The fit did not last long, although to Lucky, watching, powerless, unable to help, it seemed interminable.

As Pietro came to his senses, he looked around vaguely, wondering why he was sitting in the snow, wet and uncomfortable. Someone had been calling his name. ‘Pietro! Pietro!’ Over and over. Then he realised he’d had a fit. Often when he emerged from a fit, it was to the sound of someone calling his name.

‘Pietro.’

The voice was concerned. Lucky was kneeling beside him. What was Lucky doing here?

‘Pietro, are you all right?’ he asked in Italian.

‘Yes. Yes, I am fine.’ He wasn’t, his head was splitting and he was exhausted, but he started to struggle to his feet.

‘No,’ Lucky stopped him, ‘rest for a minute. You’re still weak.’

‘I am sorry.’ Pietro looked away, mortified, aware that Lucky must have witnessed his attack.

‘Why? What do you have to be sorry about?’ When the boy still refused to meet his eyes, Lucky persisted, gently but firmly. ‘There is no crime in your epilepsy, Pietro, but we must do something about it.’

Pietro was startled. How did Lucky know about his epilepsy? Had he told him himself? He couldn’t remember. He remembered carrying a man out of the tunnel, but he could remember nothing after that.

‘We must take you to the doctor, we must seek help …’

‘No! No-one must know about my fits. You must swear to me, Lucky! You must promise to tell no-one. It must be my secret.’

‘Ssh, be still, be still.’ The boy was alarmed, and Lucky put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When Pietro had calmed down, he asked, ‘Why must no-one know? Why must it be a secret?’

Someone else had asked him those questions many years ago, Pietro recalled.

Why do you wish no-one to know, Pietro? Sister Anna Maria had asked. She had discovered him in his hiding place in the garden and she had witnessed his fit. She had called for the doctor and Pietro had admitted to the truth. Why have you kept it a secret? she’d asked when the doctor had gone.

Pietro had told her that his fits were a sin. They are shameful, he said. And when she’d asked him why he believed such a thing, he hadn’t been able to tell her.

Pietro no longer believed that his fits were a sin, but he could not eradicate the sense of shame he felt when he knew someone had witnessed them, much as he tried to convince himself it was merely embarrassment. Now, however, there was a reason far greater than embarrassment, or even shame, which dictated the need for secrecy. Here on the Snowy, where he was happier than he had been for as long as he could remember, it was of the utmost importance that no-one know of his illness.

‘They would not let me work,’ he said. ‘If they knew of the fits, they would not let me work on the Snowy.’ Lucky’s silent response was confirmation to Pietro, and an edge of desperation once again crept into his voice. ‘But I have not had a fit since I have been on the Snowy, I swear it, and I am a good worker, Lucky, you know I am.’

‘Yes, yes, Pietro, I know this.’ Lucky was in a quandary. The boy was quite right, he would be considered a safety hazard, and Lucky was already wondering where to place him on the team to ensure he was no risk to himself or others.

‘Promise me you will say nothing. Please, Lucky, I beg of you.’ Lucky’s silence was frightening.

‘I promise to say nothing on one condition …’

‘Yes?’ He would agree to anything.

‘That you will come with me to the doctor …’

Pietro’s hopes were dashed. He might as well announce his illness directly to his employers. ‘But the doctor would report me.’

‘We will not go to the doctor at Spring Hill,’ Lucky continued. ‘I will take you to see Maarten Vanpoucke in Cooma.’

Pietro had not met Doctor Vanpoucke, the Dutchman with whom Lucky played chess. Could Doctor Vanpoucke be trusted not to report his condition to the SMA?

‘Maarten has no ties with the Snowy Authority,’ Lucky assured him, aware of the reason for Pietro’s reluctance. ‘He never has – he came to Cooma before the Scheme was even started. There would be no report to Selmers or the SMA.’ When the boy still hesitated, he added firmly, ‘This is the condition for my silence, Pietro.’

Pietro nodded.

‘Good. I will speak to Maarten, and we’ll make an appointment for this Saturday. Now come,’ Lucky helped him to his feet, ‘we must get back to the others.’

Pietro saw that his clothing was drenched in blood, and he remembered the accident. ‘Karl,’ he said, concerned. ‘How is Karl?’

