The Last of the Bonegilla Girls Page 21

  He was all she had thought about since that night, in the dark with the stars and his breath on her cheek and his warmth and the safety of being in his arms.

  Frances rested against the upholstered plumpness of the chair and arched her back. She closed her eyes, tired from the baby, tired of the lie, tired of keeping secrets. She tried to take in every part of the tableau she had just stepped into. If it was to end, she wanted to remember every detail. The boys’ cheeky smiles. Their mother’s laugh. Their father’s wrinkled forehead. Iliana’s silky black hair. The fire crackled and Giovani and Stefano giggled with each other, turning the pages of their books. Frank Sinatra’s croon gave way to Doris Day and Frances flickered her eyes open.

  ‘My favourite,’ she said to Iliana.

  ‘This song?’ Iliana asked.

  ‘Secret Love’. Frances had heard it for the first time back at Bonegilla, when Calamity Jane had played at the camp’s cinema. Without thinking, she looked at Massimo. He was looking back at her.

  It was time.

  ‘I have to tell you all something,’ she announced.

  Agata and Giuseppe looked to Massimo for the translation. ‘Voglio dirti una cosa,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Iliana sat up. ‘Is the baby coming?’

  Frances held up a hand to calm them all down. ‘No, it’s not that. I have decided that tomorrow I will go back to Bonegilla. To my mother and father. So the baby can be born there.’

  ‘You’re going away?’ Giovani asked. Stefano looked sad too and it was more than Frances could bear.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Iliana held a hand to her mouth to stop her lips quivering. ‘You did not say anything before?’

  Frances linked her fingers under her huge belly, moved in her chair to find a place of comfort. ‘I decided today. It’s not long now before the baby comes and I should travel now before it will be too late to go.’

  Agata began to cry. Giuseppe sighed. They may not have understood every word she’d said but they knew baby and Bonegilla.

  Massimo got to his feet. The move caught everyone’s attention. He cleared his throat and said something fast and loud in Italian. The rest of the family left the room quickly. When the door to the living room closed, she heard stomping footsteps and the back door slamming.

  ‘Frances.’ Massimo was by the fire, close to her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. And because they were alone, this was the first time she was able to look at him the way she wanted to, without hiding her interest, without pretending she didn’t love him. She gave herself the freedom to take in every detail of his face. Massimo had a hint of his mother in his dark eyes, but he had his father’s strong mouth and jawline. His dark hair was curly and thick and pushed back from his forehead. His lips looked soft and his cheeks were shadowed with growth. His olive skin gave him the appearance of a tan, even in mid-winter. She willed herself to remember everything about him.

  ‘Francesca,’ he said softly. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Massimo. Before you say anything,’ she started, trying to catch her breath. ‘There is no possible way I can thank your parents, your family, for letting me stay here with you. I will forever be grateful. Truly.’

  He was silent, serious. His eyes darted from her eyes to her mouth and the baby and back. ‘You go tomorrow.’

  She folded her hands in her lap. ‘I must. It’s time I told my parents, no matter what it will cost me. You have been very understanding, having me here. I know what you think.’

  ‘What?’ His chest expanded and he held his breath.

  ‘It’s not enough that through my careless behaviour I have brought shame upon myself, but I never wanted your family to share in it. Your brothers think that I had a husband who died in a car accident. I lied to them in case they said anything at school and in case any parents wondered who the pregnant lady is living in their house. I have had to lie to everyone, except you and Iliana and your parents. And I have been so grateful for that. But now, the lying has to stop. I have to go back to Bonegilla and face my family. I’ve been too ashamed to do that. They will help me put the baby up for adoption. There are many good families who want babies. My little one won’t bear the stigma of what I’ve done. Of being born to an unmarried mother. He—or she—will be able to start afresh in a new family.’

  Massimo’s expression was dark and unknowable. She couldn’t really be sure how much he understood, but she needed to say it all.

  ‘All this time I have been here, living in your house, under your parents’ roof, you have kept your opinions to yourself, about me and what I’ve done. That must have been very difficult for you.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘I want to thank you for that. You can’t think less of me that I already think of myself.’

