It was June, 1954, and the first leg of the mighty Snowy River Scheme was nearing completion. The Guthega project comprised a 110-foot-high concrete dam, a three-mile tunnel, 3,200 feet of steel pipeline, aqueducts to maximise the flow of water into the dam, and a reinforced concrete power station, which had been commenced in November 1951 and was officially scheduled to start operation in early 1955.

‘If we can make it by February, we’ll be right,’ Commissioner William Hudson said to Rob Harvey as they stood among the gathering beside the power station. ‘February’ll see us only a few weeks behind schedule.’

Hudson was a good-looking man, tall, with a strong-boned face, a fine head of greying hair and the easy confidence of one to whom command came naturally.

‘It’ll be a big day,’ Rob remarked, ‘when the Snowy comes to life.’

‘You’re not wrong.’ It would be the biggest day of his own life, Hudson thought. The life of the Snowy and William Hudson were by now irrevocably entwined.

Gathered with them on the rocky hillside were other senior representatives from the Snowy Mountains Authority and Selmer Engineering, the Norwegian contractors. All were stamping their feet and hugging their coats tight to their chests.

‘Wish they’d hurry it up a bit,’ Hudson said, but it wasn’t the cold that was making him impatient. He flashed a quick smile of anticipation at Rob, not bothering to disguise the touch of anxiety in his excitement. He shared his feelings freely with Rob Harvey; the two were often in liaison and he liked and trusted the man both professionally and personally.

Rob returned the smile. Today was a big occasion all right, he thought. The second in just a matter of weeks. It had been barely a month ago that the workers had celebrated the Guthega-Munyang tunnel breakthrough. The completed connection between the power station and the dam three miles away had been cause for great jubilation. When the final explosion had broken through the hillside, the Norwegians had passed around their specially imported Akvavit and everyone had joined in the partying until cries of ‘Skål!’ had echoed all about the countryside.

And now the top end of the hierarchy was gathered for another great occasion. The structural work on the station was almost completed, the turbines and generators had been erected, the two 30,000 watt transformers installed, and the Guthega Power Station was about to undergo its first test: the trial run of its mighty turbines. Momentous times, Rob thought as he trained his eyes on the mouth of the massive pipeline.

The collective gaze of most of those present had been trained on the pipeline for quite some time. Any moment now, minds had been ticking. The few who had become impatient and wandered off in search of a nook or a cranny away from the chill wind missed the initial drama of the moment.

Suddenly, like a geyser, the water burst from the bone-dry mouth of the pipeline with unbelievable force. It hit the stores building on the other side of the bridge with such power that, in an instant, the building was blown away by the sheer strength and ferocity of the torrent. Jaws dropped – no-one had seen anything like it before. Rob Harvey hardly dared blink, it had happened so quickly, and he was aware that Commissioner Hudson beside him was staring with equal amazement.

‘What happened?’ someone queried. The several who had been sheltering from the cold and not paying attention during those few crucial seconds were dumbfounded. One moment the store had been there, and the next it had disappeared. Along with 40,000 pounds worth of tools, as it later turned out.

No-one was hurt and the situation was quickly brought under control, the Selmer engineers admitting that perhaps the trial hadn’t gone precisely as planned. Perhaps the demonstration had proved that a little modification here and there was necessary, they agreed, but, all in all, the test was considered a great success.

‘Well, at least we know it works,’ Hudson muttered to Rob Harvey. ‘Let’s grab a beer at the pub in Jindabyne.’

‘We might be working for the Americans soon,’ Lucky said to Pietro as they took their crib at the campfire site which the workers had cleared in the snow not far from the tunnel entrance. There had been a heavy fall the previous night and the countryside was at its most spectacular. There was no breeze, and trees stood motionless in mantles of lace. Sounds were hushed, and the snow lay smooth and unblemished, the ground resting breathlessly still beneath its blanket of dazzling white.

As part of the Guthega project, the aqueduct system, and its series of tunnels upon which Lucky and his team were working, was also nearing completion, and Rob Harvey had discussed with Lucky the fact that their job with the Selmer Company would soon be over. Rob had already been approached by the American contractors who were keen to have him on board as soon as he was available the following year, and Rob was equally keen to keep Lucky and those men of Lucky’s choice with him when he made the transition.