‘He has a bad leg wound, but he will live.’

‘That is good, I am glad.’ Pietro looked down again at the mess of his shirt. ‘He is very fortunate. Such a lot of blood.’

 

The following Saturday afternoon, Lucky and Pietro visited Karl in Cooma Hospital, after which Lucky had arranged for them to see Doctor Vanpoucke in his consultation rooms just a block away. Maarten Vanpoucke had been most obliging. ‘Saturday morning’s always busy,’ he’d told Lucky. ‘Best I see the boy after surgery hours when I can give him more time. Why don’t you bring him with you when you come to the house?’ The two men played chess every third Saturday afternoon. ‘I’ll examine him before I thrash you,’ he’d laughed.

Pietro sat by Karl’s bedside, the odd man out while Lucky and Karl conversed in German. Karl had been told that Pietro had carried him from the tunnel, and had thanked him profusely in his barely comprehensible English. Then he’d broken into German, as he and Lucky discussed the damage to his leg. It would be some time before he could report back to work, Karl said.

‘A severed tendon, they had to operate. And they tell me that I will walk with a limp.’ Karl shrugged philosophically; he was a tough little man. ‘Still, men have suffered far more than a limp, eh, Lucky?’ he remarked with characteristic irony. There was always a touch of cynicism about Karl, as if he wanted it known that he was one step ahead of whatever life had in store.

‘This is true,’ Lucky smiled, ‘you’ve a lot to be thankful for – things could have been far worse.’

Pietro was bored; he couldn’t understand a word of the men’s conversation. He was restless too, nervous about his meeting with Doctor Vanpoucke – he didn’t relish discussing his fits with anyone, least of all a stranger. He looked at his watch. Two whole hours before he was to meet Violetta.

Lucky caught his eye and signalled that he wouldn’t be long, and Pietro wandered out into the waiting room. Perhaps he’d get a coffee. His face lit up when he saw Maureen. She looked different, he thought, in her neat, white uniform. Not at all like the woman he’d previously met, homely and comfortable in her floppy trousers and big checked shirt. She was talking to a young nurse. Pietro wasn’t sure whether he should say hello. But she noticed him and waved, so he stood politely waiting, and, when she’d finished giving her instructions to the girl, she turned and greeted him warmly.

‘Pietro.’ She crossed to him and her handshake was energetic. Everything about Maureen was energetic. She was a positive woman, strong, practical and good-humoured, with a what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude. ‘You’re quite the hero, I believe. I heard all about Karl. You’ve come to see him, I take it?’

‘Yes, but his English, it is more bad than me. Lucky and Karl they speak German, so …’ He shrugged.

‘Well, why don’t we grab a cup of tea?’ she suggested. He looked lost, and in a strange way Maureen felt responsible for Pietro. ‘I drove in today, so I’m early. I’m not actually on duty yet.’

She only drove to the hospital when she was on night shift, she told him as they made their way to the newly constructed canteen. Or when the weather was awful, and today was both. ‘Night shift and nasty,’ she said, ‘so I drove.’ Normally she walked. ‘My twenty-minute constitutional,’ she said, patting her sturdy frame and laughing. ‘Heavens above, I can certainly do with it.’

Pietro wasn’t sure what a ‘constitutional’ was but he laughed anyway, pleased to find that Maureen was as easygoing in her nurse’s uniform as she was in her floppy trousers.

‘We’ve been undergoing extensions for the past several years,’ Maureen told him as he followed her down the corridor. ‘Extra wards and nurses’ quarters.’ She didn’t explain that the ever-increasing stream of patients the hospital had to accommodate were mostly accident victims from the Snowy workforce.

‘And a canteen,’ she announced as they arrived at the sterile, spotlessly new room with its shiny Laminex-topped tables. ‘We’re rather proud of our canteen.’

They took their cups, her tea and his coffee, to a table in the corner.

‘Violet tells me you’re going to the pictures tonight.’

‘Yes. Marilyn Monroe. Violetta very much like Marilyn Monroe.’

