It was Saturday afternoon and Cooma was buzzing. Cooma was always buzzing these days, particularly on Saturdays. But this was no ordinary Saturday. This was Show Day Saturday.

For well over seventy years, Cooma’s annual two-day Agricultural Show had been a major social event for the entire rural community. In earlier times, farmers had walked their stock into town, proudly parading their prize cattle and sheep down the main street. These days the stock was mostly brought in by trucks. In the Agricultural Hall, wool and fresh produce were exhibited alongside the cakes and condiments and needlework of the ladies; in the ring, events from gymkhana and showjumping to wood-chopping and livestock parades took place non-stop, each duly followed by the presentation of coveted ribbons and prizes; and of course there were games and rides for the children.

Since the arrival of the Snowy Mountains Authority and its huge contingent of workers, however, the Cooma Show had grown into a far bigger and grander affair. The SMA itself had become involved. There were displays of heavy machinery and mining equipment and, in a specially erected tent, films of the Scheme were shown. But it was the Snowy workers themselves who had had the most impact on the show, as hundreds upon hundreds paid their three shilling entrance fee at the gate and poured into the Cooma showgrounds.

The ever-increasing crowds quickly attracted the attention of the travelling show circuit, and sideshows became a crowd favourite, as did the regular horse riders who travelled the countryside competing at all the rural shows, of which Cooma’s was the biggest. The Snowy workers, inveterate gamblers, were only too keen to place a wager on the rider of their preference in every event imaginable, from races to rodeo to showjumping, and even dressage.

For locals and new arrivals alike, the two show days of the year were a highlight, and this particular Saturday, March 20, 1954, was no exception. The 79th Annual Cooma Show was proving bigger and better than ever.

In the ringside stands, audiences cheered as sturdy horses cleared each newly raised bar. Wide-eyed children with sticky-pink fairy-floss faces wandered among gaudy stalls clutching kewpie dolls and cheap china statues. Mingling with the ever-present smell of fried sausages and onions were the more exotic aromas from the several European food stalls, and above the hubbub and the merry-go-round music of the calliope, the voices of the spruikers could clearly be heard touting the attractions of coconut stalls, shooting galleries and sideshows.

‘Line up! Line up! Is there a local boy wants to give it a go? Line up, line up and test yourself against the greatest fighting legends in the country!’

Of all the sideshows, Jim Sharman’s boxing tent was the most favoured by the Snowy workers. Crowds gathered by the dozens, all ready to lay bets on who’d make the requisite three rounds.

On a makeshift platform outside the tent stood several professional boxers, formidable men, strong-bodied in their satin shorts, tough-faced, defying challengers, and, as Jim Sharman continued to tout through his loudhailer, bearing the most ludicrous of names and claims.

‘Wild Billy Burrum Burrum, never been beaten!’ he declaimed of an Aboriginal boxer who dutifully squared up. The crowd gave a cheer – Billy was always popular. ‘And two-time All Ireland Champion, the one and only Patrick Murphy!’ Jim yelled, pointing to another who danced on the spot and jabbed the air with his fists, the Irish among the gathering applauding loudly even as they laughed and muttered to each other ‘what a load of shite’.

‘Name your man! Three rounds, ten bob a round if you can make it. An extra quid if you can beat my man. Who wants to prove himself? Do I have any takers?’

‘Go on, Luigi.’ Urged on by his mates, Luigi was about to put up his hand, but Elvio stopped him, flashing a knowing look at Pietro and Lucky, who both grinned. Luigi was always itching for a fight and it was always Elvio who held him back.

Pietro had eventually made good his promise to visit the Capelli brothers, whom he’d met on the train from Sydney to Cooma. He’d been reluctant at first, but when Lucky had promised he’d accompany him, he’d finally taken the plunge. Now, after several trips to Cooma and many a beer together, the four men had become friends.

At the showground, Luigi had met up with half a dozen workmates, also Italians employed by Pasotti’s and based in Cooma. Insisting on heading straight for Jim Sharman’s tent, they were disappointed now when Elvio stopped his younger brother from accepting the challenge. They themselves were not prepared to volunteer, but they would have liked to have seen one of their own in the ring.

A strong young man in khaki shorts and shirt boldly stepped forward. He’d come for the specific purpose of fighting, and he’d brought eight of his friends along to back him up. ‘I take Patrick Murphy,’ he called in a thick, guttural accent.

‘Brave lad! Good on you, mate!’ Slinging a comradely arm around the shoulder of the young man, Jim hauled him out in front of the crowd. ‘Here’s a local prepared to take on the two-time All Ireland Champion, let’s hear it for him!’ he shouted through the loudhailer, and a cheer went up. ‘What’s your name, son, and where are you from?’

‘My name is Erik,’ the young man said, and he waved to his mates who yelled back enthusiastically. ‘I am from Cooma.’

‘Course you are, mate, course you are,’ Jim said with boisterous approval. ‘But where are you from before Cooma?’

‘Kassel.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Germany.’

There were more supportive yells from Erik’s friends, all of whom were German, and there were loud boos from another quarter – specifically the Italians, with Luigi leading the troops.

Pietro was surprised – surely they should all be backing the Snowy man? – and he cast a quizzical glance at Lucky. But Lucky just shrugged.

‘Well, good on you, Erik. Good for you, mate!’ Jim grabbed Erik’s hand and held it high in a gesture of triumph as he addressed the crowd. ‘This brave young bloke is going up against Patrick Murphy, two-time All Ireland Champion! Chances are we have another Max Schmeling right here in our midst!’ he yelled, and the Germans bellowed at the mention of their own world champion. ‘Line up! Line up!’ Jim enthused, inciting the crowd. ‘Showing on the inside! Showing on the inside! The All Ireland Champion meets the new Max Schmeling!’ And, with a quick survey of the numbers gathered, he gave a nod to his man at the door of the tent, a further nod to his boxers and, clamping an arm firmly around Erik, he led him inside, still yelling through the loudhailer for the benefit of the crowd. ‘Come on, son, let’s show you the ropes! Line up! Showing on the inside! The All Ireland Champ meets the new Max Schmeling!’

Two other young locals, lined up earlier, were already awaiting their turn in the tent, but Jim decided he’d put Erik on first; the crowd reaction to him was excellent.

While the eager audience poured in, Erik was taken aside to be gloved by an assistant and Jim muttered his instructions to ‘Patrick Murphy’.

‘Let him go the three rounds, Col, I want to milk the crowd.’

Colin ‘Patrick Murphy’ Jenkins nodded his understanding; he’d guessed as much the moment the cheering and jeering had started.

Jim Sharman’s boxers, despite their ludicrous claims to fame, were indeed professionals adept at choreographing a fight. They knew how to prolong the action and how to take a dive, and they always obeyed their instructions, the principal one being that no punter was to be badly hurt. Jim couldn’t afford to lose his licence.

Pietro, Lucky and the Italians were among the first to enter the tent and took ringside spots beside the makeshift roped-off square in the centre. Erik’s friends, keen to spur on their mate, quickly jostled their way to the front on the opposite side.

