Beneath the Southern Cross (62 page)

They conferred, the boys. On Saturday arvo they'd be late home from footie, they told their parents, because the gang was going to Steve's. Or to Tom's, or to Benny's. They varied it. And their parents never knew that from four untilsix each Saturday, their sons were in Kitty's back courtyard eating bowls of spaghetti and listening to two Russian fiddlers. And when they queried why the boys weren't hungry after an afternoon's footie, the reply ‘Steve's mum cooked us tea,' seemed acceptable.

No-one knew where the Russian fiddlers had come from, they'd just drifted in one day, as many did. The couple didn't speak a word of English, or appeared not to. Indeed, the woman never spoke at all, and the man just muttered to her every now and then in Russian.

Jean-Claude did not pay for their services, they played their fiddles for free food and wine. Jean-Claude sold illicit wine in cheap porcelain coffee mugs, even though Kitty had told him not
to. They didn't have a liquor licence and it wasn't worth the risk, but he sold it nonetheless. Kitty decided to turn a blind eye. Jean-Claude was a good manager, and she had little to do with the shop these days, busy as she was with the regular feature articles she wrote for one of the major syndicates. She certainly had no time to find and train another manager.

The Russians played, sometimes for an hour, sometimes until the shop closed, depending upon their mood, but they always gathered a crowd. And the half dozen or so little boys, squatted on the ground in front of them, watched mesmerised.

A little unkempt and always dressed in black, the man and the woman looked like each other. Lank, shoulder-length brown hair, expressionless faces, they sat at the corner table in the courtyard and wordlessly ate their pasta, as if unaware that everyone was waiting for them to play. And then, when they had finished eating, Jean-Claude would move the table away. The man would mutter to the woman, and they would turn their chairs to face each other, take theirfiddles from their cases, and everything would change.

Their faces were no longer lacklustre. Their eyes locked together with such intensity that they could have been looking into each other's soul. And they played. Theirs was the music of the Russian peasants, now hauntingly sentimental, now rising wildly to a crescendo of gypsy madness. The woman might lead one moment, the man the next; then they might play a duet which could have been a duel as their frenzied bows cut the air and their fingers darted upon the strings and the sweat poured from their brows. And never once did either player's eyes leave the other's; they seemed barely to blink.

Max and his mates had never seen or heard anything like it.

‘Can I come on Saturday?' was the constant request. Word had got around. And Max, as the boss, had to lay down some rules. They'd have to take it in turns, he said, only six at a time, and they had to swear to keep it a secret.

‘Cross your heart,' he'd say. ‘Spit.' And another boy would be accepted into the gang.

The change in Rob was incredible Artie and Kitty agreed.

‘He's made friends,' Kitty said, ‘I'm so glad.'

‘And his friends accept us,' Artie added, ‘that is important to him.'

It was true. Young Rob Farinelli now introduced his dad with pride, and Artie was deeply relieved. He had understood his son's dilemma but, even to Kitty, he had not admitted the hurt he had felt.

‘Given time,' Artie recalled Rube had said, ‘given time they will accept us.' Perhaps that was what Rube had meant, he thought. The next generation.

Artie said as much to his wife. ‘Perhaps it is the next generation which will have the answers, Kitty,' he said. ‘Perhaps we do not need to push so hard.'

‘Perhaps,' she agreed, ‘but I for one certainly intend to give a good shove whenever I can.' Kitty wasn't one to sit around and wait.

Then the inevitable happened. ‘Cross your heart and spit' wasn't enough. Excited young boys eventually had to talk, and the word somehow got out.

Tempers were frayed and Mick Brown led the brigade of angry parents. The council was informed and Kitty's was closed down. Neighbours had already complained that the music on Saturday nights was too loud, and when it was discovered that liquor was sold on the premises without a licence, the die was cast. Furthermore, it was a safehouse for illegal immigrants. Two Russians and a number of Hungarians.

Kitty fought, and won, the charge of harbouring illegal immigrants. But she paid the fine for selling liquor without a licence and closed the business, leasing the shopfront to a couple who sold pies and steak sandwiches. At least they were Latvian, she was glad about that, it was still a bit of a statement.

