Cooma’s pubs were the hub of the community. Townsfolk, Snowy workers, shearers and farmers alike all flocked to the pubs, and each had its own unique character. The Prince of Wales was big and showy, dominating Sharp Street. The Alpine, further up the road, offered fine accommodation in its ‘Humela House’, attracting the Snowy administrators and engineers, and on the opposite side of the main street, the ever-popular Australian, known affectionately as ‘the Aussie’, remained a favourite with everyone.

But it was Dodds Family Hotel, just a block away in Commissioner Street, that held the record in beer sales. Of all the Cooma pubs, Dodds, with a regular weekly delivery of forty kegs, outsold its closest rivals by a good five kegs a week, irrefutable proof of its ranking in the popularity stakes.

Dodds was a family hotel in every sense of the word. It was raucous, certainly, as every Cooma pub was, but the bar was warm and welcoming, the restaurant boasted good food, and there was a singalong around the piano in the lounge after dinner. Dodds was a reflection of the Duncan family who owned and ran it.

Bob Duncan was a tough, hardworking man with a dry sense of humour that endeared him to his patrons. He and his equally hardworking wife, Rita, had four children, and it was Rita Duncan herself who was one of the pub’s main attractions. Rita was a devastatingly pretty, effervescent woman who treated everyone as family. She was, furthermore, a virtuoso on the piano and led the evening singalongs with infectious charm. Bob considered ‘Reet’, whom he loved very dearly, worth her weight in gold.

‘Took her a while to get used to being a publican’s wife, though,’ he’d say, and Rita would laugh. Bob liked to dine out on the watermelon story. It had been in the early days at their pub in Lismore when, during the height of midsummer, Bob had been aghast to discover his young wife handing out platters of watermelon to the customers. When she’d protested that it was such a hot day and watermelon was cooling, he’d said, ‘So’s beer, love. That’s why they’re here, to drink beer. I don’t think the watermelon’s a good idea, Reet.’ He’d laughed. ‘If you want to give them anything, give them salted peanuts,’ and he’d ragged her about it ever since.

Lucky arrived at Dodds in the mid-afternoon. It was two days after his two-up win and he was intent upon shouting the bar as he’d promised, but on entering the pub’s entrance hall with its grand granite staircase leading to the upstairs accommodation, he didn’t turn right to the bars, but disappeared into the main lounge to the left, in search of Bob Duncan. He found him in the dining room to the rear of the lounge, discussing the menu with the new chef who’d arrived on the train from Sydney that morning.

‘Would you look after this for me, Bob?’ Lucky handed the publican the envelope in which he’d put the two hundred pounds he intended to bank.

‘Sure, I’ll shove it in the safe.’ Bob regularly looked after workers’ money. Sometimes a heavy drinker would hand over his entire pay packet, in which case Bob would dole him out some spending money for the night. Come morning, when the man thought he’d lost the lot or been robbed, Bob would reproduce the cash, still intact in its pay packet. Lucky was not one of the heavy drinkers who needed to practise such caution, but Bob had heard about the two-up win.

‘Do you want me to bank it for you?’ he asked – he did the banking for his favourite regulars too.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, yes, thanks, I’d appreciate it. I had a win at two-up,’ Lucky grinned, ‘a big one.’

‘So I heard.’ Bob hadn’t been about to say anything, but as Lucky had proffered the information … ‘I heard about Jack Finnigan too. They say the pimp left town in one hell of a mess. Go on through to the bar, I’ll just pop this upstairs.’

News travels fast, Lucky thought as he crossed back through the main lounge towards the saloon bar.

He wasn’t wrong. Pietro and several others from Spring Hill were already in the bar, and all the talk was of Jack Finnigan, as every new arrival was filled in with the story, the townsmen and the men from Spring Hill each telling their side.

‘You should have seen the pimp, he could hardly walk, the hookers were carrying him out of the pub,’ one man said.

Al the Frenchie had had to wait all night for the girls to return from work, and his ignominious departure in the early hours of the morning had been witnessed by many.

‘His face was pulp,’ another added. ‘One of the hookers had to drive.’

‘That’s what you get for crossing Jack Finnigan,’ a worker from Spring Hill said. ‘Jack won’t have thieving at his games. And he gave the money back to Lucky on the quiet, without even expecting so much as a thank you.’ The man noticed Lucky’s arrival. ‘Isn’t that so, Lucky?’

‘It is.’

‘There’ll be no thieving at a Jack Finnigan game!’ the man announced in a true imitation of the Irishman, and several of the other Spring Hill workers gave a cheer. ‘That’s what Jack said, isn’t it, Lucky?’

‘That’s right.’ Those had been the Irishman’s very words, Lucky recalled, but he’d said them in private. Lucky had not quoted the man verbatim when he’d told the others what had happened, and he wondered how the phrase was now being bandied about.

‘Now there’s a man of honour for you, bejaysus,’ a thick Irish brogue said in his ear, and Lucky turned to meet the approving grin of Peter Minogue.

Peter Minogue was arguably the most famous and certainly the most highly paid waiter in Cooma. He was another of Dodds’ attractions, and a close friend of Jack Finnigan’s. Along with their Irish heritage, the two had much in common. Like Jack, Peter was a strong man – on the palm of one hand he could carry several trays of full beer glasses, one tray balanced on top of the other. And, like Jack, he was a showman. Peter drove flashy cars, and he liked to entertain the men with his darts skills, splitting a match three times, or landing the darts with lightning speed between the boldly splayed fingers of young Robert, the publican’s fourteen-year-old son. He regularly forgot to collect his wages from Bob Duncan, making far more money than he could spend in tips from patrons who willingly paid for the service and entertainment he provided.

‘Jack’s a true Irish gent, that’s for sure,’ he now said, picking up the three trays that sat on the bar and raising them showily with one hand to shoulder height. ‘There’ll be no thievin’ at a Jack Finnigan game!’ he stated loudly for the benefit of the entire assembly. Then he gave a wink to Lucky. ‘’Tis a fine statement indeed,’ and he sailed off to the lounge where the heavy tippers were waiting to applaud his entrance.