  ‘Frances, you don’t understand.’

  ‘I do, I—oh!’ She clasped her hands to her stomach.

  Massimo knelt by her side. ‘Is the baby coming?’

  Frances tried to breath. ‘The baby just kicked me right here.’ She pointed a finger at her rib cage. Massimo splayed a hand on the spot she was rubbing, covering her hand with his, and when he felt the next kick, through her fingers, he looked up at her. Instantly, spontaneously, he began to cry. He grasped her hands in his. ‘You should not go. I have not said anything all these months.’

  He kissed the back of her hand and held his lips there, warm and soft.

  ‘Massimo?’ she murmured. What was he saying?

  ‘I not care if this is another man’s baby. It is your baby. You cannot give it to a family. Stay here with me. We make a family.’

  He kissed her on the lips this time. It was everything she’d ever imagined a kiss from him would be.

  He pulled back.

  She could still taste him.

  He pulled her hand to his chest and pressed it there. ‘Francesca. Will you marry me?’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Elizabeta knew they would come.

  After she’d nervously walked down the aisle to marry Nikolas Muller, after the vows and the first wedded kiss and the congratulations from each side of the church as she’d walked back towards the wooden doors and the steps outside, she’d seen them there standing together in the last pew.

  Vasiliki, Frances and Iliana.

  She’d tugged Nikolas to a stop. ‘Nik, they’re here.’

  He’d slipped an arm around her waist and said in her ear, ‘The photographer is waiting.’

  But she’d wriggled out of his grasp and run to her friends, the Bonegilla girls. When she held out her arms, all three came to her for a hug.

  ‘You look so beautiful,’ Frances exclaimed. ‘And your pearls!’

  Elizabeta’s hand flew to her neck. ‘A gift from Nikolas’s parents.’ The Mullers owned a continental butcher shop now and were doing well. The pearls were a welcome to their family and Elizabeta had fastened them that morning with a knot of guilt in her stomach, not the joy she might have expected. Her mother had had pearls like this once, fine and delicate orbs with a silver clasp. They were someone else’s now.

  ‘Your dress. It’s lovely,’ Iliana said.

  Vasiliki held Elizabeta’s face between her hands and cried. ‘Married life is very good. Welcome to it.’

  In a heartbeat, Elizabeta was back at Bonegilla with these girls. These women, now. ‘I must go for the photos,’ she said quickly. ‘But I will see you at the reception?’

  There were nods all round, and Elizabeta went to pose outside for the photographer, her mother Berta carefully fanning out the train of her gown on the steps so it sat just so, her father taking his own photos on his small camera.

  ‘Elizabeta,’ her mother scolded. ‘Stand still. For the photos.’

  ‘But my friends are here,’ she insisted.

  ‘The photos,’ Berta snapped. ‘Stand still for the photos.’

  Her parents had one photo from their wedding. Elizabeta knew it because it was the
only photo they’d taken with them when they’d been deported from Hungary. On the day of their wedding, they’d gone to a photographic studio and posed. Her father sat in a chair wearing his best suit and tie, his stiff collars pushing up into the softness of his chin, his hands forming fists on his knees. Her mother was standing next to him, a hand on his right shoulder. They weren’t smiling, but perhaps people didn’t smile in photos back then. Her mother wore a pale cotton dress with pin-tucking in long lines down the front of it, with a lace collar at her neck. Over the dress, a fine leather pleated apron fell almost to her ankles. There was a thin gold band on her right ring finger.

  Her mother had been determined that Elizabeta would have more wedding photos, so a man had been engaged from one of the studios in Adelaide Arcade.

  When he’d finished, their friends rushed forward and flicked their palms upward, showering the newlyweds with rice.

  That’s what she would remember about that day.

  A husband. Photos. Friends. Rice.

  ‘Is that your going-away outfit?’ Vasiliki demanded, laughing. She had crossed the small church hall to tug Elizabeta away from Nikolas and his family, and she had all but frogmarched her to the table where Iliana and Frances sat. There was polka music playing from a record, and the trestle table, so carefully covered with a white linen tablecloth, was filled with scattered champagne glasses and ashtrays filled with butts with perfect lipstick impressions on the filters.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Elizabeta stood and posed like one of the models she’d seen in Women’s Weekly magazine: her hands on her hips, one foot out front, her hip cocked. She lifted her chin and looked up at the ceiling.