The boys missed Kitty's, but the place on Campbell Parade had formed such a bond that their friendship remained intact. It was something they would take into their adulthood. The year they turned ten, the year they ate Italian food and listened to Russian music. They'd never forget that.

And despite his father's instructions that he was ‘never to see that dago kid outside school again', Max Brown and Rob Farinelli remained the closest of mates throughout their lives.

Billy Kendall's son Wally, whom Tim had taken into partnership after the war just as he'd promised, had proved every bit the lair Tim had anticipated. Tim couldn't help liking him though. Some people didn't, some people found Wally a bit wearing. But over the years Tim had grown very fond of his younger cousin. Which was just as well, age had done little to temper Wally's flashy exuberance.

At fifty-five there was still a lot of the larrikin in Wally Kendall. Grey-haired, overweight, he was still showy, still a snappy dresser, and he still had an eye for the women, much to the chagrin of Darlene, his third wife and twenty years his junior. But whether one liked Wally Kendall or not, one had to admit that he was an excellent host.

Wally loved entertaining. In his first years with Kendall Markets, as soon as he'd been able to scrape together enough money, he'd bought an old house down on the harbour foreshore. It was hardly Point Piper or Vaucluse, but it had cost a packet by Wally's standards, and even then he'd only been able to afford the place because it was falling down. Now, barely eighteen years later, having bought the block next door and pulled down the house which was on it, Wally's home boasted a swimming pool, a grass tennis court, a boatshed and ramp, and a small private beach with a jetty. The perfect venue for entertaining.

Many of Wally's rich friends and associates wondered why he didn't get rid of the old house altogether and build something more lavish and modern. But Wally had never once considered
demolishing the old colonial home, he loved it with a passion, and had had it fully restored instead. Now it sat, strangely out of place amidst the surrounding luxury, but magnificent in its own way, overshadowed by a huge Moreton Bay fig, its wooden-shuttered windows and its large verandahs reminders of a bygone era.

Throughout the fifties, Wally's son and two daughters had grown up living the life of Riley. Wallace Junior sailed his yacht with his mates on the harbour, and Lucy and Julia, tomboys the two of them, rowed the little dinghy around the point and picked oysters from the rocks, returning with hands cut and bleeding. In the late afternoons, after school, they bombed each other from the end of the jetty, or, legs dangling over the side, fished for flathead and bream in the early dusk. They built a tree house in the Moreton Bay fig, anyone daring to walk beneath it proving a perfect water pistol target, and they regularly stained themselves purple raiding the neighbour's mulberry tree.

Wally adored his kids and spoiled them rotten, particularly young Wallace, who could do no wrong. Without a mother to control them, the children ran wild, the succession of nannies barely able to control them. Wally's first wife, Mabel, had died of cancer and Wallace, six years old at the time, was the only one of the children who had even the vaguest memory of their mother.

Wally's second wife had only lasted a couple of years, the kids made sure of that. She might have stayed, even accepting Wally's philandering, but she wasn't going to take his monster kids and his women as well. So she decided to take a sizable amount of his money instead. Wally vowed that he'd learned a lesson after that, but he hadn't: three years later he was married again. To pretty, blonde Darlene.

Ever since Wally had had the grass tennis court installed, he'd held a tennis party one Saturday each month throughout the summer, weather depending of course. Unlike his extravagant dinners, the Saturday afternoons were casual affairs. People were encouraged to bring their costumes and to swim if they wished, and all were expected to participate in the tennis matches, which were run like a tournament. Wally took his tennis very seriously, having been an accomplished player in his day, and he insisted that they all wear their whites, that they draw lots as to partners
and opponents, and that they play through quarters and semis and finals, depending upon the numbers.

In his inimitable style, Wally had his Saturdays beautifully catered, but very informally so. There were no waiters, people helped themselves to the endless array of sandwiches and finger food which the maid kept replenishing on the verandah tables.

The food sat under lace domes to keep the flies away, and there were coolers packed with iced beer, and champagne and white wine in ice buckets. People were expected to help themselves to the alcohol also, but not too liberally, not until the tennis was over. Wally, who drank with the best of them, considered it bad form to play tennis drunk. He certainly made up for it afterwards though, and for the few hardened partygoers, those without young families in attendance, Wally's Saturday afternoons had been known to go on until midnight.