Lucky automatically swapped his salami sandwich for Pietro’s liverwurst, the two sharing their crib as many did. The packed lunches of fruit, cake and sandwiches were doled out at the Spring Hill settlement each morning before the men left for work, and favourites were readily exchanged.

The team was gathered around the campfire, squatting on the logs and rocks that they’d cleared of snow, pouring tea from the billy can and warming their hands against their tin mugs. They were taking their crib while the ventilating system cleared the tunnel of fumes from the last firing. When Lucky declared the all-clear, they would push the skips along the rail tracks into the tunnel where they would load the spoil.

The men were loudly discussing horses and the line-up at Randwick that coming weekend, and Lucky was trying to cheer Pietro up. He’d been a bit down lately, something to do with Violet, Lucky was sure. The boy was plainly lovesick, but he wasn’t going to ask. A lover’s tiff perhaps? Pietro would tell him if and when he wished.

‘Wouldn’t you like to work for the Americans? It’s rumoured they will pay big overtime – you would make more money.’

Pietro looked up from his sandwich, a flicker of interest in his eyes. More money would be good, it would impress Violetta, and perhaps she would change her mind. Yes, he would like to work for the Americans, he thought.

The American conglomerate, Kaiser-Walsh-Perini-Raymond, known as ‘Kaiser’, had been contracted for the next major series of constructions on the Snowy, and although work was not due to commence until December, senior Kaiser staff had already arrived in Cooma. Those in the know were aware of the Americans’ expertise. The Yanks intended to import modern machinery, the likes of which had not been seen on the Snowy before, and their work methods were radically different. The Yanks would offer bonuses – their adage was ‘time is money’ – and workers could get rich. Lucky was one of those in the know, via his good friend Rob Harvey.

‘The Yanks are contracted for the Eucumbene-Tumut tunnel and the Happy Jacks and Tumut Ponds dams,’ Rob had said, ‘everyone knows that. But Bill Hudson reckons he’s going to hand over the dam at Adaminaby to them if he can. He’s sick to death of the Department of Public Works and their bullshit – it’s been five years now and they’re way behind time.’

Rob had been recounting to Lucky the conversation he’d had with Commissioner Hudson at the Jindabyne pub following the fiasco of the Guthega Power Station trial.

‘Hudson reckons it’ll cause a bureaucratic furore, taking the contract off the DPW and handing it to the Yanks,’ Rob had told Lucky, ‘but he’s right. Jeez, you can’t have a public institution responsible for one of the biggest rock-fill dams in the world; it’s got to go to those who know what they’re doing. And Kaiser sure as hell does. All this is strictly confidential, of course,’ he’d added, and Lucky had nodded – it went without saying.

‘I will work for the Americans, yes,’ Pietro said, his face brightening at the prospect. ‘If I make much money, perhaps Violetta allow me to meet her father.’

So that was it, Lucky thought, but he said nothing.

‘Why she not wish me to meet him, Lucky?’ Pietro asked. They spoke always in English these days, at Pietro’s own insistence. He’d become more determined than ever to improve his language skills since he’d met Violet.

‘How do you know she doesn’t want you to meet him?’

‘Ah. Of course. I do not tell you.’ Pietro pretended that he’d forgotten to discuss the issue. He hadn’t forgotten at all – he discussed everything with Lucky – but they’d spent less of their leisure time together of late, and even when they did meet up, he’d been too distracted by his problems, unsure how to voice them. Now, having brought up the subject, he couldn’t wait to unburden himself.

‘Two month now I go out with Violetta, each second week it is that I see her.’

Lucky nodded, he knew that. He’d lived through the first kiss the two had shared by the river, and also their forays to the pictures, and their dinners and dancing at Dodds Family Hotel. Pietro had recounted every detail to him. But the boy had been introspective over the past fortnight, and Lucky had presumed that things had gone a step further, that perhaps Pietro and Violet had become lovers and that their intimacy was no longer something to be shared. He’d made no enquiry, respecting his young friend’s privacy, but he’d been concerned when Pietro had appeared unhappy.