The tent was packed. Money rapidly changed hands as men laid bets on whether Erik would last three rounds. The other professional boxers, now clad in robes and doubling as bouncers, wandered the periphery of the ring keeping the crowd several feet from the ropes, while Jim stood in the centre bawling instructions.

‘Stand back, give them air, don’t crowd the ring.’ Then finally, as the mob settled, came the dramatic announcement: ‘And now let’s hear it for … Patrick Murphy! Two-time All Ireland Champion!’ The Italians and the Irish vociferously applauded Patrick Murphy as he stepped into the ring and danced about, gloved hands delivering forceful air-punches. The others reserved their applause for the local contender.

‘And here he is! Will he make the three rounds? Has he got the stamina? Let’s hear it for our latest contender … Erik! The new Max Schmeling! All the way from Germany!’

Along with the Germans, the majority of men cheered their fellow Snowy worker as he climbed into the ring, but Luigi and his mates voiced their disapproval at the top of their lungs and, as the applause died down and the men went to their corners, the Italians continued to boo loudly.

‘Enough! Enough!’ Jim eventually roared. ‘Give it a rest, give the boy a break, and let’s commence …’ A dramatic pause … ‘Round One!’ He delivered the signal. The bell rang. The men came out of their corners and the fight was on.

Erik was fit and strong. Two years’ heavy physical labour on the Snowy had brought him to peak condition and, having won a number of amateur boxing championships in his home country, he was not altogether inexperienced.

None of this went unnoticed by Colin ‘Patrick Murphy’ Jenkins. The kid was an amateur, sure, he thought, but not your regular mug. In fact, Erik was just the sort of bloke who could land a lucky punch. Col blocked and sparred, buying time, watching the young man like a hawk and, when he sensed the audience needed a bit more action, he landed a right to the face. A glancing blow, not too hard, just enough to urge the kid and the crowd on.

The Italians cheered Patrick Murphy’s punch even louder than the Irish, and Erik’s friends countered by roaring encouragement to him in German. Then the other men gave voice to their fellow Snowy worker and the cheers of Patrick Murphy’s supporters were all but drowned out. ‘Give it to him, Erik!’ the men yelled. ‘Go on, mate, you can do it!’ And, fired up by the crowd, Erik did.

It was just what Col wanted: the kid was suddenly behaving like a mug, giving it all he had. Col could read him easily and he feinted twice before allowing one of the blows to glance him. The kid was going wild, the Germans were cheering, the Italians booing, and if the kid didn’t watch it, Col thought, he’d run out of steam well before round three. He held him in a clinch so that the kid could get his breath back, and the bell rang end of round one.

During the next round, Jim Sharman, refereeing in the centre of the ring, kept his eyes and ears open to the mood of the crowd, as he always did. The Germans and Italians were yelling abuse at each other now, but Jim didn’t mind. It was what he loved most about the Cooma Show. Everywhere else, from the big Royal Shows of the cities, to the smallest of rural community fairs, everyone rooted for the local boy. Here in Cooma there was the added excitement of faction against faction – it was a good crowd-pleaser. He gave the secret hand signal to Col to cop a couple more punches. The mob could do with an extra thrill – Erik was fired up and they were loving it. Col dutifully copped two more punches and the bell rang end of round two.

Halfway into round three Erik had tired himself out to such an extent that even Col’s clinches, designed not only to give the kid air, but to signal to the crowd that he, too, was tiring, weren’t really doing the trick. The kid was supposed to make it through, and if something didn’t happen soon, Col thought, the crowd would sense a sham.

The two of them danced clumsily in the ring, locked together, and Col looked over Erik’s heaving shoulder for Jim’s hand signal. A lucky punch, it said. He’d thought as much. It irked him, it always did, but this time more so than ever. He pushed the kid away, got in three sharp jabs, none of which, he knew, would do any harm, before leaving himself open for the uppercut. He pulled his head up and to the left, going with the punch so that it would do little damage. Then he dropped.

The fight was over, and Patrick Murphy lay on his back attempting to struggle to his feet while Jim counted to ten. Then, when he stood, seemingly unsteady on his feet, conceding defeat, the crowd went wild. The Italians jeered at the All Irish Champion, and the Germans and the others cheered Erik as Jim held his arm high, announcing the winner.

With jeers and cheers ringing around the tent, Col leaned against the corner post, pretending a fatigue he didn’t feel. Bugger it, he thought. The kid’d earn an extra quid for winning the fight instead of just seeing out the three rounds, and he’d be a hero to his mates. Col wondered what his own mates in Sydney would say if he told them he’d thrown a fight to a bloody Kraut. They wouldn’t understand, he didn’t himself, it only ever happened in Cooma. But shit, that was part of his job, he’d had half a dozen fights already today, and there’d be more to go, so no point dwelling on it.

As the mob poured out of the tent fifteen minutes later, two of the Germans hoisted Erik onto their shoulders, unintentionally barging into the Italians as they did so, which annoyed Luigi.

‘It was set up,’ he said to his mates, very loudly and in English, so that the Germans could hear. ‘The fight, it was rigged.’

There was a tense moment, as Erik signalled his friends to put him down and the Germans squared up to the Italians.

‘You are a bad loser,’ one of Erik’s mates said.

Luigi was about to come back with a further retort – he was in the mood for trouble – but Elvio interrupted. ‘It was a good fight,’ he said. And then Lucky stepped forward.

‘Ja. Das war ein gute Kampf, mein Freund,’ he said to the Germans and he offered his hand to Erik. ‘Sehr gut, Erik.’

‘Danke schön.’ Erik returned the handshake and the moment passed, the Germans agreeing with Lucky that it had been an excellent fight, chatting to him in their mother tongue, patting their hero on the back and eventually dragging Erik off to ply him with beer.

Luigi was left scowling, and his workmates looked even grimmer, casting openly antagonistic glares at Lucky, whom they’d not met before.

Lucky decided, diplomatically, that it was time to part company. ‘I am going to see Peggy,’ he said in Italian to Pietro and Elvio. ‘I promised I would – she is working in the Agricultural Hall.’

Pietro nodded. He would far rather go with Lucky than remain with the brothers’ friends, but Peggy was Lucky’s girlfriend and he didn’t wish to intrude.

‘I will see you at Dodds?’ Elvio asked, and Lucky responded with a smile of recognition. Of the many pubs in Cooma, Elvio knew that Dodds Family Hotel was Lucky’s favourite hangout, just as Lucky himself knew that the brothers usually drank with their mates at the Railway or the Cooma. The offer to meet at Dodds was Elvio’s unspoken apology for his workmates’ unfriendliness.

‘Of course,’ Lucky replied. ‘I will be there in an hour.’

When he’d gone, Luigi announced that he and the others were off to the Railway, but Elvio declined to join them. He would wander around the showgrounds until it was time to meet Lucky, he replied pointedly. ‘What do you say, Pietro? Shall I challenge you to a shooting contest?’ Pietro thankfully agreed.