‘She certainly does,’ Maureen agreed dryly, wondering if Pietro knew this would be the third time Violet had seen Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. She recalled how, when her niece had first come to stay, she’d asked her what she wanted to do with her life. The girl had appeared to have no idea; she didn’t want to be a grazier’s wife, she said, and she didn’t want to be a career woman either. ‘I’d like to be a film star like Marilyn Monroe,’ she’d said, and Maureen had had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t joking. Maureen worried about Violet.

‘I bet you’re a bit partial to Marilyn Monroe yourself, Pietro,’ she grinned, ‘most men are.’

He considered the matter carefully. ‘Yes, I like Marilyn Monroe,’ he replied in all seriousness, ‘but Violetta is more pretty, I think.’

Pietro was a greater source of worry than Violet, Maureen thought, sipping her tea.

‘My friend Lucky say you are a wise woman.’ Pietro’s coffee sat forgotten – it was far more important to tell Maureen that she had Lucky’s seal of approval.

‘Oh?’ The non-sequitur baffled her.

‘You say I must “bide my time”. Lucky, he agree. He say you are wise.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘So I do what you say.’ Pietro nodded. ‘I wait until “the time is right”. You will tell me when this is, yes?’

Dear God, why had she said that? She’d simply been buying time, and now the boy was pinning his hopes on her. She smiled, trying to think of a reply, but Pietro’s attention was distracted. He was looking over her shoulder and waving. She turned to see Lucky at the canteen door.

‘Lucky,’ Pietro said, as he crossed to their table. ‘I just speak of you. This is Maureen. Scusa,’ he added apologetically, ‘Mrs Miller.’

‘Maureen’s fine,’ she said. ‘Hello, Lucky.’ She offered her hand.

‘I tell Maureen you say she is wise,’ Pietro said as the two shook.

‘And she is. Most wise.’ Lucky gave Maureen a meaningful nod. ‘Sound advice, in my opinion. Very sound.’

‘Thank you.’ So this was the German Peggy Minchin was seeing. Good-looking bloke, Maureen thought, though she wondered what had happened to his eye. ‘Will you join us, Lucky? Cup of tea? Coffee?’

‘I would love to,’ Lucky replied apologetically, ‘but I’m afraid there is no time. Pietro and I have an appointment.’

‘Yes. I am sorry.’ Pietro sprang dutifully to his feet and, when the men had said their goodbyes, Maureen was left staring vacantly at the untouched coffee and sipping her tea while her mind dwelled, yet again, on the dilemma of Violet and Pietro. Lucky obviously shared her reservations: he, too, believed that Pietro should not be so eager to declare his intentions. But why? she wondered. Was it because Lucky feared her brother’s reaction? Perhaps he saw through Cam’s facade of bonhomie and ‘all men are brothers’. Or was it because he sensed Violet’s frivolous nature? Maureen was more concerned about the latter herself.

Maureen Miller had come to the conclusion that she really didn’t understand young women like Violet. She’d tried to, but she had no grounds for identification. Perhaps if she’d had a daughter of her own, she sometimes thought … But then she hadn’t, had she? As an eighteen-year-old herself, she had never been addicted to the cinema, nor had she devoured magazines about film stars nor lived in a world of romantic make-believe. She’d known exactly what she wanted to do with her life at the age of twelve when a nursing career had beckoned, and for the following six years she’d simply marked time until she could follow her path. Young women like Violet were beyond her comprehension, and she worried about the ramifications of such a rose-coloured view of the world. Was Violet unwittingly toying with Pietro?

‘He looks like Gilbert Roland, only even more handsome,’ Violet had raved when Pietro had started coming into the shop. ‘No, he looks like Rossano Brazzi,’ she’d corrected herself, ‘only much younger.’ Maureen had laughed; she’d found it amusing then. She didn’t any more. Not since things had taken a serious turn.

‘I’m in love, Auntie Maureen,’ Violet said these days. Pietro was no longer a carbon copy of her Hollywood idols; but she now cast herself in the role of female lead. ‘When he kisses me, I feel like I’m Joan Crawford. Truly!’ she insisted emphatically, as if expecting her aunt to laugh, although Maureen didn’t. ‘He makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.’