‘Drinks are on me,’ Lucky called to the bar, and as the men cheered both him and Jack, Lucky thought what a clever man Jack Finnigan was. It had been Jack himself who had bandied the phrase about, he realised. Peter Minogue had obviously guessed as much too – his signal had been unmistakable. The wheels had been set in motion, and Flash Jack Finnigan was swiftly becoming the stuff of legend.

An hour or so later, Lucky left to call on Peggy and, early that same evening, the two of them returned to Dodds where they joined Pietro and Violet in the dining room. The four had dined together on previous occasions, Violet most impressed to be seen on an equal social footing with her former schoolteacher.

‘I think it’s time you called me Peggy, don’t you?’ Peggy had smiled on the first occasion when Violet’s conversation had been peppered with ‘Miss Minchins’, and Violet, far from being intimidated, had made sure that she said Peggy’s name very loudly when there was anyone she knew within earshot.

She no longer did so. These days there was an aspect to Peggy Minchin which was of far greater interest to young Violet Campbell than the elevation of her own social status. Peggy Minchin and Lucky were lovers. She could see it in Peggy’s face. Previously, she had found the thought of her former school mistress in a ‘relationship’ a source of fascination, but now, as Violet looked at Peggy across the dining table, she knew that Peggy Minchin was in love, in every sense of the word.

‘You look beautiful, Peggy,’ she said. Her schoolteacher had never looked beautiful before, but these days she did. And especially right now. Had they just made love? Violet wondered. Was that why? She envied Peggy.

‘Thank you, Violet,’ Peggy answered briskly. She didn’t look beautiful at all, she thought, but she was aware of the girl’s scrutiny, and she was a little unnerved. Was it really that obvious? Less than an hour ago, she’d been in a state of sexual delirium, her naked body locked with Lucky’s, and Violet seemed to sense it. ‘That’s very kind of you to say so.’

‘I mean it. You look really, really beautiful.’

Violet’s smile was special, a sharing between two women, and while Peggy felt exposed, she couldn’t help but respond to the girl’s intimacy. She smiled back, then quickly returned her attention to the men, hoping they hadn’t noticed the exchange. They hadn’t: Lucky and Pietro were deep in conversation. Little Vi Campbell had certainly changed, Peggy thought, and it was more than the unexpected blossoming of her body. There was something eminently sexual about young Violet.

After dinner, the four of them retired to the main lounge where the real fun was about to begin. The bars had officially closed, in accordance with the law, but serious drinking continued in the lounge under the guise of a supper licence. Unwanted plates of cheese and biscuits and sandwiches were doled out with the alcohol, and a ‘cockatoo’ was placed on watch outside. If the warning sounded and a copper arrived on the scene, there must be no evidence of excessive drinking. Everything must appear to be in order, and every person must appear to be eating.

When they begin the beguine, it brings back the sound of music so tender …

It was Rita Duncan’s favourite song and she played it with feeling, even though she’d been at the keyboard for three hours solid with barely a break.

It had been a good night. Most of the patrons were happily inebriated, and there’d been no trouble. Bob Duncan and Peter Minogue had evicted one drunk who’d been intent on picking a fight. The man would happily have taken any potential contender out of the bar and into the street, but it would have presented a problem nonetheless. A fight in the street would attract the attention of the coppers, and that must be avoided at all costs. Fortunately no-one had taken him up on his offer.

Now, dozens were gathered around the piano singing along, and several couples were dancing. It was nearly midnight and the lounge would soon close.

Peggy and Lucky’s bodies were one as they moved to the rhythm of the music. They were excellent dancers, and quite evidently in love. Peggy no longer agonised over their relationship, openly admitting to herself that she loved him in a way she had never dreamed possible, and she didn’t care who else knew it. It wouldn’t last. She had no expectations – he had offered her none. But if Lucky was to be her one great affair, then she would enjoy it as much as she could. And, when it was over, she would get on with her life as efficiently as she always had. It was simple, she told herself. It was simple because it had to be.

As Violet swayed to the music, she watched Peggy and Lucky dance. She wished Pietro would hold her close like that, but he always avoided any contact from the waist down, and she knew why. The night of her attempted seduction remained clear in Violet’s mind. There had been no repetition of their passion – if anything, that night had doused his ardour altogether. Pietro kept her virtually at arm’s length these days, he no longer even opened his mouth when he kissed her, and Violet was becoming very frustrated. She knew that she loved him – he was her romantic ideal, the man she’d dreamed of – but she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to marry. Not just yet. There was one thing she was sure of, though. She wanted him to make love to her. She tried to edge her body a little closer as they danced.

Pietro felt her hand move from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and he felt her groin ease closer to his. He twirled her quickly in time to the music – he was a good dancer and she wasn’t, so it was easy for him to avoid the connection. There must be no connection, he had told himself. Not until they were married. And for that he must see her father. The time was right, Pietro had decided, and he intended telling Maureen so. He would go and see Maureen tomorrow at her house before he left for Spring Hill, and if Maureen did not agree to present his case as she had promised, then Pietro would do so himself.

Till you whisper to me once more, darling, I love you and we suddenly know what heaven we’re in …

As she played, Rita Duncan looked at the couples dancing. They were so in love, she thought. And they were dancing to ‘Begin the Beguine’. How perfect. Rita was an incurable romantic.

 

‘Cam Campbell, what a pleasant surprise! What brings you to town?’

It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? Cam thought – he’d just stepped out of Learmont’s Menswear with a load of shirts tucked under his arm. ‘Bit of shopping,’ he said. What business was it of hers anyway? But he smiled in his customary amiable fashion. ‘How are you, Mavis?’ he asked, preparing himself for the inevitable fifteen-minute monologue – God, but the woman could talk. He usually tried to avoid Mavis when he saw her in the street.

‘Any fitter and I’d be dangerous,’ Mavis said. Her thin face wreathed into a smile and she gave a girlish laugh, her form of innocent flirtation. She liked Cam Campbell, such a man’s man and she wished her Brian was a bit more like him. ‘I’ve just come from a P & A meeting,’ she continued, ‘and your name came up again. We could do with you back on the committee, Cam, you’re sorely missed.’