The Capelli brothers parted a little coldly. Luigi knew that Elvio was cross with him for his perceived rudeness to Lucky, but he’d intended no insult to Lucky at all. Lucky was their friend. Lucky was different. It was those other German bastardos he couldn’t abide.

‘What was that about?’ Pietro asked, as he and Elvio headed off for the shooting gallery.

‘Italians and Germans,’ Elvio shrugged. ‘They do not mix.’

‘Here they do, don’t they?’ Pietro queried. He had not encountered any such friction at Spring Hill. ‘Here we are all Snowy men.’ He glanced back at the tent where Jim Sharman was once again touting through the loudhailer, his boxers lined up on the platform, Patrick Murphy having made a remarkable recovery. ‘We should have been backing the Snowy man in the fight.’

Elvio smiled. At times Pietro seemed bordering on simple, he thought, which was not surprising given the boy’s sheltered upbringing, but his simplicity was refreshing in its innocence.

‘You are right, Pietro,’ he said, ‘but people cannot change overnight. Some find it difficult to leave their hatred behind. I, too, have no liking for Germans,’ he admitted, ‘but it does not mean I wish to pick fights as Luigi does. That is an unfortunate part of his nature.’

‘But you and Luigi both like Lucky,’ Pietro persisted, genuinely puzzled. ‘And Lucky is a German.’

‘Lucky is different.’

‘Why?’

‘Lucky is a Jew.’

‘Oh. Is he?’ Pietro had never met a Jew. Not that he was aware of. There had certainly been no Jews at the orphanage throughout his schooling, nor during the four years he’d stayed on at the Convent of the Sacred Heart as a gardener. And during his twelve months at the building site in Milano, there had been no Jews. But then perhaps there had been, he thought; how would he have known? And then it occurred to him that there must be many Jews working on the Snowy and that he’d probably met lots of them, it was just that nobody had ever bothered pointing them out to him.

‘Does that mean that Lucky is not a real German then?’ he asked as they arrived at the shooting gallery, and Elvio laughed as he dug some coins out of his pocket.

‘You ask too many questions, Pietro,’ he said, giving the money to the man behind the counter, who passed him two rifles. ‘Questions too complicated for me to answer.’ He handed one of the rifles to Pietro. ‘Here,’ he said in English, ‘my shout.’

 

In the Agricultural Hall, Lucky pushed through the crowds that meandered about the exhibits and flower displays, weaving his way as best he could towards the kitchen where he knew Peggy would be working hard with the team of ladies serving refreshments.

The vast hall had seen better days but was still impressive. Upon its official opening in 1887, the pavilion had been described as ‘the finest in the Colony south of Sydney’ and over the years it had served Cooma well. Now known as the Agricultural Hall, it was not only a showground pavilion but a regular venue for balls and all other manner of social events. It was currently even serving as a temporary school. The influx of Snowy children had rendered the town’s only public school sadly inadequate, and the new school was still under construction, so, on weekdays, canvas partitions were erected in the hall to form makeshift classrooms. Draughty in the cold, stuffy in the heat, they had earned the title ‘Tent City’ from teachers and students alike. But, uncomfortable as the conditions were, it was evident to all that the ever-versatile pavilion was once again proving itself invaluable to the people of Cooma.

Peggy was at the far end of a queue of several women working at the large kitchen bench. She was carving a leg of mutton, and the dexterity with which she handled the huge knife seemed at odds with the neat, sharp-featured little woman that she was. Standing there in her neat apron and her tidy floral dress, her tidy brown hair secured in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, her butcher-like expertise with the carving knife was most incongruous.

Peggy Minchin, upon first impression, was not unattractive; rather, she was unapproachable. To most, she appeared a mixture of frosty and fragile, when, in truth, she was neither. She was feisty, outspoken, and above all efficient. Peggy Minchin was efficient at everything she tackled, which today included carving mutton. Shaving away at the leg, she was nearly down to the bone, and a pile of meat lay neatly stacked on the cutting board beside her.

The women were making sandwiches in conveyor-belt fashion, one slicing the loaves of bread, another buttering the slices and adding homemade chutney, the third in the line inserting Peggy’s freshly sliced mutton and cutting the thick sandwiches in two. The final member of the group, the young daughter of one of the women, ran to and fro with fresh supplies and, when there was a substantial pile of sandwiches, she collected them on a platter for sale at the counter, where another team of ladies was making and serving tea from a large urn in the corner.

‘G’day, Lucky love.’ The big woman slicing the bread didn’t halt in her actions, but gave him a breezy grin and a jerk of the head. ‘She’s up the end there.’

‘Thank you, Edna. Good afternoon, ladies.’ Lucky nodded politely to each of them, receiving tight smiles of recognition from Mavis and Vera. It wasn’t that they disapproved of Lucky himself. Lucky was well respected among the locals. He’d been working for the Snowy for years now and was one of the better assimilated foreigners. Extremely so, in fact: his English was perfect. But Mavis and Vera could not condone the relationship that appeared to have developed between Lucky and Peggy Minchin over the past several months.

‘He’s courting her!’ Vera had said disbelievingly when the two had been spotted around town several weekends in a row, dancing to the band at the Snowy Mountains Inn, or gathered around the piano at Dodds, Peggy leading the singalong.

‘She’s courting him, you mean,’ Mavis had retorted, outraged. ‘Brazen, I call it. She’s a schoolteacher! It’s shameful.’

‘And he’s a German, what’s more.’

They both agreed that made it far worse.

Mavis and Vera were not the only ones who disapproved. Several parents of local children had complained to the school. ‘Teachers are expected to set a good example,’ they maintained, and the principal had been reluctantly forced to suggest to Peggy, with all the tact he could muster, that she be a little more ‘discreet’ in her private life. Peggy had asked no questions, she knew just what he was talking about and her response had been simple. If she couldn’t keep company with whoever she wished, she said, then she would seek employment elsewhere. The principal, who’d had no argument with the situation in the first place, hastily backed down. Cooma was desperately in need of teachers. They couldn’t afford to lose one, and certainly not the best they had. From that day on, he’d turned a deaf ear to any further complaints about Peggy Minchin and ‘that German’ and most of the outrage had died down. But there were still some like Mavis and Vera who whispered disapprovingly among themselves and on occasion made sure it was loud enough for others to hear.

Today was no such occasion, however, because Edna was there.

‘Go on, Lucky,’ Edna called over the babble of noise, ‘get her out of here, she hasn’t had a break for four hours.’

Edna had seen Peggy’s face light up. When Peggy had stopped attacking the mutton for a brief second and flashed Lucky a smile, she’d looked downright beautiful, Edna thought. God but that girl was in love. ‘Besides, she’s way ahead up her end. Just look at it, will you. I’ve never seen anyone carve a leg better.’

Having noticed the pile of sliced mutton, Edna stopped working and looked at her own stack of sliced bread. ‘You’re slowing up again, Mavis,’ she said. Then she scowled at the fine veil of chutney Mavis was carefully wiping over each slice. ‘And you’re spreading it miles too thin.’