‘Each time I see her,’ Pietro continued, ‘I ask to meet her father. I wish to tell him I court his daughter, this is proper.’ Pietro desperately wanted Lucky’s advice; he had only the lessons of Sister Anna Maria to go by, and they had been ringing in his head for the past two weeks.

One day you will be a man, Pietro, and you will fall in love, Sister Anna Maria had said. Her voice had been very strict, and her hands around his wrists had felt like steel as she’d eased him away. It had been shortly before his fourteenth birthday and he’d just wanted a cuddle, or so he’d thought. But he’d suddenly been aware of the feel of her, of her womanly softness, and, to his shame, she had somehow known it.

And when you do fall in love, Pietro, you will respect your intended according to the laws of the church. You will seek her father’s permission to court her legitimately, and you will never … never, do you hear me … attempt to take advantage of her.

Overwhelmed with guilt as he’d been at the time, Pietro had nonetheless sensed that Sister Anna Maria was more cross with herself than with him, although he hadn’t known why. She had never again spoken to him harshly, but she had never again cuddled him either. From that day on, she had ceased to treat him as a child, preparing him instead for his adult life in the world that existed outside the convent.

‘Is right I ask permission of her father, yes?’

Pietro was plainly begging for assurance, but Lucky was at a loss for the right answer. His position as the boy’s adopted father figure seemed suddenly invidious. What was he expected to say, what advice should he give? He wished Pietro could just have an affair like any normal, lusty young man, but Pietro was different, and Lucky knew it. He was a true innocent, unaware of the prejudice of others, and he was set on courting Cam Campbell’s daughter. Hell, no wonder young Violet was so reticent: she obviously feared her father’s reaction, and no doubt rightfully so. Elopement, that’d solve the problem, Lucky thought. The two of them should just run away together. But it was hardly a responsible option to suggest. He tried to buy time.

‘You love her very much, Pietro?’

‘Oh yes, I love her.’ Pietro’s eyes glowed with adoration. ‘And she love me, I am sure of this.’ He scowled again, troubled. ‘So why she not wish me to meet her father? Why she not wish me to tell him I court her?’

Back to square one, Lucky thought. ‘I don’t know. Have you asked her?’ He glanced at his watch. It had been nearly an hour since the firing, the tunnel would be cleared of fumes and it was time he called the men back to work. Just as well, he thought. He didn’t have the right advice, and who was he to offer it anyway? He didn’t even know how to handle his own relationship with Peggy.

‘Yes, I ask her,’ Pietro said. ‘She say she speak to her Auntie Maureen. She live with her aunt,’ he added, ‘and I have been to her house. Twice now I have been to her house.’

‘Yes, you told me.’ He had, several times. He’d met Violetta’s Auntie Maureen, he’d said, and he’d liked her.

‘I like Maureen,’ Pietro continued, ‘she is nice. And Maureen, she say to Violetta that she must be patient. She tell me too, the second time I meet her. I must “bide my time”, is what Maureen tell me. She say I must trust her. She say she will help “when the time is right”. What that does mean, Lucky? When the time is right?’

‘It means that it’s sound advice, and that you must trust her.’ Lucky tossed the dregs from his tin mug out onto the snow as he stood.

‘You think so, yes?’ Pietro looked up in deadly earnest; Lucky’s every word was of the utmost importance to him.

‘Yes, I certainly do. Maureen sounds like a very wise woman.’

‘This is good.’ Pietro rose to his feet, nodding thoughtfully. He felt happier knowing that Lucky approved of Maureen’s advice.

Breathing a thankful sigh of relief and blessing Violet’s Auntie Maureen, Lucky disappeared into the tunnel with Karl, his second-in-charge.

Karl Heffner, an Austrian in his mid-thirties, was the most experienced miner on the team, having recently arrived from Europe where, since the war, he’d been working on the alpine railway tunnels in his home country. The two men would ‘bar down’ the freshly exposed tunnel ceiling, checking for any weakness that could result in a cave-in, and freeing the loose rocks so the men were not at risk from falling debris.

Pietro stood by the skips at the spoil dump with the rest of the team, waiting to be given the go ahead. The others were grabbing a final smoke, but Pietro was still lost in his thoughts. Lucky’s words had been exactly the same as Violetta’s.