So family-orientated were Wally's tennis parties that one Saturday afternoon in the November of 1964, at Caroline's suggestion, young Emma Hamilton decided to announce her engagement. They were all there—Tim and Ruth; Artie, Kitty and young Rob, who'd brought along a mate of his called Max; Ada, Pete and their brood were there, and Caroline and hers, and of course Wally and his.

‘Shall we tell them?' Caroline whispered to her daughter at the start of the afternoon as they gathered under the shade of the huge umbrellas, all in their tennis whites, Wally handing the tin around for people to draw the names of their partners. Emma nodded.

‘Come on then, you two.' Caroline led the way up the steps to the verandah. ‘Attention everyone!' she called. ‘Attention please!' They stopped and looked up at the verandah. ‘Emma has an announcement to make.'

Taking her fiancé's hand, Emma stepped forward, ‘Gordon and I are engaged,' she said, ‘we're going to be married next April.'

Everyone gave three cheers, poured glasses of champagne and made toasts, and Wally glowered a little because he wanted to get on with the tennis.

‘Now don't be sour, Wally.' Wally turned, startled that he'd been caught out. ‘I know you want to play your tennis,' Caroline said, ‘but it was the only time I could get everybody together. Ten minutes later and they'd all have been off in dinghies or in swimming pools or on the court.'

‘Sorry.' Wally relaxed and smiled, he liked Caroline. She'd had a tough life, her husband dying prematurely the way he had. Jesus, Wally thought, the man hadn't even reached fifty and fifty was the prime of life. But Caroline had come through all right. She had a good sense of humour, anyway, and to Wally, a good sense of humour was one of the prime assets a person could possess. A good looking woman too, in a beefy sort of way. Wally Kendall had a soft spot for Caroline. ‘She's very young,' he said, looking up at Emma on the verandah, surrounded by well-wishers.

‘Twenty,' Caroline said, ‘old enough.' There was a hint of regret in her voice. Gordon was a nice bloke but, having just graduated from Sydney University, he'd recently accepted a position in his uncle's law firm. In London.

‘But London's so far away,' she said.

‘Oh.' So that's why she sounded gloomy.

There wasn't much he could say by way of comfort, so he patted her hand and hurried off to begin the tennis proceedings.

‘Emma tells me she and Gordon are going to England.' Kitty joined Caroline on one of the spectator benches beside the court and offered her a glass of champagne.

‘Better not,' Caroline said, ‘It's ladies' doubles next and I've already had two glasses.'

‘Me too. But it's you and me up against Ada and Darlene, why worry?' Kitty gave one of her hoots. Ada and Darlene were hopeless on the court.

Caroline smiled and took the glass. ‘I play better drunk anyway.' She took a healthy swig. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘they leave in May. God only knows for how long.'

‘Forty, fifteen,' Ruth called from her umpire's seat above the net. Ruth Kendall was sixty-seven years old, although she still looked in her fifties. Once a superb tennis player, she'd given up playing several years previously and, since then, had been the official umpire at Wally's tournaments, never missing a trick, and looking chic and professional in her white slacks, white shade and dark glasses.

‘You'll miss her.'

Caroline gave a heartfelt nod. She would miss Emma dreadfully.

Caroline had adjusted to her life. It was nearly three years since Gene's death and time had healed her wounds. She no longer
blamed him or felt bitter. She missed him and was lonely, particularly at night, longing for his touch, recalling the strength and the gentleness of his body.

But there was no point in living in the past, so she'd concentrated her love upon her children instead. The boys had inherited their father's vitality and athleticism, reminding her so often of Gene. And Emma. Well Emma was beautiful. Indulged, Caroline had to admit. But then Emma had a true appreciation of beauty, she loved beautiful things.

‘It'll probably do her the world of good to get away from you,' Kitty said in her customary blunt fashion. ‘You dote on that girl, you spoil her rotten.'

Caroline gave a low gurgle of laughter. ‘Yes, you're right, I do.'

‘Fault!'

Kitty and Caroline turned their attention to the game. Wally and eighteen-year-old Wallace Junior were playing Caroline's sons, Jim and Bruce. Jim, the same age as Wallace, was a strong player, and sixteen-year-old Bruce was no slouch with a racquet, but the Hamilton brothers were getting slaughtered by Kendall father and son.