‘Just trying not to waste it, that’s all,’ Mavis replied through pursed lips. This particular jar of chutney was from her own batch, and she always spread it this thin at home.

‘The men like it thick – you’ve got to pile it on. I told you that before.’

Edna could see that Mavis was miffed, but she didn’t care, Mavis was always miffed about something, and, returning her attention to the end of the counter, she noticed Peggy’s hesitance as Lucky whispered in her ear. The girl felt guilty about leaving her post, Edna realised.

‘Oh go on, love,’ she urged, ‘you two get out of here. We’ll have to be packing it in soon anyway.’

Young Tess arrived with the platter to collect the sandwiches. ‘That was the last leg, Mum,’ she said, ‘we’re out of mutton.’

‘There you are, you see.’ Edna shrugged in an I-told-you-so way, and Peggy laughed.

‘All right, it’s meant to be. I’m off.’ She quickly untied her apron, threw it on a packing case in the corner and grabbed Lucky’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘Goodbye, ladies.’ Lucky rolled his eyes, the bloodhound one looking particularly alarmed as he pretended to be physically dragged away. Tess laughed and Vera was about to do the same until she caught Mavis’s eye. She quelled her laughter and joined Mavis in another tightly polite smile.

‘Are you bringing him to the ball tonight, Peg?’ Edna called just before the couple disappeared through the door.

‘You bet I am, Edna,’ Peggy called back. ‘You bet I am.’

The polite smiles vanished as Mavis and Vera exchanged looks of amazement. Surely she wasn’t going to bring her German boyfriend to the P & A ball! But they didn’t dare say anything in front of Edna. Edna was a force to be reckoned with, and one who approved of change. It was Edna who had suggested that the Pastoral and Agricultural Association should consider including European food stalls at the show. ‘Something different – we need to change with the times,’ she’d said. As usual, few had chosen to disagree with Edna, and Mavis and Vera certainly weren’t about to start now, so they returned to their sandwiches. But they would talk about the matter in depth later on, Mavis would make sure of that. Peggy Minchin really was going too far.

Lucky and Peggy found a relatively quiet spot behind the pavilion.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. It had been three weeks and he longed to gather her to him and feel her body against his. He would have done so. Lucky was a passionate man and had no qualms about openly expressing his feelings, but he was aware of her position and the censure of local society, and took care not to compromise her.

‘I’ve missed you too.’ It was Peggy who initiated the kiss. She was suddenly in his arms, her face upturned, her mouth inviting him, and before Lucky knew it their lips had met. The kiss was brief. Even as she’d acted instinctively Peggy had been aware that her behaviour was outrageous. But short though the moment was, it held a wealth of passion and, when they hastily parted, both were a little breathless.

‘Have a seat,’ Lucky said, pulling over one of the many wooden crates strewn about and hoping, for Peggy’s sake, that no-one had seen them. There were a number of people around, but they seemed to have paid no heed as they busily gathered up crates themselves in preparation for packing. The show was nearing its end and in an hour or so they would start clearing the hall for that evening’s ball.

Peggy sat. She didn’t look around – she refused to – but casual glances from the corner of her eyes assured her that none of her many pupils had been present to witness her indiscretion. Thank goodness for that. She’d rather shocked herself.

Lucky overturned a crate and, as he sat, he decided to get straight to the point. ‘I cannot go to the ball with you, Peggy,’ he said.

‘Why not? You said that you would.’

‘I said that I might.’ He hated to disappoint her and he had intended to go. He’d been looking forward to it; he’d brought his best suit into town and it was hanging in the wardrobe at the hostel. But he’d seen the looks on the women’s faces as he’d left the kitchen. They’d been horrified. And it had occurred to Lucky that he’d not heard other workers boasting in the past about having gone to the show ball. On Saturday show night they all went to the pub. It might well cause a great deal of trouble for Peggy if she took him along.

‘None of the other Snowy men ever go to the ball, do they?’ he asked.

‘Of course they do,’ she replied with an all-encompassing wave of her hand. ‘Lots of them, dozens, all nationalities …’

He captured her hand mid-air and smiled as he interrupted: ‘Lots of them, dozens, and all nationalities from the SMA, you mean, don’t you, Peggy?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t …’

‘And along with the SMA hierarchy there will be the show committee. And then there will be the farmers, and the competitors and the exhibitors …’

‘And anyone else who buys a ticket,’ she briskly concluded.

‘But there won’t be any Snowy workers, will there?’

‘Then it’s high time there were. Can’t you get any of your friends to buy a ticket?’

‘They’ll be at the pub, as they always are.’

‘Well, that’s their bad luck,’ she said dismissively before starting on another tack, facetious this time, although she sensed she was losing the battle. ‘Just think, Lucky, you’ll be the envy of Spring Hill – as my guest you get to go to the ball free.’

He squeezed the hand he was still holding, forcing her to be serious. ‘I don’t think it is wise for you to take me along, Peggy. I don’t mean for myself,’ he added, aware she was about to interrupt again. ‘I mean for you. I saw the looks on the faces of those women in there.’

Peggy realised that she had misunderstood his reluctance. She had presumed he felt self-conscious at the prospect of mingling with the locals and the farmers and the SMA bosses. She should have known better: Lucky had the confidence to rise above the petty class consciousness that still persisted in many areas.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve been bossy, haven’t I?’

‘Of course,’ he grinned. ‘You always are.’

‘Once a schoolteacher …’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Thanks for worrying about me, I appreciate it.’ She did. Few people had ever worried about her; it was a refreshing change. ‘But you don’t need to, you know. I can look after myself.’

‘Oh yes, I’m aware of that.’ Lucky nodded vehemently: he’d seen her in action many a time over the past three years since she’d arrived in Cooma. Most people had. It was a known fact that Peggy Minchin could be quite aggressive, particularly when she perceived an injustice. When a busy shopkeeper favoured locals over Europeans, as many very often did, Peggy would loudly announce ‘they were here first!’, embarrassing everyone, particularly the Europeans who would have preferred to wait patiently until the crowds died down and who, often struggling with an inadequate command of the English language, hated suddenly being the focus of attention.

Once, early in their relationship, well before they’d become lovers, Lucky had offered Peggy a friendly word of advice on the matter, suggesting that she could perhaps be a little more ‘sensitive’ in her approach. Peggy had been vociferous in her disagreement. ‘People need to be taught,’ she’d said, ‘both the locals and the Europeans. The longer the Europeans fail to exercise their rights, the longer the locals will walk all over them.’

Unable to refute such a statement, Lucky had never broached the subject again. He respected Peggy for her spirit and her sense of justice and the strength of her beliefs. But, as his respect had slowly blossomed into something deeper, he had seen beyond the facade. It was a pity, he thought, that Peggy Minchin was unable to believe, with equal strength, in herself as a woman. And over the past several months, since they’d become lovers, he often wondered if there were others who guessed, as he had, that beneath the ever-efficient exterior and the outspoken confidence, Peggy Minchin was, at heart, the most vulnerable of women.