‘Auntie Maureen is wise, Pietro,’ Violetta had said. ‘We must trust her.’

He’d wanted to trust Maureen; she had been very nice to him.

‘Hello, Pietro, I’m Maureen, I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she’d said on their first meeting.

She was a strong, capable woman in her mid to late forties. Thickset, with iron-grey hair, she had once been handsome, but she no longer cared about appearances, opting instead for practicality and comfort.

‘Auntie Maureen is a career woman,’ Violet had told him in private. ‘She left home when she was eighteen, the same age as me, and she studied nursing at Sydney Hospital.’

Violet had wanted Pietro to know as much as possible about her Auntie Maureen before the two of them met. It was imperative they become friends, she’d thought, her aunt could prove a valuable ally. Against what, Violet wasn’t sure. She only knew that she feared telling her father she was seeing a boy. Any boy, let alone an Italian.

‘Auntie Maureen married a city bloke when she was in her twenties,’ Violet had said. ‘He was in real estate, and I met him once when I was just a kid – I thought he was awfully handsome. But they broke up a few years ago, I don’t know why, and she came back to Cooma. She’s a senior nurse at the hospital here now.’ Violet knew there had been a disagreement between her father and aunt when Maureen had refused to return to the family property, buying a cottage half a mile out of town instead, but she’d decided not to tell Pietro that. Every time she mentioned her father Pietro asked when he could meet him.

‘My auntie never had any kids, Pietro, so I s’pose I’m a bit like a daughter to her. And she’s like a best friend to me; I tell her things that I could never tell my mother.’

Pietro had recognised Violetta’s desperate desire for him to like her aunt, and it had been easy to do so: her aunt was a nice woman. He had been very polite upon their first meeting. They had talked about Cooma and his work at Spring Hill, and even his life at the Convent of the Sacred Heart – Violetta had told her aunt all about him. Pietro had resisted the urge to query Maureen about her advice to Violetta, which he’d found bewildering. She had told Violetta to be patient, and he wondered why. Why would Maureen not want her brother to know that Pietro wished to court his daughter with the most honourable of intentions?

But on their second meeting, over cups of tea in the kitchen at the rear of the little stone cottage, he’d blurted it out.

‘Why we must be patient, Maureen?’ he had asked. ‘Why I cannot meet Violetta’s father?’

She hadn’t answered for a moment or so. She had glanced at Violetta, and then when she had turned back to him, there had been sympathy in her eyes and her voice had been kind.

‘You must bide your time, Pietro,’ she had said.

‘Why I must bide my time?’ He’d felt frustrated, he wanted a clearer answer than that. ‘Why I must …’

She’d interrupted, still kindly, but firmly. ‘You must bide your time and you must trust me.’ He’d started to say something, but she’d continued: ‘I will help you, I promise. And when the time is right, I will approach my brother for you.’

When would the time be right? Pietro had wondered, but he’d known he must push no further, and he’d left after the next cup of tea, dissatisfied with the outcome of their meeting.

Lucky and Karl reappeared, and the men slung their shovels and spalling hammers into the empty skips and started pushing them along the rail tracks into the tunnel.

Pietro concentrated on the task at hand. Until a man’s eyes became accustomed to the half-light afforded by the generators, it was easy to stumble. He put all thoughts of Violetta out of his mind, but he had made his decision. He would bide his time. Lucky had said he must heed Maureen’s advice, and he always listened to Lucky.

In the gloom of the narrow tunnel, the air was thick and the work was hard. It was always hard, the men shovelling the debris into the skips, lifting rocks by hand, breaking up those too big to be lifted with their hammers, the relentless sameness of their labour repeating itself day in, day out. Wet-weather coats were quickly discarded, then woollens and sweat shirts until the men were working bare-chested or in singlets. Hours passed, sweat flowed, the workers no longer chatted among themselves; the only sounds were the crash of rock against metal and the grunts of men’s labour. Finally, the skips were loaded and ready to be pushed the 400 yards through the tunnel to the spoil dump. Clothes were hauled on again in preparation for the cold outside.

The skips were heavy now, and cumbersome. They were harder to push uphill and easier to lose control of downhill, and there were places where the slope of the tunnel was quite pronounced – it was wise to take care. But despite all Lucky’s nagging, at times some of the less disciplined men became inattentive, particularly at the end of the shift. At the end of the shift men were tired and looking forward to a beer, and Lucky knew that was when accidents were most likely to happen.