Cam had lasted all of six months on the Pastoral and Agricultural Association’s Committee, and it had been a whole year ago, but Mavis said the same thing every time she managed to corner him.

‘Too busy, Mavis.’ His reply was always the same too.

‘Yes, I know, such a pity, but you won’t stop me from trying, you know – we need men like you on the committee.’ She changed subjects without drawing a breath; it was a talent of Mavis’s. ‘I saw Vi on Saturday. Well, of course I see her all the time, I’m in Hallidays nearly every day of the week. She’s turned into such a pretty girl, hasn’t she?’ The question was rhetorical and she sailed on, ‘But when I saw her on Saturday night, all dressed up, I must say I was most impressed. She and her young man make a lovely couple.’

Young man? What young man? Cam thought, but he said nothing. Mavis was a garrulous fool of a woman, but she was also a gossip-monger who liked to cause trouble. He waited for her to go on.

‘I’ve seen them quite often around town, they’ve been going out together for some time now, I take it?’ This time the question was not rhetorical, and Mavis looked at him with feigned innocence, awaiting his answer. She was dying to find out if Cam knew about his daughter and the Italian. But Cam’s face was unreadable.

‘Yes, I believe they have,’ he replied. He was damned if he’d give the interfering cow the satisfaction of knowing that she’d dropped a bombshell. ‘Vi’s eighteen now, Mavis. I trust her, and I don’t meddle in her life.’

‘Of course, and so you shouldn’t.’ He knew, and he approved, Mavis thought. Well, fancy that. But then Cam Campbell had accepted the foreigners right from the start. She decided that flattery was the best tactic. ‘I must say, Cam, I admire your open-mindedness. Of course I’ve always believed, like you, that we should welcome the migrants into the area,’ she added, although she didn’t believe anything of the sort, ‘but to welcome them into one’s family, so to speak … well, you’re certainly living up to your principles …’

Mavis knew she’d gone too far. Her flattery had backfired on her, the man looked angry. She’d offended him. ‘I’m not being critical, I know you believe that all men are equals, and I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I can’t help feeling … and perhaps it’s wrong of me, that …’

‘Yes, Mavis. It’s wrong of you.’

He walked off and Mavis was left feeling most put out. She’d been trying to be helpful. If he hadn’t known about his daughter, then it was high time someone told him, she’d thought. And if he had known, as it appeared he did, then she’d been prepared to be malleable. If he’d been upset, she’d have commiserated with him; as he wasn’t, she’d flattered him. And it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t win.

Cam dumped his shirts into the back of his Holden ute and strode off towards Hallidays. His daughter going out with a bloody foreigner? Over my dead body, he thought.

‘G’day, Cam, haven’t seen you for a while.’

Frank Halliday was seated beside the windows. It was Monday and Frank was taking an inventory following the busy weekend.

‘G’day, Frank.’ Cam propped himself casually in the open doorway; he could see his daughter further down the counter, stacking tins on the shelves. ‘How’s business?’ He had no intention of creating a scene in front of the shopkeeper, or anyone else for that matter.

‘Can’t complain. You after Vi?’

‘Yes, if you could spare her for a sec.’

‘Take your time, we’re not busy. Hey Vi,’ Frank called, ‘your dad’s here.’

Violet’s face lit up in a smile as she turned. ‘Dad!’ She dumped her armload of tinned tomatoes, circled the counter and ran to him. ‘I didn’t know you were in town,’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him.

‘I was going to call around the house later and surprise you and your auntie.’ Cam returned the embrace, briefly and uncomfortably. She was too old to hug him like that, particularly in public.

Violet, aware of his self-consciousness, broke away. In the instinctive pleasure of seeing her father, she’d forgotten for a moment that things had changed. She wished they hadn’t. She wished her father would still hug her the way he used to.

‘That’d be beaut,’ she said brightly. ‘Can you stay for tea? Auntie Maureen’ll be home by four, she was on the early shift today.’

‘We’ll see. Do you want to pop out for a cuppa?’

Violet looked at Frank Halliday.

‘Go on with your dad, Vi,’ Frank nodded, and she quickly ducked back behind the counter to collect her handbag – Violet never went anywhere without her lipstick and comb.

‘Like I said, Cam, take your time,’ the shopkeeper added. ‘We’re never busy on Mondays.’

‘Thanks, Frank, most appreciated.’ Cam smiled, and he and Violet stepped out into the street. But the moment they were outside, his smile disappeared, and he took his daughter by the arm and started walking her briskly in the direction of the Holden.

‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ she asked, but she’d already guessed. Her father had heard about Pietro.

Cam said nothing until they arrived at the ute. He opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ he said.

‘I thought we were going for a cuppa.’

‘I want to talk to you, Vi.’

‘We can talk over a cup of …’

‘Privately. Get in.’

Violet did as she was told, and her father slammed the ute door a little harder than was necessary. He was furious, she thought. But she wasn’t going to let him frighten her, she decided. She’d done nothing wrong.

Cam drove across the creek and out of town, away from the eyes of passers-by, and stopped the ute by the side of the road and turned to her.

‘Right. Now tell me about this bloke you’re going out with.’

She looked him square in the eyes. ‘His name is Pietro,’ she said. ‘Pietro Toscanini.’

A Dago, he thought. My daughter’s going out with a bloody Dago. But he controlled himself, as any good, responsible father would. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

‘Five months.’

A whole five months! Jesus Christ, he’d kill the Wop bastard. ‘And why wasn’t I told?’

‘I haven’t seen you since the Show, you haven’t been into town …’

‘There’s such a thing as the telephone, Violet, you could have rung your mother and me.’

She turned away and gazed rebelliously out the window. Although she liked others to call her Violet, she hated it when her father did so – it meant she was about to get a lecture. Well at least he was only mad because she hadn’t told him she had a boyfriend, she thought, he didn’t seem to mind that Pietro was Italian. She’d worried that, for all his talk, he might not be as broadminded as he professed when it came to his own daughter.

