Heritage (17 page)

‘Pietro! Pietro! Come here, my boy!' the priest called. ‘Your father wishes to see you!'

Why was his father not calling for him himself? Pietro wondered. Something was wrong. Through his open coat, he could feel his shirt wet against his skin, and he knew it was not the sweat and drool that resulted from his fits. Something was dripping through the floorboards above. In the darkness, Pietro could not see what it was, but there was a sickly smell that he recognised. It was the smell of the goats when his father hung them up to bleed. He was drenched in blood.

Pietro lay in his shallow grave, unable to move, listening to the priest call out his name. He didn't know how long he stayed there, but it was long after the priest had stopped calling and all was silent that he finally crawled from beneath the house. He walked up the two front steps and opened the door.

His mother and sister lay where the priest had left them, on the floor beside the table, their throats efficiently slashed with the killing knife. Just like the goats.

He ran, his mind numb, unwittingly heading for the river, and as he did, he tripped over the body of his father. There was a trail of blood on the snow where the priest had dragged it out of sight among the trees.

Pietro continued to run. He ran and he ran. Away from the horror. Away from the images his brain refused to recognise.

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?