It was the end of the shift now, or it would be when they had unloaded the spoil, and, from the rear of the line of men and skips, Lucky could see several workers at the skip just ahead chatting, paying no attention to the fact that there was a slight bend ahead and an incline in the tunnel that ran 200 yards down to the entrance. He yelled at them, but it was too late. The skip had developed a momentum of its own. It barged forward, one of the men falling to his knees as he fought unsuccessfully to control it.

‘Runaway skip!’ Lucky yelled and, further down the line, men repeated the call, bracing themselves against the tunnel walls.

Pietro was next to Karl Heffner when it happened. Another young man, no older than himself, a new arrival and inexperienced, whom Lucky had purposely teamed with Karl, panicked. He didn’t move fast enough, standing indecisive for a moment, frightened by the sudden chaos and the claustrophobia of the tunnel. Karl lunged forward and grabbed him, throwing him against the wall. Then there was the clash of metal against metal as the runaway skip collided with the one in front, and Karl screamed, his leg ripped open. He fell, striking his head against the side of the skip, and lay unconscious on the ground beside the tracks.

The collision had momentarily halted the runaway skip, and the men fought to control the two now locked together and threatening to career down the tunnel on a collision course with the next skip ahead. Other workers scrambled to their aid, and Pietro knelt beside Karl; he was alive, groaning, already regaining consciousness.

Then Lucky was there, taking command. ‘Get him outside, Pietro,’ he said, before issuing directives to the men, telling them to clear the way for Pietro, checking there were no other injuries among the workers.

Pietro hauled Karl across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift and headed for the daylight at the end of the tunnel. He bore the weight with ease – Karl was not a big man and Pietro was young and strong – but he moved with care, wary of the narrow rock walls and the risk of further injury to the man he was carrying.

Outside, he headed for the clearing, Karl still groaning, semi-conscious.

Kneeling beside the campfire, Pietro rolled the man from his shoulders and laid him on the ground, looking back at the tunnel as he did so to check if help was on its way. Lucky and two other members of the team, the Czechs Franta and Bedrich, had emerged and were running towards him.

Pietro had been about to tend to Karl, but as he’d looked back, he’d seen the blood on the snow, a bright trail of red, stark against the white. He stood and looked down at himself. Beneath his open wet-weather coat his clothes were saturated. He was drenched in blood. Horror overwhelmed him. A terrible, unknown horror, but the sensation of it frighteningly familiar. Adrenalin pumped through his body; he wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He was unable to move, unable to control the involuntary twitch of his muscles and the quivering of his fingers as he stared at the trail of blood in the snow. He remained frozen, unaware of Lucky and the others as they arrived at his side.

The men paid him no heed as they kneeled beside Karl.

‘Use your belt,’ Lucky ordered one of them, clamping his hand around Karl’s upper thigh where the leg had been ripped open and blood pumped from the artery. ‘Get the Land Rover,’ he said to the other, who then raced off.

Franta wound his belt around Karl’s thigh, tightening it to form a tourniquet, and gradually the bleeding eased off.

As Lucky examined the gash to the forehead where Karl had hit his head in falling, he was aware of Pietro standing motionless beside him, not even watching them, doing and saying nothing, just staring out at the snow. What the hell was wrong with the boy? He’d performed well getting Karl out of the tunnel, but why had he done nothing to stem the bleeding? Why had he just stood there while the man was bleeding to death?

The head wound was not deep and Karl was regaining consciousness. His eyes flickered open and he saw Lucky.

He muttered something in German and tried to sit up.

‘Es wird alles wieder gut, Karl,’ Lucky assured him. ‘Nichts bewegen.’

The Land Rover pulled up next to them and the Czechs lifted Karl into the back as gently as possible, Karl gritting his teeth with the pain. Franta remained in the back of the vehicle and Bedrich returned to the wheel. Lucky didn’t have to tell them to get Karl to the doctor at Spring Hill as quickly as possible.

‘Keep releasing the pressure on the tourniquet,’ Lucky instructed Franta, although he was aware that, too, was unnecessary – the Czech knew what he was doing.