Cam was infuriated by her silence. How dare she ignore him and stare out the window. ‘Look at me, girl.’

She did. And her look was cold. ‘Girl’ was far worse than ‘Violet’. She hated him calling her ‘girl’ more than anything.

‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘Nothing. What is there to say?’

Cam was uneasy; she wasn’t behaving like his little girl. Vi would normally protest, ‘Don’t be mad at me, Dad, I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Her self-composure worried him, she seemed too grown up. Did it mean she was sleeping with the boy? His baby girl and a Dago Wog bastard, he was sickened by the thought.

‘How far’s it gone?’ His tone was gruff, and the question sounded blunt, tasteless, but he didn’t know how else to ask it.

‘I’m not sleeping with him, if that’s what you mean.’ Violet could see the relief in her father’s eyes and she would have liked to have added, ‘but I want to.’ Just to shock him. But she didn’t.

‘Of course you’re not, I didn’t think for a minute you were,’ he said. ‘I trust you, Vi.’ He started the ute. End of conversation. ‘But you’re not to see him any more, you hear me?’

‘Why?’ Perhaps she’d been right after all, Violet thought. ‘Because he’s Italian?’

‘Of course not. You’re too young, that’s all.’ Cam checked the rear vision mirror and did a u-turn.

‘We love each other, Dad. He wants to marry me.’

There, she’d said it. And she’d well and truly got his attention now, she thought as the ute slowed to a halt.

Cam turned off the engine. Then he sat and waited, his face giving away nothing.

‘Pietro’s been wanting to ask your permission for ages, but Auntie Maureen thought it was best to wait until we were sure.’

‘Oh yes?’ Maureen, he thought. Bloody Maureen. He should have known better than to leave his baby girl in the care of bloody Maureen. She’d messed up her own life and now she was going to mess up his daughter’s. Well, bugger that. ‘And you’re sure now, are you?’ he asked, studying her carefully. Something wasn’t quite right, he thought, there was too much bravado about her, as if she were trying to shock him, and convince herself at the same time.

Violet’s answer was strangely indirect. ‘Pietro came to see Auntie Maureen yesterday,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t there, but they talked, and Auntie Maureen promised that she’d go out home and see you.’

‘Did she?’ Bloody Maureen and the Dago prick appeared to have it all figured out, he thought. God alone knew why. ‘And you wanted her to come out home and see me, did you?’ Cam kept his voice steady, though he’d have liked to strangle his sister: why hadn’t Maureen just told the Dago to piss off? ‘You want to marry this bloke, is that it?’

Auntie Maureen had asked her the very same question, Violet thought. She hadn’t really been sure of the answer then, and she wasn’t sure now, but her reply was the same.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Cam continued to study his daughter. She looked vulnerable. Lost and uncertain. She wasn’t sure of herself at all, he thought, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been worrying about nothing. It was a bloody joke, the whole thing. Romantic bullshit. The girl went to the pictures too much, that was the problem.

‘Don’t you worry, baby girl.’ He put his arm fondly around her, uninhibited this time, and for a moment he held her close. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, we’ll sort this out.’ Then he started up the ute.

He hadn’t called her ‘baby girl’ for a very long time, and he hadn’t cuddled her like that either. Comforting as she’d found it, and relieved as she was to have avoided his anger, Violet sensed that things hadn’t gone quite according to plan. Her father was treating her like a child, he wasn’t taking her seriously.

‘I love Pietro, Dad,’ she said. She’d said the same thing to Auntie Maureen when Auntie Maureen had told her she had only two options.

‘Marry him, or stop seeing him, Violet, it’s that simple.’ Her aunt had spelled it out bluntly. ‘Make up your mind.’

‘I love him,’ she’d said. And, without insisting on any further discussion, Auntie Maureen had nodded knowingly. Something had passed between them, Violet had thought, and she’d been grateful for her aunt’s understanding.

Cam glanced affectionately at his daughter. She was just a kid, he thought. ‘Of course you do, baby girl, but don’t you worry, I’ll have a chat to your boyfriend and Auntie Maureen, we’ll sort things out.’

They’d sort things out all right, he thought. He wanted to kill his bloody sister, and he wanted to kill the fucking Dago too. They’d given him one hell of a scare there for a minute.

He dropped Violet back at the store. ‘See you later, love,’ he said as she climbed out of the ute. He’d go to the Billiards Club, he decided, and while away the time with some of the blokes until Maureen got home from the hospital. Four o’clock, Violet had said.

She was about to ask him if he was going to come home for tea, but the ute pulled out from the kerb. ‘Bye, Dad,’ she called instead, and he waved at her through the open window.

Violet stood in the street and watched as the Holden drove off. She expected to see it turn left into Vale Street, on its way to the hospital only a couple of minutes’ drive up the hill. But it turned right instead. There was time for her to warn Auntie Maureen. She ferreted about in her purse for some coins and walked to the public phone box just down the street. Mr Halliday didn’t mind his staff using the store’s telephone so long as they were brief, but Violet didn’t want anyone overhearing.

‘Dad’s in town,’ she said when Maureen’s voice came on the line, ‘and he knows about Pietro.’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Ah well,’ Maureen said in her practical fashion, ‘it’ll save me a trip out there. What did you tell him?’

‘That Pietro wants to marry me.’

‘And what was his reaction?’

‘He didn’t get mad. But he didn’t seem to take me seriously, Auntie Maureen. He said he’d sort things out with you, so I thought I’d ring before he turned up at the hospital.’

‘Thanks, Violet, I’m glad you did. Just as well to be prepared. I’ll see you at home.’

‘But Auntie Maureen …’

‘I have to go now, dear. Don’t you worry. Everything’ll be fine. Bye.’

Violet returned to work, confused. Her future was at stake and everyone was telling her not to worry, that everything’d be fine.

 

Maureen was thoughtful as she replaced the receiver. Cam wouldn’t come to the hospital, she knew that much. If he was going to confront her, as she was sure he would, he wouldn’t risk causing a scene in front of others, he wouldn’t want to be caught out. But it was odd that he’d appeared not to take the situation seriously. Cam Campbell would be livid at the mere thought of his daughter going out with an Italian.

