lightning zig-zagged behind the gathering clouds.

‘Think I might try to get back before the weather gets any worse,’ said Joe.

‘You can always stay here if you don’t want to drive in the wet,’ Franco told him.

‘No, but thanks anyway. I want to get back to my mother. I don’t like to leave her for too long. And Pietro only has a few more nights with us.’

‘We understand,’ said Silvio. ‘Drive carefully.’

Driving back to Whitby Point in the storm reminded Joe of the night that Bridie was killed. Not that he needed reminding.

Such a tragedy for my family, he thought sadly, the old ache for Bridie still burning.

It was late afternoon when Joe drove into Whitby Point. The sea was churning and the wind was flinging itself at the boats, buffeting them at their moorings. Joe was relieved to see the
Celestine
, the boat the boys had taken out, safely tied up to the wharf.