As the men drove off, he turned to Pietro. He’d been about to reprimand him, but he realised that something was terribly wrong. The boy’s hands were shaking, his whole body was twitching.

‘Pietro.’ Worried, Lucky grasped him by the shoulders, and in an attempt to break through the boy’s trance-like state, he spoke in Italian. ‘Pietro, my friend, what is it? Tell me, what is wrong?’

The firm grip of Lucky’s hands, and the sound of his voice and of his own mother tongue reached through Pietro’s horror and brought him to his senses. He could feel the pulsing in his temple and the awful tic in his left eye, and he prayed there was enough time to get away on his own before the fit overtook him. He wrenched the focus of his eyes from the blood upon the snow, and saw the men and skips emerging from the tunnel. The first of the men were already making their way over to the campfire. He was in control now, but for how long? The fit could come upon him at any moment. He must get away, they must not see him.

‘Help me, Lucky, I beg of you. Help me to get away. They must not see me.’ He said it in Italian and his eyes implored Lucky desperately.

‘Yes, yes, of course, my friend, I will help you.’ The boy was as white as a sheet, but at least he seemed normal. ‘I will take you to the creek.’ He led Pietro several paces away. ‘Stay here,’ he instructed. Then he turned back to the men who had arrived at the campfire and said in English, ‘Franta and Bedrich have taken Karl to the doctor. It’s a bad leg wound, but I think he’ll be all right.’

The men muttered their relief to each other; they’d seen the trail of blood and had feared the worst for Karl.

‘I’m taking Pietro to the creek to get cleaned up. You boys have a smoko break.’

‘Well done, Pietro,’ the men called, ‘yeah, good on you, mate.’ And they gathered about the campfire, others joining them, talking nineteen to the dozen about the accident and how it had happened. They took little notice of Lucky and Pietro as the two made their way to the creek several hundred yards from the site.

Lucky kept a firm hold on Pietro’s arm, aware that the boy was shaky on his feet, but they didn’t make it to the creek. Barely fifty yards away, in a small copse of trees out of sight of the men, the last of Pietro’s strength deserted him and he sagged to his knees.

Lucky squatted beside him, regretting his instinctive impulse to do as the boy had so desperately wished. He’d behaved rashly, which was unlike him. Pietro needed medical help.

‘We must take you to the doctor, Pietro.’

‘No, no. It will pass, I promise.’ Away from the others, Pietro’s panic had subsided, but his hands were shaking as his fingers fumbled for the piece of twine about his neck. He drew out the strip of leather from beneath his bloodied clothing, trying to close his mind to the stickiness and the sickly smell. He sat back in the snow and pulled his wet-weather coat around him. ‘I would like you to leave me, Lucky.’ It was becoming an effort to speak, and his voice sounded strange. ‘They do not take long. So others tell me.’

‘What does not take long?’

‘My fits. It is epilepsy.’ He saw the concern in Lucky’s eyes, and became agitated. ‘I can still work,’ he insisted. ‘I am a good worker, Lucky, you know that. I have not had a fit since I have been on the Snowy. Something has made this happen, something I saw …’ The blood on the snow. And he could no longer close his mind to the stickiness and the sickly smell of his clothing: he was drowning in blood. But he mustn’t think about that: he must convince Lucky that he was strong and capable and able to work …

‘Be still, Pietro, be still.’ Lucky tried to quieten him. The boy’s eyes were rolling back into his head.

‘Go. Please go.’ His voice was strangled now, barely coherent. ‘Please, Lucky. It is not a good thing to see.’ He placed the piece of leather between his already chattering teeth, he could feel his jaw start to clench.

‘No, my friend, I will not go.’ Lucky sat beside him. ‘I will stay with you.’

Then the convulsions started. Pietro’s muscles spasmed, his body suddenly rigid. Then his limbs lashed out, kicking and clawing, and his bared teeth gnawed angrily at the leather, spittle foaming from his mouth. Small, stifled growls of torture came from the innermost core of his being and his eyes rolled back into his skull as if trying to define what madness lay there.

Lucky watched, terrified. And, as he watched, he wondered what it was that Pietro had seen. What had brought to life this hideous torment?