Maureen knew that, for all his pretence of egalitarianism, her brother had a different set of values when it came to his family. In fact, when it came to his family, Cam was a man of strict convention. He saw himself as the patriarch. It was Cam who made the rules in the Campbell family, and woe betide anyone who bucked them. Maureen had bucked all the rules when she’d left the land for a career in the city – it had been against the Campbell tradition. Campbell women worked like men until they were of a marriageable age, then they wed local farmers or graziers and bore them children to take over the property. But Maureen had married a businessman at the age of twenty-three, and she’d paid the price when she’d come home two decades later.

‘That’s what you get for marrying a city slicker,’ her brother had gloated. ‘No loyalty.’

‘Andy and I loved each other and we still do, Cam. We had a good twenty years together, there are no regrets.’ Her reply had been delivered with composure; even as a child, she had never let him rattle her. She was two years his senior and she’d always played the older sister with a superiority that she knew infuriated him.

‘Oh come off it, Maureen, how can you defend the bastard? He dumped you for a younger sheila, why don’t you admit the truth?’

She’d hated him at that moment, even though she’d known he was angry on her behalf. ‘The truth?’ she’d replied coldly. ‘Andy wants children. He’s always wanted children, I could never give them to him, and now she can. That’s the truth, Cam.’

It hadn’t been the truth at all, but Maureen would never admit to the hurt she felt, not even to Andy, with whom she’d parted on amicable terms, and certainly not to her dictatorial brother.

She and Cam had had a row that night when she’d told him she was not coming back to the property. He hadn’t been able to comprehend her preference for long hours at the hospital and a modest house in town. He’d called her disloyal and accused her of having no sense of family, but Maureen had refused to budge in her decision.

They’d eventually called a truce further down the track when she’d offered to have Violet come and live with her. Cam had been grateful, albeit begrudgingly. It wouldn’t be for long, he’d said. It was just some passing whim of Vi’s, she’d be back home in a few months, he was sure. But, despite his gratitude, he still hadn’t been able to resist laying down the law.

‘Don’t you go giving her any fancy ideas, Maureen,’ he’d warned. ‘Vi’s not like you; she belongs on the land.’

Maureen had refused to be dictated to. ‘She’ll make up her own mind, Cam,’ she’d said, but secretly, she’d agreed with her brother. Young Vi was not like her. The girl had no ambition and Maureen had been certain that she would return home within the year. In true Campbell tradition Violet would marry a local and produce an heir, just as she was destined to do.

It now appeared that both she and Cam had been wrong, Maureen thought as she left the reception desk and returned to the wards. The relationship between Violet and young Pietro could no longer be dismissed as a young girl’s romantic illusion. Was that why Cam had not taken his daughter seriously? Well, he’d better start doing so, she thought. Whether or not the girl genuinely wished to marry was beside the point; she was on the verge of sleeping with the Italian. And Maureen would have to tell her brother that. She didn’t relish the prospect.

At the end of her shift, she changed from her uniform into her comfortable trousers and shirt; it was spring, the weather was fine and she’d walked to the hospital. She set off briskly, enjoying her twenty-minute constitutional, and as she finally strode up the hill towards the cottage she was pleasantly out of breath.

She recognised the ute parked in the street, and slowed her pace. He was sitting on the front steps, leaning against the small white picket fence of the front verandah.

‘G’day, Maureen,’ he said, but he didn’t smile.

‘Hello, Cam.’

He rose as she walked to meet him. ‘We’ve got some talking to do.’

‘Yes, I know. Come on in.’

She opened the front door, which wasn’t locked, and he followed her inside.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked, leading the way into the kitchen.

‘No, I bloody well don’t.’

So it was going to be like that, she thought. It was pretty much what she’d expected. Cam’s belligerence could be quite intimidating, and his anger even frightening, but Maureen refused to be daunted.

‘You won’t mind if I have one then?’ She busied herself filling the kettle.

Her imperturbability irritated him. ‘What the hell’s been going on behind my back?’

‘Your daughter’s been falling in love. All proper and above board, I hasten to add.’ She put the kettle on the stove. ‘She’s eighteen, Cam, it’s quite normal.’

‘And you knew he was a Dago, right?’

He was showing his true colours right from the start, she thought, and the sneer in his voice annoyed her.

‘Yes, I’ve met him a number of times. He’s a very nice young man.’

She knew she shouldn’t have sounded so arch – it was a red rag to a bull – but she hadn’t been able to help herself. His fist hit the table.

‘Jesus Christ, woman,’ he yelled, his face flushed with anger, ‘what the hell are you playing at?’

Maureen didn’t light the gas stove; she decided to forget about the tea. ‘Calm down, Cam,’ she said, crossing to the table. ‘It won’t serve anyone’s purpose if you lose your temper.’

He had no intention of calming down. ‘What do you think you’re doing, encouraging my daughter? How dare you interfere.’

‘In what way have I interfered?’

But he wasn’t listening. ‘You gave up any rights in this family years ago when you pissed off to Sydney. I won’t have you disrupting Vi’s life with your smartarse liberated ideas. I don’t give a shit if the Dago’s a nice young man, do you hear? He’s not coming anywhere near my daughter!’

He was prowling around the kitchen now, and she wished he’d sit down so they could discuss the whole thing in a civilised fashion. She wanted to sit herself, it had been a long day, but she didn’t. She said nothing, leaning against the table instead, waiting for him to get it out of his system.

‘Jesus, Maureen, I don’t understand you,’ he went on. ‘Vi’s just a kid, she listens to you, she admires you, she drinks in every bloody word you say. How could you encourage this bullshit?’

His sister’s silence was having its effect. Cam was running out of steam.

‘Christ, you’re an intelligent woman. Can’t you see that’s all it is? She doesn’t want to marry him. It’s romantic bullshit. It’s all in her head.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought to start with.’ She hoped he was calm enough to talk sense now, and she sat. ‘But it’s not in her head any longer, Cam. Sit down. Please.’