Maureen loved her niece. She valued the fact that Violet spoke freely to her, the way she never would to her mother, and she was careful not to be too dismissive of the girl’s romantic notions, frivolous though she found them. What right did she have to be dismissive anyway, she thought, she with her childless, failed marriage? Perhaps Violet really was experiencing true love. Although she doubted it. Violet was a child. But she was a child in a woman’s body. She’d blossomed overnight from a tomboy with an obsession for horses to a young woman with an obsession for romance. It was a lethal transformation, and the one most likely to pay the price was not Violet herself, but young Pietro. Would he last the distance in her affections, or would she tire of this particular romantic illusion and choose another hero?

In buying time with her advice, Maureen had sought to protect Pietro, but it was now evident that, with the endorsement of his good friend Lucky, the boy was relying entirely upon her. Dear God, she’d even told him that she’d approach her brother when the time was right.

Well, in the unlikely event that it should come to that, she would do so, Maureen thought, draining the last of her tea. She would stand up to Cam; they’d had their run-ins before. In the meantime, it was unlikely he’d hear of his daughter’s liaison. He purchased his supplies at Adaminaby and wouldn’t make another trip to Cooma until well into the spring. By that time Violet’s infatuation might be a thing of the past. Why risk the wrath of Cam Campbell unnecessarily?

Maureen looked at the clock on the canteen wall; she wasn’t officially on duty for another whole hour. It was true she’d driven the Holden in because she was working the night shift and the weather was threatening, but that wasn’t why she was early. With Violet at the store, the house was empty and Maureen preferred the hospital. Indeed, her life seemed purposeless elsewhere. It had for some time now, ever since Andy left. A whole three years.

She rinsed the cups in the corner sink and left them to drain. Early or not, there was much to be done – they were shockingly understaffed. She’d catch up on some paperwork before it was time to start on her rounds.

 

‘You are in excellent health, Pietro.’

Doctor Vanpoucke had completed his general examination and now leaned back in his leather armchair, crossed his legs, tapped his fingertips together and, beaming through horn-rimmed spectacles, gave Pietro an encouraging smile.

‘So, tell me about yourself.’

He was well spoken, with a slightly stilted accent that was as much Australian as it was Dutch; having arrived in the area before the flow of migrant workers, Maarten Vanpoucke occasionally joked that he was a ‘true Aussie’. He had chosen the quiet township of Cooma for what he termed his ‘semi-retirement’, away from the big hospitals in which he’d practised. Here he could work at his leisure and enjoy the best of both worlds, he said: the Australian summers and the snowy winters which were so reminiscent of Europe. ‘So much for leaving behind the hustle and bustle, though,’ he’d remarked to Lucky. ‘It now seems that half of Europe has come to Cooma.’

Pietro didn’t know where to begin. He was in awe of Doctor Vanpoucke and he wished Lucky was with him, but Lucky was sitting alone in the waiting room outside. There were no other patients, and the doctor’s receptionist had gone for the day. ‘A quick check-up first, and a bit of a chat,’ the doctor had said, ‘then I would like you to join us, Lucky.’

Maarten Vanpoucke was an impressive-looking man in his early forties. Elegantly grey-haired, with a body tending to the fleshy, he bore the appearance of one who enjoyed the finer things in life, and his house in Vale Street attested to the fact. It was a two-storey building built of local stone, with a large bay window on the ground floor and an upstairs balcony with iron lacework railings. It was most imposing, and even the downstairs rooms from which he conducted his medical practice were elegantly furnished.

Pietro sat carefully on the edge of his chair, frightened his boots might scuff the glossy polish of its carved wooden legs. The doctor gave him another avuncular smile.

‘Where I should start?’ Pietro asked.

‘You must start from wherever you remember,’ the doctor said. ‘That would be the convent, would it not? Lucky has told me that you have no memory of your early life, is this so?’

‘Yes. Is so. Is the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Milano I remember.’

Doctor Vanpoucke was very attentive as Pietro told his story, and gradually the boy relaxed. He told the Dutchman all about the convent, and about Sister Anna Maria and how she had found him having one of his fits, and how she had called in the doctor.

‘The doctor ask Sister Anna Maria what happen,’ he said. ‘He ask her many things. Then he say to her is epilepsy.’