  Iliana clapped her hands together. Vasiliki leaned forward to feel the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Silk,’ she said approvingly. Elizabeta had saved up for three months to buy the outfit she’d seen in David Jones in Rundle Street. The skirt was slim cut and the jacket fitted her neatly. She wore pale pink shoes and a handbag to match. She’d never spent so much on an outfit in her whole life: seventy-two shillings and sixpence. She hadn’t dared tell her parents.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Elizabeta.’ Frances was holding a handkerchief to her eyes and smiling through sad tears. Iliana moved in next to her and slipped an arm around her. It seemed they had become very close from their time together in Cooma, and Elizabeta swallowed down a little tug of envy. She wished Luisa could be here today, of all days. She wished Luisa could be here every day.

  ‘Thank you, Frances. Why didn’t you tell me you were all coming to Adelaide? I could have cooked dinner for you at home. We would have had time to catch up with all our news, to hear everything about each other.’

  ‘We like to surprise you,’ Vasiliki grinned.

  ‘What about your girls? Who is looking after Aphrodite and Elena?’

  ‘My mother. She will make sure they are not hungry.’ She held a hand to her flat stomach. ‘And I have something to tell you. I have another baby coming.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Elizabeta hugged her friend. ‘You must be very tired with two girls and another baby.’

  ‘I don’t work in the cafe anymore,’ Vasiliki told them. ‘I am too busy at home with the family.’

  ‘I will not go back to work,’ Elizabeta said. ‘I want a baby too. Very soon.’

  Frances leapt up from her chair to hug her. Elizabeta thought that Frances looked so grown up now. She wore a fashionable floral dress with a white cardigan and white shoes and a diamante necklace glistened at her collarbone. It was the only jewellery she wore. Not even a ring.

  ‘I wish you every happiness, Elizabeta. I really do.’ They held on for a long moment.

  Iliana was next. ‘I know you have to go for your honeymoon, but we are so happy for you. My mother and father send their regards.’

  Elizabeta found herself smiling. ‘What is this? Listen to your English. It is very good now. Have you been taking lessons?’

  Iliana smiled down at Frances. ‘I have spent a lot of time with a good friend who helped me every … all the time.’

  An arm was at the small of Elizabeta’s back. She knew the scent of Nikolas’s aftershave. He nuzzled her neck and she shivered. She hadn’t loved him right away, but she loved him now.

  ‘We must go,’ he said over the conversation and the music.

  ‘Wait a moment, Nik,’ Elizabeta said hurriedly. ‘You must meet my friends. From Bonegilla. Frances. Iliana and Vasiliki.’

  Nikolas shook hands with them politely. ‘I have heard very much about you. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have missed it.’ Frances smiled.

  Nikolas tugged at Elizabeta’s hand. She kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘My friends, I have to go. I will write soon, I promise. I will tell you my new address.’ She blew them all kisses and the bride let herself be led away into her new married life.

  Chapter Thirty

  1963

  Elizabeta jabbed her husband in the ribs.

  ‘Nikolas,’ she whispered in his ear, loud enough to wake him. He didn’t stir. She tugged at his earlobe and he sleepily swatted her hand away as if it were a mosquito.

  ‘What is it?’ he murmured, his eyes still closed, his morning breath stale.

  ‘Wake up, Nik. It was just on the news. The president. He’s been shot.’

  His eyes flickered open and he turned towards her. ‘Kennedy? Are you sure?’

  ‘Listen.’

  Elizabeta reached for the volume knob on the clock radio that sat on the bedhead shelf. She turned up the volume, so quickly at first that the staticky noise blared, but when she stopped shaking she was able to settle it lower. They lay in silence, listening to the announcer’s grave tone.

  The president had been killed in Dallas.

  ‘He was so young.’ Nikolas reached for his wife’s hand and held it tight in his strong grip. They listened, still, as the spring sunshine grew brighter outside.