He sat. And Maureen wondered how to address the true issue without her brother once again exploding.

‘When Violet first started seeing Pietro, I was sure it wouldn’t last.’ She noticed the flicker in his eyes at the mention of Pietro’s name. This wasn’t going to be easy, she thought. ‘She told me he reminded her of an Italian movie star, and, like you, I thought it was just a romantic fantasy on Violet’s part.’

Cam forced himself to stay silent, but his sister wasn’t winning any points. She should have pissed the Dago off right from the start, he thought.

‘And I agree with you,’ Maureen continued slowly, trying to find the right words, ‘I’m not altogether sure that she really wants to marry him. Not yet anyway …’

Jesus Christ, he thought, whose case was she arguing, his daughter’s or the Dago’s? The girl hadn’t slept with the bastard, and if she didn’t want to marry him, then where was the problem? Why was she wasting her breath talking about the bloody Dago?

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she added, ‘I’m convinced that she loves him …’

Outside, Violet walked up the steps to the back verandah. Mr Halliday had been very understanding when she’d asked if she could leave early.

‘You go along, Vi,’ he’d said; she rarely asked for favours. ‘You get home early and make your dad’s tea.’ That had been the excuse she’d used, even though she wasn’t sure if her dad was coming to tea.

As she’d approached the house, she’d seen her father’s utility parked out the front, and she’d known the two of them would be inside, talking about her. It hadn’t been her deliberate intention to eavesdrop as she’d walked around to the back of the cottage. She often entered via the verandah, freshening up in her room before going inside. But this time she didn’t go to her room, and as she opened the back door, she did so quietly.

‘… in fact I’m sure that she loves him very much,’ Maureen said.

Violet heard her aunt’s voice quite clearly through the flywire screen, and she hovered by the doorway only several yards from them, out of sight but within easy earshot. She felt guilty to be eavesdropping, but glad that Auntie Maureen was so openly pleading her case.

‘… and I know that Pietro loves her, and that he genuinely wants to marry her …’

If she mentioned the Dago’s name once more he’d hit her, Cam thought. Whose bloody side was the woman on?

‘… but I think the prospect of marriage frightens Violet,’ Maureen said.

‘Of course it does!’ He finally exploded. ‘She’s a kid, for Christ’s sake!’

‘No, that’s just it, she’s not!’ Dear God, she’d have to spell it out, Maureen thought; she’d been trying to edge around the subject tactfully. ‘She’s a woman, Cam. And she’s in love! Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’

He was halted in his tracks. What was she inferring? Had his daughter lied?

‘Vi told me they weren’t sleeping together,’ he said, his voice menacingly quiet.

‘They’re not. Not yet. But only because Pietro wants to wait until they’re married.’

That was it! He jumped to his feet. ‘I don’t give a shit what the bloody Dago wants, you stupid woman!’ he yelled. ‘He’s not getting my daughter!’

‘She’ll sleep with him anyway, Cam!’ Maureen hadn’t wanted to raise her voice, but it seemed the only way to get through to him.

It worked. He stared at her, taken aback.

‘This isn’t just one of Violet’s romantic fantasies, it’s gone much further than that,’ she continued. ‘She’s in love with the boy and she’s going to sleep with him whether you like it or not. You have to give your permission for them to marry.’

‘Over my dead body,’ he snarled.

She stood, exasperated. ‘Your daughter’s on the verge of losing her virginity, Cam, and there’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it.’

‘Oh isn’t there just? I can kill the fucking Dago, that’s what I can do.’

‘And what good would that do?’ Her frustration was getting the better of her; it was becoming a slanging match. ‘What if the next boy she falls in love with doesn’t want to marry her? Would you prefer to see her run off with some buck to a cheap motel? Because that’s what she’ll do. If it’s not Pietro, then it’ll be some other young stud …’

His open hand lashed out and struck her hard across the cheek. She staggered off-balance, then recovered herself, and there was a moment’s silence, brother and sister staring at each other, both shocked by his action.

‘You tell the Dago to keep away from my daughter,’ he said finally. ‘And you tell my daughter if she sleeps with him I’ll disown her.’

She watched wordlessly as he walked to the door.

‘I didn’t mean to hit you,’ he said without turning back.

Violet heard her father’s footsteps walking away, and then the sound of the front door closing. She stood in silent dismay as her world crashed around her. Her father’s blatant bigotry had horrified her. He’d been her hero all of her life, but he was a fraud and a hypocrite. She’d been horrified, too, when she’d heard him strike his sister. But it had been her aunt’s words that had cut Violet most deeply, and the tears welled as she stood staring unseeingly at the flywire door.

Was that really what Maureen thought of her? But yesterday, when she’d told Maureen that she loved Pietro, they had shared an understanding. Or at least she’d thought that they had. She’d thought they’d shared a special moment, as only women could. Like the moment she’d shared with Peggy Minchin in the restaurant. Just a look, when each knew what the other was thinking. But she’d been wrong. There’d been no shared understanding. Maureen considered her a shallow, empty-headed girl bent on losing her virginity; a girl who would run off with some buck to a cheap motel.

The tears slowly coursed their way down Violet’s cheeks. Maureen was wrong, she thought. She wasn’t like that at all. She wanted to lose her virginity, yes, but she wasn’t using Pietro in order to do so. Maureen thought that she was, and Maureen was clever, but it wasn’t like that, Violet told herself. She couldn’t and she wouldn’t believe it.

‘Violet.’

Maureen was appalled when she stepped out onto the verandah to discover Violet standing motionless, crying silent tears.

‘Come inside, dear. I’ll get us a cup of tea.’ The girl had heard, Maureen thought guiltily.

Violet, unprotesting, allowed herself to be ushered into the kitchen where she sat at the table and, while her aunt lit the gas stove, she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She didn’t want to cry in front of Maureen.

‘Violet …’ Maureen set the teacups out on the table and sat opposite the girl, not sure what to say, but about to start with an apology. Violet, however, got in first.

‘I know you think I’m stupid,’ she said quietly, studying her teacup, avoiding Maureen’s eyes. ‘And you’re probably right. I’m not clever like you, I never will be …’

Her aunt was about to interject.