‘Come on!’ She jumped up. He was looking thoughtful and she had a feeling he might be weakening. She dragged him to his feet. ‘Come with me tonight, I dare you! There’ll be a band.’ Her eyes, always so piercingly blue and intelligent, sparkled, childlike with hope, and the smile that urged him to say ‘yes’ was, to Lucky, irresistible, the tiny dimple in the right cheek hinting at the daredevil sense of humour which he knew always lurked beneath the surface. ‘Come on, Lucky, give in. You know how you love to dance.’

She had no idea, he thought, how truly beguiling she could be. She didn’t know that, like this, animated and vital, she was very, very pretty. He liked to tell her so, although he was aware that she didn’t believe him.

‘Pretty Peggy Minchin,’ he laughed, pushing back the stray wisp that had escaped its confines and picturing her hair splayed out on the pillow; Peggy had lovely hair. ‘Pretty pretty Peggy, how could I possibly resist?’

She returned his smile. These days she no longer shrugged off his compliments or laughed self-consciously as she first had. Not that she believed him. She was not pretty, she never had been. But she believed that Lucky thought she was and, inexplicably, in his company she felt pretty.

‘I’m glad,’ she said, ‘I like to be irresistible.’ She was as irresistible as she was pretty, she thought, but if she appeared so to Lucky, then that was all that mattered.

Peggy had never had any illusions about her appearance. She looked like a schoolteacher; she had since she was eighteen. Neat, efficient, thin-faced and at times stern, just the way a schoolteacher should look. It had never bothered her. In fact, she’d decided early on that she rather liked her image; it fitted who she was. Teaching was, after all, more than a chosen profession, it was a vocation. At least it was to Peggy. Which was why, following her Sydney graduation, she had volunteered for an outback posting where she’d remained for the following ten years. Outback children, Peggy maintained, were like the land: as starved of opportunity and inspiration as the drought-ridden country was starved of water, and her greatest joy was to watch them blossom like the country did after rain. The only time Peggy ever waxed lyrical was when she spoke of her ‘calling’, as she termed it.

Upon answering the desperate plea for teachers needed in Cooma, Peggy had been confronted by a new form of pupil far more challenging than those suffering the privations of an isolated existence. In the ill-equipped, overcrowded classrooms were many European youngsters who had witnessed and lived through shocking times, some having arrived directly from displaced persons camps. They were frightened and insecure, and they trusted no-one. It was the greatest test Peggy had yet faced and, dedicated as she was, she rose to the occasion. Her new students became her children, and gradually even the most damaged responded to her strength, her discipline, her care, and her utter devotion.

It was Peggy’s blind devotion to her calling which had, over the years, deprived her of any personal life. She had deliberately lost her virginity to a young physical education instructor when she was in her mid-twenties, feeling it was high time she found out what it was all about, but she had never been in love. Nor had she sought a husband; she had no desire to be dependent upon a man, and at thirty-three she had settled quite comfortably into her role as a spinster. Then along had come Lucky. He’d been just a friend at first, an intelligent, well-educated man with whom she shared stimulating conversations and chess games. He remained just a friend for two whole years while she denied to herself there could possibly be any attraction. And then he kissed her. A little over three months ago now. And that kiss had changed Peggy’s life.

‘Don’t bother coming to pick me up,’ she said, efficiency once again the order of the day. ‘I’ll meet you out the front of the hall at half-past eight, things don’t really start happening until around nine, does that suit?’

‘It does,’ he replied with a mock salute, and he walked her back inside the pavilion, refusing the offer of a cup of tea in the kitchen. ‘I’m to meet Pietro at Dodds,’ he said. ‘I left him in the company of some rather hot-headed Italians, although I knew he’d far rather come and see you.’

‘The Italians will do him more good – Pietro needs a bit of toughening up.’

The women were selling the last of the sandwiches and starting to clear things away. In less than two hours the hired professionals would be arriving to decorate the hall for the evening.

‘See you at the ball, Edna,’ Lucky said loudly, before turning to Mavis and Vera. ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ He bowed slightly, gave each of them a winning smile, then flashed a barely perceptible wink at Peggy and left. Mavis and Vera, aware they were being observed, didn’t quite know where to look.

Peggy and Edna exchanged a quick glance of amusement before getting on with their work. How could she possibly have assumed Lucky’s reluctance to go to the ball stemmed from insecurity? Peggy thought. Lucky of all people!

 

‘I’ve got nothing against Germans. Live and let live, I say.’ Cam Campbell was a man’s man. Or rather that was how he perceived himself to be and how he wished to be perceived by others. A good bloke who called a spade a spade and wasn’t afraid to speak his own mind. ‘So long as a bloke’s honest I don’t give a bugger where he comes from. Good to meet you, mate. Cheers.’ He clinked his beer glass resoundingly against Lucky’s and both men drank.

Heavy-handed as Cam Campbell’s bonhomie was, he appeared sincere and Lucky was grateful to the man for rescuing him. Peggy had left him stranded with two P & A lady committee members early in the evening, saying she was off to check on Edna and the volunteer caterers and she’d be back in a minute.

‘But I thought you weren’t working tonight.’

‘I’m not. They might just want a quick hand setting up, that’s all,’ and she’d disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Half an hour later, as the members of the local band started tuning their instruments, Lucky had found himself still marooned with the lady committee members. Having shared with him their admiration of the decorations – the streamers, the balloons, the floral arrangements and the festive atmosphere of the hall in general – the ladies had embarked upon an intensely personal discussion about a particularly cantankerous judge in the show’s needlework section, and then they’d been joined by two of their male counterparts who’d discussed with equal intensity the improvements required to the main arena fence, and the fact that it must certainly be discussed at the next general meeting. Lucky had by that time been so assiduously ignored that he’d felt invisible, which he’d considered most fortunate. But then several farmers had arrived, one of them keen to discuss the collection and care of birds sent by rail for the poultry section and, as Lucky introduced himself, aware that no-one present would remember his name, he’d suddenly become very visible.

‘You’re a German, aren’t you.’ It had been an accusation rather than a question, and although the others had been silently nursing their own vague discomfort in the German’s presence, they had been most embarrassed by the poultry farmer’s overt hostility.

‘Yes, I am German.’

‘Thought so.’

That was when Cam had come to the rescue. He’d slapped the poultry farmer on the back. ‘Look after your birds, Bill, that’s what you’re here for.’ Everyone knew that Bill was a bit barmy when it came to Germans. His younger brother had died by his side at the Somme, so it was pretty understandable. ‘Come on, mate,’ he’d said to Lucky, ‘let’s go outside and grab a beer.’ Out in the showground he’d headed for the nearest liquor booth and insisted on shouting the first round. ‘Lucky you said, right?’ He handed Lucky his beer and they edged clear of the crowd around the booth.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Cam. Cam Campbell.’ They shook. ‘I’ve got nothing against Germans …’ and Cam launched into his hail-fellow-well-met routine.

A successful farmer with a large family property not far from Adaminaby, Thomas ‘Cam’ Campbell was a big, beefy man in his late forties, ruddy-faced with a smile both confident and likeable. Highly respected as one of the finest horsemen in the area, he was popular among his peers, and Lucky, like most, found himself warming to the man.