‘I see. And you had experienced these fits before?’

‘Oh yes, many time. In the shed of the convent garden. Is my secret.’ Pietro told the doctor about the signs, the tic in his left eye, the pounding in his temple. ‘I know before it happen,’ he said, ‘and I hide. I put the leather in my mouth …’ He ferreted beneath his shirt for the twine; he was enjoying talking to the doctor now. ‘Is here. See?’

‘Ah yes,’ the doctor said. Lucky had told him about the strip of leather and how the boy had placed it between his teeth. ‘It is most wise of you, Pietro.’ He examined the scarred leather. ‘This has seen much wear,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Did Sister Anna Maria give this to you?’

‘No.’ Pietro shook his head. ‘I do not know who give this to me. I have this when I come to the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Sister Anna Maria, she say it is …’ he searched for the word in English, but gave up, ‘…pratico, and she say for me to keep it.’

The doctor laughed. ‘It is indeed practical, Pietro, and I suggest you hang on to it, but I hope you will never need to use it again. Shall we ask Lucky to come in?’

Pietro was no longer inhibited by the doctor and his fine house and his chairs, but he was more in awe of the man than ever. Was it possible the doctor could cure his fits?

‘Yes. Please,’ he said.

While Lucky answered the doctor’s questions, Pietro remained silent. During the recounting of the accident in the tunnel, he nodded verification, but when it came to the fit and what Lucky had seen, Pietro stared at the floor, squirming with embarrassment. When Sister Anna Maria had talked to the doctor at the convent, he had been taken aside; now Pietro was hearing every sordid detail.

‘Forgive me, Pietro,’ the doctor said, recognising the boy’s discomfort, ‘but I need to know exactly what happens during your fits for a correct diagnosis. A witness is essential.’

Finally, Maarten Vanpoucke leaned back in his chair, legs once again crossed, fingertips once again tapping and, over his spectacle rims, he addressed himself to Lucky.

‘Pietro has told me that he has warnings of his attacks, a tic in his left eye, a throbbing in his temple … perhaps a pain in the stomach?’ he suggested, turning to the boy. ‘Would this be correct, Pietro?’

Pietro was dumbfounded. Yes, sometimes he did have a pain in the stomach. How did the doctor know this? He nodded.

‘These are not warnings as such,’ Doctor Vanpoucke said to Lucky. ‘Pietro is already experiencing a simple partial seizure on the right side of the brain. It is not something he is able to control, but it gives him time to escape, a time when he is still lucid, before the grand mal strikes. Now Lucky, you told me you believe something triggered this particular attack you witnessed.’

‘Yes,’ Lucky replied. ‘Pietro told me himself. He said something made it happen. Do you remember, Pietro?’

Pietro didn’t. Both men turned to him, but he had no answers.

‘The accident,’ Doctor Vanpoucke said, ‘carrying the man from the tunnel was very stressful, it’s understandable. We must try to avoid such triggers whenever possible.’ Maarten Vanpoucke always used the royal medical ‘we’ when it came to advice, people found it comforting. ‘But we have something even more “practical” to hand.’ He smiled at Pietro as he emphasised the word, then leaned forward and, taking his favourite fountain pen from its niche, he opened his prescription pad. ‘Your illness can be controlled with medication, Pietro,’ he said as he scribbled. ‘I am writing you a script for Dilantin.’ He tore off the page and slid it across the highly polished desk. ‘You will take this to the chemist, and he will give you some pills. You will take one of these pills every morning and every night.’ The eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles stared solemnly at Pietro. ‘You will do this for the rest of your life. Do you understand me, Pietro?’

Pietro’s own eyes were wide with amazement, he scarcely dared believe it possible. Was it really this simple? He looked at Lucky, seeking affirmation, and Lucky nodded.

‘You will visit me regularly for the next six months and if all is going well, as I’m sure it will, then you will need to come and see me only when you require a new prescription.’ Maarten Vanpoucke stood, signalling the end of the consultation.

‘You mean I have no more fits?’ Pietro remained glued to his chair, looking from the doctor to Lucky in disbelief.