‘… but I know when I’m in love,’ Violet continued. ‘And I’m in love with Pietro.’ She redirected her eyes from her teacup to her aunt, and her look was candid. ‘You’re right, I want to sleep with him, but it’s more than that. I love him.’

The girl had made the same declaration just yesterday. ‘I love him,’ Violet had said, and Maureen had found the girl’s sexuality alarming, like an electrical pulse sending messages through the air. She’d chastised herself for not having registered the warnings earlier. It was a common case with late developers like Violet – hormones suddenly ran wild. The girl was aching to lose her virginity, she’d thought, and she’d looked no further than that.

But things were not that simple, she now realised, as Violet’s eyes met hers with a candour and maturity Maureen had not seen there before.

‘I know you think I’m empty-headed and romantic,’ Violet said directly and without any form of accusation, ‘but you see, Maureen, I believe in romance.’

The use of her Christian name without the ‘auntie’ title was strangely affecting, and Maureen felt riddled with guilt for having hurt the girl as deeply as she plainly had.

‘I believe that romance and love are the same thing,’ Violet said. ‘They are for me. I don’t want to sleep with Pietro just to lose my virginity.’ Her lip trembled slightly, her composure was starting to crack. ‘And I wouldn’t run away with some buck to a cheap motel.’

Maureen was mortified, at a loss for words. But Violet stemmed the tears that threatened. She took a deep breath, regained her dignity, and continued.

‘You think my romantic view of the world is shallow, and perhaps it is. But it doesn’t mean that my love is shallow. I just look at things a different way from you. I like romance in my life, and you don’t.’

It was a simple statement, and it was true, Maureen thought. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d experienced even the slightest sense of romance. Passion, yes, in the early days with Andy. She’d slept with him before they were married, she’d been the one to instigate it. And she’d experienced love. She’d loved Andy deeply, she still did, they’d been partners and soul mates. But romance? She’d had no time for romance, her life had been governed by practicality and commonsense for as long as she could remember.

‘I will marry Pietro,’ Violet said. ‘I want to. I was frightened before, but I’m not any more, Dad’s helped me make up my mind.’ A rebellious edge crept into her voice. ‘I’ll marry Pietro whether Dad likes it or not.’

Maureen hoped Violet wasn’t marrying Pietro simply to spite her father, but she quelled the voice of reason. She was being over-practical again, she warned herself, now was not the time.

‘Your dad’s not a bad man, you know, Violet,’ she said.

‘Yes he is.’ The girl’s tone was more than rebellious now, it was hard. ‘Dad’s a hypocrite.’

‘Only where his family’s concerned. He thinks he’s being protective.’

‘And he hit you.’

‘Yes,’ Maureen admitted, ‘but he did it because I was saying things about you he didn’t want to hear. I think he frightened himself more than me.’

‘You’re very forgiving, Maureen.’ Violet wasn’t. She could still hear her father’s voice: I can kill the fucking Dago, that’s what I can do. She’d never forgive him for that.

‘I’m sorry for what I said, Violet.’

‘I know. And it’s all right.’ Violet smiled her pretty, childlike smile. ‘It’s all right. Really.’ She and Maureen had an understanding now. A real woman’s understanding. Violet was happy about that much at least.

 

Lucky’s winning streak continued. Two months after his two-up triumph, he and Maarten Vanpoucke picked the winner of the Melbourne Cup.

Rising Fast had been Maarten’s choice. The Melbourne Cup was the one time of the year Maarten gambled, and he took his selection very seriously, studying the field, the owners, the jockeys and the track conditions. This year, however, he’d considered there was no need to study up.

‘Rising Fast,’ he’d said to Lucky. ‘He’s won this year’s Caulfield Cup and the Cox Plate – he’s a champion. And Purtell’s a fine jockey, he won last year’s Cup on Wodalla, we can’t go wrong. I’m putting fifty pounds on Rising Fast to win.’

Lucky had gone along with the idea and they’d placed a hundred quid on the nose. It had become an annual event to pool their bets. This year it had paid off.

On the Saturday following the Melbourne Cup, Lucky collected their winnings and arrived at Maarten’s around four in the afternoon, as they’d arranged. Maarten met him at the front door flourishing an unopened bottle of vintage Taittinger.

‘What a horse, eh?’ the Dutchman said as he ushered Lucky up the main staircase and into the lounge room. He started opening the champagne. ‘The Caulfield Cup, the Cox Plate and the Melbourne Cup all in one year – he’ll go down in history.’ The cork popped loudly.

‘Pity he was the favourite.’ Lucky took his bulging wallet from his pocket. ‘But we still did very nicely.’ He grinned, about to count out the money.

‘All in good time,’ Maarten said, pouring the champagne into the flutes sitting on the sideboard beside the ice-bucket. ‘To Rising Fast.’ He handed a glass to Lucky, who dumped the wallet on the coffee table and joined in the toast.

‘To Rising Fast,’ he said, and they clinked.

For the next ten minutes or so they chatted enthusiastically about the race. Maarten was in a most effusive mood, and not only because of their win. Lucky had finally agreed to stay and dine after their chess game – it was a first.

‘You can’t turn me down this time, Lucky,’ he’d insisted over the phone. ‘It was a history-making race, they’ll be talking about this horse fifty years from now. We must celebrate.’

‘Of course we must, I’d be delighted to stay for dinner. Thank you.’ Lucky had accepted the invitation with good grace, although he’d hoped he wasn’t creating a precedent; he’d far rather spend his evenings with Peggy. But he felt guilty always declining Maarten’s invitation; for all the Dutchman’s charm he appeared to have few friends.

‘Tell me, how’s young Pietro?’ Maarten asked, topping up their glasses and replacing the champagne in its ice-bucket. ‘He hasn’t been to see me for over six weeks.’

‘He’s probably been distracted,’ Lucky replied. ‘He’s in love.’

‘Ah well,’ Maarten laughed, ‘that explains it.’ But he was serious as he added, ‘He must be due for another script by now. He’s been meticulous with his medication, I take it?’