  ‘His poor wife. That Jackie,’ Elizabeta whispered. ‘Those children.’ She turned her face away from Nikolas and stared at the ceiling, the plaster pattern in the middle, its Art Deco swoops and curves, the light hanging from its centre. There were no sharp corners. She wished for a life with no sharp corners. Grief, long buried, swelled up inside her like a rolling wave. John F Kennedy was dead. Another death to remind her of those who were lost. The baby who came after her who had died. Then Luisa. Her beloved Luisa. In the Albury dirt so far away.

  And now two more children in the world with no father. The idea made her feel wrenched open. Tears welled and slipped down the sides of her face into the pillow.

  ‘Come, come,’ Nikolas chided softly. He turned on his side and slipped an arm over her swollen belly. ‘Ssshhh. You’ll wake up little Luisa and you need your sleep.’

  His hand swooped over her stomach, slipped inside her nightgown and rubbed softly over the taut skin. This one, a sibling for little Luisa, was due in three months. Little Luisa. That’s what they had called her since she was born, their curly-haired angel. When she’d first told him, Nikolas had baulked at the name. She had only delivered her an hour before. Nikolas had finally been allowed into her maternity room, after the nurses had cleaned her up and the baby had been whisked away to the nursery. He had stared at his wife, gawping.

  ‘You can’t call the baby after your sister, Elizabeta. That’s too sad. You’ll think about your Luisa every time you look at our baby. That won’t be fair to her. Why should she have to grow up knowing she was named after her dead Tante?’

  ‘It’s for my mother. She lost her Luisa.’

  ‘She won’t like it. You’ll see.’

  Elizabeta had lied. It wasn’t for her mother. It was for her. She had needed to hold on to the memory of her sister, which was already fading. She needed something to remind her of her Luisa; of her round cheeks and her hair in two thin plaits down her back and the look of wonder on her face and the little round ‘o’ her mouth made when she looked into the gum trees at Bonegill
a and heard a kookaburra for the first time. Of the feel of her soft little arms and the size of her new shoes, bought especially to come to Australia.

  She had her Little Luisa and soon she would have another. She covered Nikolas’s hand with hers.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said.

  The idea came to her in that moment. ‘If it’s a boy, I would like to call him John.’

  Nikolas sighed. ‘John. Okay, okay.’ He leaned over to kiss her cheek and then he slipped out of bed. He took a fresh white singlet and slipped it over his head. He picked up his shirt from the day before, which he’d laid out on the end of the dresser, and pulled it on, buttoning it quickly. While he sat on the end of the bed and tied his shoelaces, Elizabeta lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the radio man talk about the president, the sounds and smells of Nikolas getting ready for work so familiar. He worked at Holden on Port Road, making cars on the production line. It was hard work but it paid well and he liked his workmates. There were so many other new Australians, he liked to tell people, that when he looked around the factory floor it was as if half of Bonegilla had been uprooted to Woodville to make cars.

  Footsteps. The bathroom door opening, closing and opening again. Footsteps. The soft hiss and pull of the fridge door. The smell of coffee. The scrape of a butter knife on toast. More footsteps.

  Elizabeta hadn’t worked at the cafe in Rundle Street since before her daughter was born. And now, while Little Luisa slept and the house was still quiet, Elizabeta stayed in bed. Despite the work of it, she loved being a mother. Little Luisa had brought a new joy to Elizabeta’s family. Every day, she walked to her parents’ house, just fifteen minutes away on the other side of Port Road, and she and Little Luisa would spend the day with her mother. They would make a coffee before walking to the shops on Woodville Road to pick up a loaf of bread or visit the greengrocer for fruit and vegetables. The man behind the counter, a Greek, always gave Little Luisa a banana. Then, after lunch of rye bread and sliced meats and gherkins, Berta and Elizabeta would make dumplings or strudel—cherry in the summer and cheese the rest of the time, or perhaps bake a marmerkuchen or apple cake. It would still be hot when Elizabeta’s father drove the car into the driveway, and she would wrap half in a tea towel and slip it into the basket in the bottom of Little Luisa’s pram and take some home for Nikolas.