‘Double fault!' Ruth called. ‘Game to the Kendalls.'

‘Bugger it!' Bruce had let himself get rattled, it was the third double fault he'd served and it had cost them the game. ‘Sorry, Jim.'

‘No worries, mate,' Jim said a little tightly as they changed ends. He didn't blame Bruce, but he hated to lose. ‘They get to practise every day,' he muttered. ‘If we had our own court, we'd beat the hell out of them.'

‘Youth is not everything, you see, boys,' Wally said pompously, puffing like a grampus when he met them at the net. He picked up a hand towel and mopped the sweat which was pouring from his brow. ‘Technical know-how, that's what counts.'

Wally was having a splendid day. He hadn't rigged the draw, he never did, but he loved it when he was partnered with his son. They made a fine team, Wallace playing the baseline and doing all the running whilst he stayed at the net and slammed the balls back. Between them, they ran their opponents ragged and there were few who could beat them.

‘Technical know-how every time,' he said, and he puffed his way off to the far end of the court.

‘He'll give himself a heart attack,' Kitty muttered to Caroline. She waved at Artie who was on the other side of the court, sitting beneath a big umbrella with his father-in-law and Pete.

Tim was seventy-one now and the heat affected him. Not that he looked seventy-one. Despite hissilver-white hair, there remained an indecently boyish quality to Tim's face, but he was definitely feeling his age these days.

‘So you're all for the war, Pete?' Tim asked Ada's American husband. He was most interested to hear Pete's views on America's involvement in Vietnam.

‘Oh, I most definitely am. Communism has to be stamped out, it's America's duty to do just that.'

Life was simple for an American, Tim thought, even for one who'd been away from his home country for so long. ‘I'm not sure Australia should be involved though. What do you reckon, Artie?'

Only a month ago Prime Minister Menzies had announced the introduction of selective conscription, and it had created a furore amongst Australians.

‘I am against any foreign involvement in the Vietnam War,' Artie said emphatically, and Pete looked at him askance.

‘Well, I don't know about the war itself,' Tim said, ‘maybe the Americans do need to go in and sort it out.' Pete nodded effusively. ‘But this business of conscription, I don't like it. We've never had compulsory overseas service before, and we've been through two world wars and Korea. Surely this isn't a world-wide threat, why put our boys through it?'

‘But communism
is
a world-wide threat,' Pete insisted. ‘It's our duty to fight it.'

‘It is not Australia's war and it is no threat to world peace,' Artie said firmly. ‘The South Vietnamese have not even asked for our help; the Australian Government is sending troops merely to appease the Americans. It is not right, the Australians should not be sent.'

Pete bristled. Where did this guy get off thinking that the Americans were wrong? And why was he speaking for the Australians? He was an Italian for Christ's sake.

He was just about to retort when Ruth distracted him by calling ‘Game, set and match!'

There was a time when Wally would have hurdled the net but
those days were long gone. Huffing and puffing, he met the Hamilton boys at the net and shook hands with them.

‘Good match, boys, well done.' Wally returned the congratulatory wave from Kitty and Caroline on the sidelines. ‘Energetic, the both of you, just got to work on the technical aspects of the game.' Then he crossed the court to talk to Tim.

Jim was steaming. ‘Sorry,' Wallace said, pretending embarrassment although he was just as delighted as his father that they'd won.

‘He's good,' Bruce conceded. ‘He's bloody good for an old codger.'

Wallace grinned, he liked Bruce. He'd become good mates with both the Hamilton brothers but, although there was a two-year age difference, he preferred Bruce. He was less intense and competitive than his brother Jim.

‘A fat old codger too,' Wallace added to keep side with his mates, and even Jim laughed.

‘Good match, eh Tim?' Wally called as he crossed the court, but Tim was so engrossed in conversation that he didn't notice Wally's approach.

‘I reckon you're right, Artie, the Aussies shouldn't go,' he was saying. ‘At least, not unless they want to. If the silly buggers want to go to war, then let 'em sign up the way we all did in the old days. But just picking a name, that's not on. This conscription business is a bastard.'