‘I presume so.’ Lucky had no idea.

‘I’d like him to visit me once a month as we agreed,’ Maarten peered over his spectacle rims in professional doctor mode. ‘It’s advisable I keep an eye on his condition. Perhaps you could remind him, Lucky?’

‘Yes, of course I will.’ It was obvious he was still perceived as the boy’s father figure, Lucky thought, but he was grateful to Maarten for his concern. He would chastise Pietro for neglecting his monthly check-up.

‘Well, let’s get started.’ Maarten placed the ice-bucket and champagne on the table where the chess board was laid out. ‘The sooner I beat you, the sooner we eat.’

Lucky joined him at the table and they sat.

‘Mrs Hodgeman is preparing veal knuckles in red wine,’ Maarten said. ‘A specialty of hers, and a favourite of mine.’

 

‘You’re a genius, Mrs Hodgeman,’ Lucky said five hours later as he mopped up the last of his gravy. The food had been superb. ‘I haven’t eaten a meal like that since the old days.’

‘Goodo, sir, I’m glad you liked it.’ Noreen Hodgeman beamed with pleasure. She was a tough little woman in her mid-forties with an Aussie accent that belonged in a shearing shed. ‘It’s one of the doctor’s favourites,’ she said as she started clearing away the plates. ‘Shall I leave it half an hour before serving sweets, Doctor? Fruit flan,’ she said with a special smile. It was obviously another of Maarten’s favourites.

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Hodgeman, and tell Kevin to fetch another bottle from the cellar, if you wouldn’t mind.’ Maarten drained the last of his specially imported Bordeaux into his empty glass; Lucky’s was still half full.

‘Right you are then,’ and she disappeared with the empty bottle.

Lucky had always liked Mrs Hodgeman. She was a bizarre mixture. She was an outback woman, yet her attitude to her employer was both maternal and servile, and Lucky found it amusing. He sensed she liked him too, but she’d refused to call him Lucky when he’d suggested it. ‘Ah no, sir,’ she’d said, ‘this is the doctor’s house, I like to do things right. Heavens above I owe him that. I dunno where I’d be without the Doctor.’ A widowed farmer’s wife, her husband killed in the war, Noreen Hodgeman had been Maarten’s housekeeper for the past five years and, as he’d also employed her son and given them both a roof over their heads, she’d had every reason to be grateful. It was obvious that she now adored Maarten and she played the roles of mother and servant with equal dedication.

‘Where did Mrs Hodgeman learn to cook like that?’ Lucky asked when she’d gone. He’d been fussed over with cups of tea and cake in the past, but he’d never experienced Mrs Hodgeman’s cooking.

‘Books,’ Maarten said, and he laughed at Lucky’s reaction. ‘It’s true. She knows I like European food so she’s made a study of it. I must say it’s a relief. When she first came to me I got so sick of mutton stews and lamb chops with boiled vegetables.’

Several minutes later, Kevin arrived with the wine. He was a big, thickset young man in his early twenties, and gauche, like an overgrown boy. He rarely said a word and Lucky hadn’t known what to make of him upon their first meetings. Whenever he’d tried to introduce polite conversation, he’d been met with a stony silence.

‘Don’t bother,’ Maarten had said finally, ‘he’s not all there.’

‘Oh.’ Lucky hadn’t realised. He wished Maarten had told him earlier.

‘What’s that wonderful Australian expression?’ Maarten had said. ‘He’s not the full quid,’ and he’d laughed.

Ever since then Lucky had gone out of his way to be nice to Kevin, and he’d quickly registered that the boy was not sullen at all, but painfully shy.

‘Hello, Kevin,’ he said now as Kevin arrived with the wine.

Kevin nodded and gave him a quick smile before concentrating on the corkscrew and the wine. Kevin liked Lucky. He put the opened bottle on the table and left in silence.

‘Drink up, Lucky, you’ve ground to a halt,’ Maarten said jovially.

‘I have, you’re quite right. Not for me, thanks.’ He waved aside the bottle that Maarten held poised over his glass. The Dutchman had drunk virtually all the previous one; half a bottle of champagne had been quite enough for Lucky.

Maarten didn’t seem to mind. He topped up his own glass and toasted the air. ‘To Rising Fast,’ he said yet again, forgetting that he’d said it at least half a dozen times. ‘The horse of the century.’

‘Which reminds me, I owe you some money.’

Lucky rose from the table and fetched his wallet. He was wondering how long it would be before he could politely make his exit; Maarten was getting happily drunk and it was nearly ten o’clock. He resigned himself to the fruit flan, however. It would be rude to leave before the dessert, although he felt he couldn’t eat another thing. But his mind was on Peggy now, and her promise was beckoning. ‘I’ll be ready and waiting no matter how late you are,’ she’d said suggestively when he’d told her not to wait up.

He took the bundle of notes from his wallet and placed them on the table in front of Maarten.

‘There you go,’ he said, ‘the honour’s all yours.’ And he sat.

‘What were the odds? Five to two, weren’t they?’ Maarten asked. ‘That should make it three hundred and fifty pounds between us, including the one hundred we laid on for the bet.’ The Dutchman appeared instantly sober – money was serious business to Maarten Vanpoucke. He unfolded the wad of notes.

‘I can’t remember,’ Lucky said. ‘He was five to two on the tote, but I think the bookie gave us better odds than that. I didn’t count it when I collected it, how much is there?’

A photograph was sitting in the middle of the notes he’d unfolded, and Maarten picked it up and stared intently at it. ‘Is this your wife?’ he asked slowly.

‘Yes,’ Lucky said. He’d forgotten the photo was there; it must have got mixed up with the money when he’d shoved it in his wallet, he thought. He must return it to the safety of his cabin which these days he kept locked. Wallets were far too easily stolen. ‘Yes that’s Ruth,’ he said.

The Dutchman studied the photograph. Lucky had told him that his wife had died at Auschwitz. But Lucky was wrong, Maarten thought. He knew this woman. This woman was very much alive. Or she had been the last time Maarten had seen her.