‘If you take your medication, I see no reason why you should have any further seizures. Now, Lucky,’ Maarten suggested with a smile, ‘shall we adjourn upstairs? It is surely my turn to win.’

At the door, Maarten took Pietro’s hand in both of his and shook it. ‘Good luck to you, Pietro, although you will not need it. We will monitor your progress and keep a check on your medication and, between the two of us, you and I, we will conquer your illness.’

Pietro stammered his thanks and left. He stepped out into Vale Street where the biting winter wind ripped at his clothes and people walked bent double, chins tucked against chests. But Pietro didn’t notice the wind. He was euphoric, in a daze. His life had changed, just like that.

 

‘I would like to keep a close eye on the boy,’ Maarten said in the upstairs lounge room as he poured their drinks and Lucky set up the chess board. ‘At least for a while – his amnesia is worrying. He’s said nothing to you of any memory prior to the convent?’

‘He told me once that he came from the mountains.’

‘Oh really?’ Maarten wondered why the boy had said nothing to him of the mountains. Then he remembered that it had been he himself who had opened their conversation with queries about the convent, so it was hardly surprising. ‘A memory prior to the convent,’ he said, handing Lucky his glass of beer. ‘Most interesting. What did he recall?’

‘Nothing really, just the mountains. And the goats, he said he could remember the goats. Nothing more. He couldn’t remember his early days in Milan either. Evidently he was found wandering the streets, and that’s when he was taken to the orphans’ home.’

Scotch in hand, Maarten sat opposite Lucky. ‘Proost,’ he said in Dutch.

‘Prosit,’ Lucky responded in German. They smiled, clinked glasses and took a swig of their drinks. ‘I never brought up the subject again,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘I sensed fear in him, and I felt guilty that I’d asked him about his past. Of course I didn’t know about the epilepsy then. If I had …’ he tailed off apologetically.

‘How could you possibly have known,’ Maarten assured him. ‘But the boy has certainly been traumatised, and it may well be some subconscious memory that triggers his attacks. I am of the opinion, like you, that Pietro should avoid reminders of his past life whenever possible. But of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there may be others who differ. Modern psychiatric opinion might suggest that the boy confront his demons – there are such therapies practised these days. I could refer him to a Sydney psychiatrist perhaps? If that’s what you wish?’

Lucky was startled. Why was Maarten seeking his permission? Why should he have any say in the matter?

‘The boy obviously sees you as a father figure,’ Maarten explained, noting Lucky’s reaction. ‘He will do whatever you say …’

‘No, no.’ Lucky shook his head emphatically, he wanted no part of it. ‘You’re the doctor, and he’ll do what you say.’ Fond as he was of Pietro, Lucky was tired of being a father figure. Besides, he agreed wholeheartedly with Maarten. If Pietro’s mind was mercifully blocking out some hideous past, then why open the doors and let it back in? Lucky only wished there were doors to his own past which he could close forever. ‘No psychiatrists,’ he said.

‘As you wish.’ Maarten nodded. ‘We’ll let sleeping dogs lie. All for the best, I think.’ He placed the glass of Scotch on his coaster beside the chess board. ‘Now I take it I can’t tempt you to stay for dinner? Mrs Hodgeman is cooking roast beef.’

Maarten’s housekeeper lived with her son, who served as a gardener and handyman, in the self-contained flat downstairs, behind the consulting rooms. Each time the men played chess Maarten extended the invitation for Lucky to join him in whatever meal Mrs Hodgeman was preparing that night, and each time Lucky declined. They both knew why, although neither of them ever mentioned Peggy.

‘Thank you, Maarten, it’s most kind, but no.’

‘Then let us begin.’

Maarten was bemused, as he always was. The schoolteacher was beckoning Lucky, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand what a lusty man like Lucky saw in Peggy Minchin. A worthy woman, of course; Maarten knew her socially. He treated a number of her pupils, who adored her, and a number of their parents, who respected her: Peggy Minchin was a fine teacher and an asset to the community. But as a woman? As a lover? Maarten was mystified. He was a lusty man himself, and he found any association between eroticism and the neat little schoolteacher not only ludicrous, but faintly obscene.

‘I believe it’s your turn to open play,’ he said. Lucky appeared a little distracted.