‘You work for the Authority, I take it?’ Cam queried after they’d clinked and taken a swig from their glasses.

‘No, I’m a labourer, I work for Selmers,’ Lucky said, referring to the Norwegian contractors handling the Guthega dam project. ‘I’m based at Spring Hill.’

Cam was surprised. He’d assumed that the German, a cultivated man judging by his faultless English, was one of the experts brought out from Europe by the SMA. But he wasn’t deterred by discovering the bloke was a labourer; he liked him all the more for it.

‘Well, good on you, Lucky,’ he said. ‘There’re plenty of decent honest blokes working here on the Snowy,’ and he raised his glass in a toast of approval, ‘which is more than I can say for the bloody SMA bosses!’ Then he downed half his beer in several swift gulps before steering the conversation, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, to his favourite subject, as he always did when he had a captive audience.

‘I tell you, mate, the SMA top brass are a pack of lying mongrels and I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could spit.’ He skolled the rest of his beer as if to emphasise the point; and besides, it was Show Night and Cam was in a drinking mood.

Lucky followed suit, draining his glass. He didn’t really want to drink at this speed, but he knew the rules.

‘My shout,’ he said, and together they wove their way through the crowd back to the liquor booth, Cam talking all the while at the top of his voice.

‘They think they can get us all on the cheap, but they’ll have their work cut out with me, I can promise you …’

There were SMA employees everywhere, and mostly from the upper echelons of the hierarchy, but Cam couldn’t care less who heard him. In fact, he hoped they did. He’d stated his case to the bosses loud and clear enough, and he’d state it again to anyone who’d listen. ‘They can’t buy me out for thirteen quid an acre and they know it. It’s downright bloody robbery what they’ve done to some around here.’

Although Lucky rarely mixed with the farming community, he was kept well in touch with the events of the day by Rob Harvey, and he knew exactly what Cam was talking about. Despite the fact that it was still some years before the scheduled completion of the dam at Adaminaby and the flooding of the area, the Authority had been buying up the land since 1949 and there was much contention among the locals. ‘The farmers do have a genuine gripe,’ Rob had said. ‘The SMA’s taking advantage of them and the cockies’ll come out the losers.’

To ensure discipline and avoid accusations of favouritism, Rob Harvey maintained a certain distance from his workers at Spring Hill, but he stretched the rules where Lucky was concerned, the two regularly meeting up for a beer in Cooma. Both well-educated men with a strong love of the land, Rob and Lucky shared a friendship of like minds, and Rob was thankful to have someone to whom he could speak openly. Loyal as he was to his employers and to the Scheme in general, there were areas which didn’t entirely meet with his approval, the method of land purchase being just one of them. ‘They’re striking each deal individually,’ he’d told Lucky, ‘and taking advantage of the farmers’ lack of negotiation skills. It’s all a bit dodgy, if you ask me.’

‘Thanks, mate.’ Cam accepted the beer Lucky handed him and they again edged clear of the liquor booth.

‘But I believe there are many receiving double that price now,’ Lucky said after the obligatory clink and the ‘cheers’. Rob had told him as much. One or two of the farmers, Rob had said, were determined to hold out until the very last minute, which was causing a few headaches for the SMA. ‘Good on them, I say,’ Rob had added.

‘And I hear the price is still going up,’ Lucky said after he’d taken a swig from his glass.

Cam wasn’t sure whether he was gratified or disappointed by the German’s awareness of the state of play; he’d rather looked forward to explaining things from his point of view. But then, he thought, the German seemed like a very intelligent bloke, and so he decided to move on to his other pet topic, which was a little more sophisticated.

‘Yeah, well, they’ll need fifty quid an acre before they’ll shift me,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you something else for nothing, Lucky.’ He lowered his voice, more for dramatic effect than anything. ‘There’s a conspiracy going on with that mob.’

‘Oh? Really?’ Lucky was most interested.

‘Yep.’ Cam was pleased that he’d captured the German’s attention. Despite his wonky eye, there was something about the bloke that commanded respect, he thought. He was a man’s man, Cam decided, that was it. ‘Right from the start of the Scheme,’ he said, ‘when they approached us farmers, they told us that the alpine pastures’d be virtually unaffected.’ He snorted derisively. ‘Dumb cockies, that’s what they think of us, the bastards. And they’re right, we are. Or rather we were: we bloody well believed them. How dumb’s that?’ He took several gulps of beer to calm himself down. ‘The high country’s important to us, Lucky,’ he explained, ‘it’s our summer grazing land. We take the cattle and sheep up there to feed on the new grass after the thaw, and we leave them up there for a good five months. That way the lower land regenerates and we get top feed for the herds during winter.’

Lucky remained attentively silent, aware that Cam Campbell was bent on letting off steam and didn’t require a reply, but he was recalling a particular conversation he’d had with Rob Harvey. It had been several months ago now, shortly before young Pietro had arrived at Spring Hill, and he and Rob had been sitting upstairs at the Australian Hotel. ‘Life is going to change for the Snowy River men,’ Rob had said, looking down at the broad avenue of Sharp Street and the convoy of trucks carting supplies newly arrived by rail to the work camps out of town. He’d been in a reflective mood, as he often was with Lucky. ‘In a few years, there’ll be no more stockmen droving sheep and cattle by the thousands up to the high country. There’ll be no more herds of wild brumbies rounded up on the plains. It’ll be the end of an era.’ He’d looked sad as he’d said it. ‘The days of the mountain horsemen are numbered, Lucky. The trouble is, no-one’s told them that yet.’

‘And now they’re talking about banning us from the high country,’ Cam continued, outraged. ‘They reckon the stock’s causing soil erosion. Soil erosion! How’s that for a joke?’ He was getting carried away again. ‘Have you seen the damage those bastards are doing up there? They’re murdering this land, and they know it. What’s more, they know that we know it. And that’s why they’re trying to ban alpine grazing,’ he finished triumphantly. ‘It’s got bugger all to do with soil erosion! They don’t want us up there because they don’t want the truth to get out. It’s a conspiracy, mate!’

The man’s passion was understandable and Lucky was sympathetic to his predicament, but he didn’t at all agree with Cam’s theory. It was a simple fact that thousands of stock wandering the mountains would certainly cause erosion problems, and eventually siltation of the dams, which in the long term would affect the power stations. He’d said as much to Rob Harvey. ‘It is the price of progress, Rob,’ he’d said realistically, even as he’d agreed with Rob that the passing of the mountain man’s era was regretful. ‘But there may be a far greater price to pay one day. Who can tell what the future has in store for an undertaking as vast as the Snowy Scheme?’

Their conversation that day had remained vivid in Lucky’s mind because it had been the one and only time either of them had spoken negatively about the very reason they were all there in the mountains.

‘To alter the course of a river is to play a dangerous game with nature,’ he’d said, not sure how Rob, staunchly loyal to the Scheme, would respond. ‘Engineering projects in other parts of the world have proved it to be so,’ he’d added, as if to back himself up in case he’d offended.