‘Oh. Yes.’ Lucky moved his pawn to bishop four. He hoped the game wouldn’t take too long, his heart wasn’t really in it.

He’d told her that he might be late. He was meeting Pietro at the hospital and then playing chess with Maarten, he’d said. ‘The game might drag on, you should eat without me.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘But we didn’t have lunch – you’ll be starving.’

‘Who needs food?’ she laughed. And as he kissed her, feeling her naked body against him in the warmth of the bed, he started to make love to her again. She aroused him so quickly and easily when she was like this, shameless and abandoned.

‘You’re more wanton than ever at lunchtime,’ he’d whispered.

‘Yes, I know. Isn’t it shocking?’

‘Your move,’ Maarten said.

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Lucky forced the image of her from his mind. ‘Daydreaming.’

 

The night was cold, and Pietro put his arm around Violet as they walked along Sharp Street. The wind had died down and there was a stillness in the air, the feeling of snow. But snow in Cooma was not romantic; it invariably led to sludge the following morning. They crossed the stream and walked up the hill, towards Maureen’s cottage, which sat beside the main road to Sydney, half a mile out of town.

Violet was chatting nineteen to the dozen. She’d seen all of Marilyn Monroe’s pictures, she said, but she liked Gentlemen Prefer Blondes best – she’d seen it three times now.

‘I am sorry,’ Pietro said. Why had she not told him?

No, no, she protested, she wanted to see it another three times, it was the best picture in the world, and Marilyn Monroe was much better than Joan Crawford, and Bette Davis. Then she went on to list her favourites. ‘Doris Day’s my second best favourite,’ she said, ‘and I like Grace Kelly, and Rita Hayworth too, because they’re so beautiful.’

They arrived at the cottage, pretty with its white-painted stone walls and its quaint little picket-fenced front verandah and blue-trimmed window frames.

‘You are more beautiful than all of the film stars, Violetta,’ he said as he kissed her.

Her heart stood still. She was Marilyn and Doris and Grace and Rita, all in one. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Pietro was pleased. She had never asked him in for a cup of tea before. Not at night. Whenever he’d seen her home after a dance or the pictures he’d kissed her goodnight at the bottom of the steps which led up to the little fenced verandah, and then he’d walked back to the hostel.

She opened the front door. The house was in darkness, and she switched on the lights in the front lounge room.

‘Maureen, she is asleep?’ he whispered.

‘No, she’s at the hospital, she’s on night shift.’

‘Ah yes.’ Maureen had told him herself, of course. In the excitement of the day he’d forgotten.

They walked through to the kitchen where they hung their coats on the pegs by the back door, and Violet filled the kettle. He sat at the table watching her as she set out the teapot and cups. She was so beautiful.

She could feel him. She could actually feel him watching her. It was as if he were touching her. But he wasn’t.

Violet hadn’t planned to ask Pietro in for a cup of tea, the invitation had popped out unexpectedly. But she knew that she wouldn’t have asked him if her aunt had been home. Just as she knew that her aunt would not approve of her entertaining Pietro alone late at night.

‘He’s a nice young man, Violet,’ Maureen had said in her direct fashion. ‘I like him very much. And I’m glad that he looks like Gilbert Roland or whoever, and that he makes you feel beautiful, but you mustn’t get too carried away with romance when it comes to the physical, you know what I mean?’

Violet had hoped that Auntie Maureen wasn’t about to give her a lecture on sex like her mother had done before she’d left home. But Maureen hadn’t.

‘You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Violet?’ she’d asked.

‘Yes, of course I do.’ Auntie Maureen sometimes treated her as if she were simple, Violet thought, but she didn’t really mind. Auntie Maureen was just being Auntie Maureen, it wasn’t her fault that she had no sense of romance.

‘Good, we’ll leave it at that.’

Violet had been thankful. She hadn’t liked hearing her mother talk about sex, she’d found it sordid. True love wasn’t about ‘men having their way and women paying for it’. At least that’s what she’d thought at the time. But since she’d been seeing Pietro she’d started to wonder what it would be like if she let him ‘have his way’. When he kissed her, he not only made her feel beautiful, he made her feel something far more, although she didn’t tell Auntie Maureen that. There were some things she couldn’t discuss, even with Auntie Maureen. Some things had to be experienced.