But no offence had been taken. Rob had merely wondered, yet again, why a university-educated man like Lucky continued to work as a labourer when he’d long since served out his Displaced Persons contract. Lucky himself always shrugged off any queries, saying it kept him fit. Rob had nodded in his lackadaisical way, ‘Yep, it could be a worry.’

As Cam Campbell continued rabbiting on about his conspiracy theory, Rob’s words came back to Lucky, and he rather wished it was Rob he was talking to now. Cam’s one-sided view was wearingly dogmatic.

Deep down, Rob Harvey had agreed with Lucky’s comments on the Scheme’s possible long-term repercussions. Having initially studied geology and zoology before deciding on an engineering degree, Rob was more environmentally aware than most. ‘You can’t take all the water from one place and dump it somewhere else without asking for some sort of problems down the track,’ he’d said.

The two had remained quiet for several moments, both feeling somehow disloyal – they were, after all, Snowy men – and it had been Rob who’d broken the guilty silence.

‘Course I might be wrong,’ he shrugged. ‘I probably am.’

‘You hope you are,’ Lucky smiled.

‘Too right, I do.’ And they’d drunk to it.

‘A bloody conspiracy, that’s what it is!’ Cam concluded now, looking about belligerently, prepared to challenge any disagreement, but as the band struck up in the nearby pavilion no-one was paying him the slightest attention. ‘They’re not only a bunch of crooks out to rob us of our land, they’re liars and hypocrites into the bargain. Well, bugger them! Bugger every bloody one of them!’ He drained his glass and then nudged Lucky boisterously. ‘Hey, you haven’t finished your beer, mate. Drink up, my shout.’

Lucky, who was not a heavy drinker, looked at his untouched beer. The thought of downing it and embarking upon a third inside twenty minutes made him feel slightly bilious, but he knew that to knock back the offer of a beer was considered almost as rude as not returning a shout. Sighing inwardly, he took a few sips from his glass. No matter how ‘assimilated’ he might appear to the locals, and many congratulated him on the fact that he was, he knew he would never become accustomed to the drinking etiquette of the Australian male.

‘Lucky!’

Saved, he thought thankfully as Peggy ran up to him and grabbed his hand.

‘I’m terribly, terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to desert you for so long, but they were short of help setting up and …’ She broke off as she registered Cam Campbell. ‘Oh hello, Cam.’ She released Lucky’s hand and shook Cam’s warmly. ‘I didn’t see you at the show, but then I was stuck in the kitchen most of the time. I heard you picked up half the blue ribbons in the cattle section as usual,’ she laughed.

‘Hello, Peggy.’ He didn’t return her laugh. Cam Campbell’s face was a mask. The shutters had gone down as his eyes flickered from Peggy to Lucky and back again. He couldn’t disguise his shock and outrage and he didn’t attempt to. Peggy Minchin was having it off with the German. But she was a school mistress! The most proper, the most respectable of school mistresses, a woman whom Cam had deeply admired. She’d taught his own daughter for two years; young Vi still worshipped the ground ‘Miss Minchin’ walked on, and ‘Miss bloody Minchin’ was having it off with a Kraut. The way she’d looked at him when she’d grabbed his hand. Brazen. Cam couldn’t believe it.

So much for not giving a bugger where a bloke came from, Lucky thought, and so much for the hypocrisy of the SMA. The animosity that emanated from Cam Campbell was palpable; the man was the biggest hypocrite of them all.

Lucky had suffered many a bigot in the past, particularly when he’d first arrived in Australia. Bigotry was nothing new to him and he felt little more than annoyance at having been so easily taken in by Cam Campbell’s bluster. But he was angry for Peggy. Why should Peggy be judged by the company she kept? And he was angry with himself. He should not have come to the ball, he should not have placed her in this compromising situation. Above all, he was angered by his powerlessness. He dared not call the man a fraud, much as he longed to – any form of confrontation would create a scene, and that would be far more damaging for Peggy. So he smiled instead.

‘There is no need to apologise, Peggy,’ he said. ‘I have been excellently entertained by Mr Campbell.’ He couldn’t bring himself to call the man by his nickname, and as he turned to Cam the smile froze on his lips.

You smarmy bastard, Cam thought. Pretending to be a good, honest, working bloke, sharing a beer, listening to a man pour out his troubles, and all the time you’re fucking the school mistress, you dirty rotten Kraut. Cam wanted to belt him one.

‘Thank you for looking after Lucky, Cam, I’m most obliged.’ Peggy’s smile was bright and her crisp schoolteacher’s voice held no added edge. ‘How’s Vi?’

‘You tell me. Since she’s moved into town you’d see her more often than I would now, wouldn’t you?’ Cam’s animosity was plainly not reserved for Lucky.

‘Yes, of course I would,’ Peggy agreed, undeterred, ‘and I do. But you’ll have seen her yourself during the show, and you must be very proud. She won several events, I heard.’

‘Two jumps and one dressage. She only entered three this year.’

‘Cam’s daughter, Vi, is a wonderful horsewoman,’ Peggy said to Lucky. ‘It runs in the family.’ Another bright smile. ‘And she’s looking so pretty lately, isn’t she? I see her around town a lot. Quite the young lady.’

‘She should be back home where she belongs.’

‘Don’t worry about her too much, Cam, she’s just turned eighteen, she wants to grow up.’ Peggy’s tone, while still briskly polite, was caring. It always was when she spoke of her ex-students. Each and every one was special to her, and Violet Campbell was no exception. ‘She’ll come back when she’s ready.’

He did not respond. To think that less than a year ago he’d been telling young Vi to heed every word Peggy Minchin uttered. ‘You listen to Miss Minchin, Vi,’ he’d said time and again, ‘she’s a real lady, and she’s got brains, what’s more.’ Well Miss bloody Minchin had now lost the right to offer any form of advice whatsoever where his daughter was concerned.

Cam was staring sullenly at the ground, so Peggy didn’t wait for a reply. Turning to Lucky, she said, ‘The band’s playing and you haven’t even asked me to dance.’

‘May I have the pleasure?’ he asked.

‘You may.’

As she took his arm and they walked off to the pavilion, Lucky didn’t look at Cam, but he could sense the farmer’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

He whirled her onto the dance floor and into a speedy quickstep to the tune of ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes’. Lucky was an excellent dancer and, as the band continued to play up-tempo numbers for most of the bracket, Lucky and Peggy didn’t even think of taking a break – they danced to every single one. It was only when they’d finished waltzing to ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window’, and the band announced it was taking a break, that they were forced to leave the dance floor.

‘I have never danced for so long and with such energy – I’m thoroughly exhausted,’ Peggy panted as they walked outside to buy a soft drink from one of the booths.

She was radiant. She didn’t know it, Lucky thought, but she was wearing her femininity like a badge. Her bosom heaving, her face glistening with perspiration, her eyes gleaming excitedly, she looked as wanton and womanly as she did after they made love. He wished he could capture the image, he would have liked to have shown it to her. Not that she would have believed him, he thought – she would simply have said that she looked ‘untidy’.