She lit the gas stove and set the kettle on the burner, and as she felt him watching her, she wondered whether tonight would be the night. Was that why she had asked him in for tea?

She had stopped talking. It wasn’t like her, he thought.

‘Grace Kelly, I think she is very good,’ he said. ‘And Gary Cooper, I think he is good also. I see High Noon, we have this picture in Spring Hill when I first come to the Snowy.’ She had turned to him, but still she was silent, and he wondered why. ‘My English then it is bad, so I do not understand what they speak, but Grace Kelly and Gary Cooper, they are very good I think.’

‘Do you want to see my room?’

‘Yes.’ It came as a surprise, but he supposed he did; she seemed to want him to.

Taking him by the hand, she led him out onto the back verandah and through the door to the sleep-out at the rear of the house.

‘This is my room,’ she said.

It was a tiny room, just a single bed with a small chest of drawers and a tallboy. Apart from the pink chenille bedspread and the pictures of film stars sticky-taped to the walls, it reminded Pietro of his barracks room at Spring Hill.

‘Is nice,’ he said.

She maintained her hold on his hand as she sat on the bed, so he sat beside her. He noticed the fluttering of her pulse at the base of her throat and he felt his own pulse rate quicken as she leaned towards him, her head slightly tilted, her lips parted, her eyes closed. She wanted him to kiss her. Here, in her bedroom. It wasn’t right, he knew it, but he couldn’t resist.

Pietro was aroused the moment their lips met. He was aroused every time they kissed, but he always maintained his self-control, carefully avoiding contact so that she shouldn’t be aware of his erection. Now, he felt a touch of panic as her arms circled his neck, drawing him closer and closer, then taking him with her as she lowered herself back onto the bed. He knew he should break away, but he couldn’t. She was rubbing her breasts against him, and her mouth was more urgent than it had ever been, her tongue darting across the ridge of his teeth, beckoning him, teasing him.

Violet couldn’t believe that she had actually put her tongue in his mouth, tentatively at first, then demandingly, wanting him to do the same. She wanted him to kiss her the way Craig McCauley had kissed her that time behind the pavilion. And she wanted him to touch her breasts the way Craig McCauley had tried to before she’d hurled him off her. Why did she want this? She’d found Craig McCauley repulsive, and Pietro was gentle and romantic and everything that love should be. So why was she rubbing herself against him and pulling him down on top of her as she lay back on the bed?

She was breathless, they both were, and Pietro was losing control, he couldn’t help himself. He cupped a hand around her breast, feeling the hardened nipple through her cotton brassiere, and she moaned. Then, before he knew it, they were lying on the bed, locked together, and he was thrusting his body at her.

The feel of his erection startled Violet and she gasped. Rock hard, it ground itself against her pubic bone. She wasn’t repulsed, but she was shocked; his hardness frightened her. She was about to lose her virginity.

Pietro stopped, something was wrong. He looked at her briefly, at her wide, startled eyes, and he heard the voice of Sister Anna Maria.

You will respect your intended according to the laws of the church, Pietro. 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.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat with his head in his hands. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Violetta.’

Violet wriggled her way to sit beside him. What had happened? She’d been prepared to do it, although she was thankful now that it hadn’t happened. Why had he stopped?

‘Pietro …’ She put her hand on his knee.

‘No, no.’ He pushed it away. ‘I am sorry. I am very, very sorry, please forgive me.’

‘Pietro …’ she pleaded, but, eyes trained on the floor, he refused to look at her. ‘Pietro, please …’

Slowly, he turned to her.

‘I asked you into my room,’ she said. ‘It was my fault. I am to blame.’

‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘No, is not you to blame. But it must not be this way. Is wrong this way.’

‘Yes, I know. And I’m sorry.’

‘I love you, Violetta.’ Finally, he said the words that he’d been longing to say for the past two months. ‘With all my heart, I love you.’

It was the most romantic moment of Violet’s life. Far, far more romantic than anything she had seen on the screen. She ignored the urgent whistle of the kettle coming from the kitchen. ‘I love you too, Pietro,’ she said.