But, as he watched her, Lucky realised that he’d learned something new about Peggy tonight. His fears that he might compromise her had been unwarranted. She didn’t need his protection. She didn’t want it. She had brought him to the ball for the very purpose of social confrontation. By openly admitting to their relationship, she had defied others to disapprove, and he had a feeling that she’d enjoyed testing them. Even those who’d been found wanting, like Cam Campbell. Lucky realised, possibly for the first time since he’d met her, what a truly liberated woman Peggy Minchin was.

‘“Charmaine”.’ As the band struck up the first chords of its Mantovani bracket, Peggy put her glass of lemonade on the counter and started swaying to the music. ‘Golly it’s a pretty tune, isn’t it?’

He offered her his arm and wordlessly escorted her back into the pavilion. If only, he thought, she could be liberated from her views on herself.

I wonder why you keep me waiting, Charmaine, my Charmaine …

A singer who sounded remarkably like Perry Como had stepped up to the microphone – it was young Chris, a local boy who was very popular with the crowd.

I wonder when bluebirds are mating, will you come back again …

It was a slow waltz and, no longer concerned about appearances, Lucky held Peggy close. If the odd disapproving look from others didn’t bother her, then it certainly didn’t bother him.

I wonder if I keep on praying, will our dreams be the same …

Peggy felt him draw her closer than he usually did when they danced in public, and she was glad that he was throwing caution to the winds and no longer being overprotective. She didn’t want Lucky to feel he was in any way responsible for her.

I wonder if you ever think of me too. I’m waiting, my Charmaine, for you.

Or did she? she wondered briefly as their bodies moved about the floor in perfect harmony with each other and the music. But just as briefly she dismissed the notion as fanciful romantic nonsense. She and Lucky were strictly ‘an affair’ and she knew it.

It was one o’clock in the morning when they left the ball, Peggy swearing she couldn’t dance another step, which was a lie – she could have, but she wanted to be alone with him. They talked non-stop during the ten-minute walk down Murray Street to the small weather-board house she rented just around the corner from the school. They agreed that the evening had been an unmitigated success and that they’d both enjoyed every minute of it.

‘And you certainly achieved your purpose,’ Lucky said meaningfully.

‘Which was?’ She stopped and looked at him.

‘What is that wonderful English saying? You have …’ Lucky also halted while he searched for the phrase. ‘You have put a cat among the pigeons. Yes, that’s it. That’s just what you have done.’

‘And that was my purpose, was it?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

She laughed. She wasn’t really sure if that had been her conscious intention. ‘Well, if it was, and if I did, then I’m glad,’ she said defiantly. They started walking again. ‘But I don’t actually think I upset many, Lucky,’ she added. ‘People are less narrow-minded than they used to be. The Snowy has taught them tolerance.’

Lucky didn’t agree. ‘What about Cam Campbell?’

He’d chosen the perfect example and Peggy had no immediate answer. She’d always liked Cam, and she didn’t want to admit that the force of his reaction had surprised and disappointed her.

‘Cam is a product of his times,’ she said carefully. ‘He’s an old-fashioned man, set in his ways, and we shocked him. I suppose I fitted his image of the perfect schoolteacher and …’ She tailed off with a shrug and a laugh. ‘Let’s face it, Lucky, I fit the schoolteacher image for most people, and so I should, I’ve worked all my life to do just that, so no wonder the poor man was shocked.’

Lucky didn’t reply as they arrived at the house. In his mind, there was no legitimising Cam Campbell’s behaviour: there had been too much hatred in it. And the legitimising of hatred was something Lucky had seen far too often in the past.

Later, however, when they’d made love and he lay on his side, one leg nestled between her thighs, raking his fingers through her hair splayed on the pillow, he decided that the man was not worth taking seriously.

‘I wonder what Cam Campbell would say about his perfect schoolteacher now?’ he smiled.

‘I dread to think.’ Peggy laughed, breathless, still recovering from the passion which continued to surprise her. ‘Let’s not tell him.’

The discovery of Peggy’s passion had surprised them both. The first time Lucky had kissed her, tenderly and with affection, he’d been making no conscious sexual advance, and he’d been taken aback by the hunger of her response. He’d also been aroused, and when they’d made love, he’d been further surprised, and further aroused, by the depth of her passion.

But Peggy’s surprise had far outweighed his. Peggy Minchin’s discovery of her sexuality had been a total awakening. Her one previous experiment with a man had been a disappointment and she had never explored her own body, never fantasised about its potential. The fact that it could be brought to rapturous orgasm with relative ease had never crossed her mind – such states of sexual euphoria belonged only in books. Now, three months later, the force of her passion remained a never-ending source of amazement and pleasure.

He kissed her softly, and lay back, cradling her in his arms. Soon he would drift off to sleep, and she would remain, head nestled against his shoulder, until she could hear the change in the rhythm of his breathing; then she would gently ease her body away from his. They would sleep for several hours, Lucky rising before daylight to return to the hostel, trying unsuccessfully not to wake her, and insisting that she remain in bed. ‘Sweet dreams, pretty Peggy,’ he would whisper before he left.

She could hear the steadiness of his breathing now, and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingertips. Carefully, she slid to the other side of the bed. Her body was still unaccustomed to sleeping in close proximity with another.

Sated as she was, she always tried to stay awake, just for a little while. She liked to relive her rapture, to relish the fact that never in her life had she felt so alive, but sleep usually claimed her after only a few moments.

Tonight, however, was different. Tonight sleep eluded her, her brain refusing to wallow in rapturous recall and choosing instead to think of the evening’s events.

Was Lucky right? she wondered. Had she been making a statement? Had she deliberately set out to ‘put a cat among the pigeons’ as he’d said? And, if so, what had been her aim?

As the answer occurred to her, Peggy felt herself cringe with embarrassment. By so openly flaunting her relationship with Lucky, she was forcing not only the township to accept them as a couple, but also Lucky himself. Had it really been her intention, to seek a commitment from him? She hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but if that had been her ulterior motive in inviting him to the ball, then it had been very wrong of her. She had thrown herself at him the first time they’d kissed, and not once had there been any talk of commitment. He had never told her he loved her, and she had never burdened him by professing her own love; it would not have been fair.

She lay in the dark chastising herself. She would apologise to him as soon as he awoke, she told herself. He had, after all, been scrupulously honest with her.

Peggy knew that much as Lucky had embraced his new life in the Snowies, he was not ready to embrace a new wife, and he probably never would be.

‘I am unable to let go of the past, Peggy,’ he had said that very first night after they’d made love. And he’d told her about his wife. She had perished at Auschwitz, along with their daughter. He should have perished too, he’d said, except someone else went in his place.

‘My best friend,’ he’d told her. Then he’d smiled humourlessly, and his voice had been tinged with self-loathing. ‘Lucky by name, lucky by nature, that’s me. I am here because my best friend died in my place, and because a Nazi was a lousy shot.’ And, as she had lain silently in his arms, he had told her his story.