Kal (21 page)

She was kneeling beside Rico, stroking his brow. He seemed peacefully asleep. ‘Of course, Gio.' She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Never would Rico hurt me, you know that. And never would he hurt the children.' She returned to stroking her husband's brow. ‘There is unhappiness in him. Deep inside. You know that too.'

Giovanni felt the familiar surge of guilt, and he wondered whether that was what Teresa intended. But no, she meant nothing. Beautiful, strong, loyal Teresa. Giovanni watched her caress her husband's face. If Rico only knew how lucky he was to have such love from such a woman. But then perhaps he did know. Giovanni felt weary. He didn't want to go to the banquet, but he owed it to Harry. He turned to leave.

‘Eh, Gio.' Rico's eyes had sprung open. He took his wife's hand and held it on his knee as he sat up. He no longer looked drunk. ‘I would not kill my brother.'

‘I know, Rico, I know.'

‘Sit, Gio, sit. Talk to me.'

What was there to talk about? Giovanni knew what would follow. Defiance and remorse and then Rico's declaration of love. But he sat nonetheless.

‘I did wrong, Gio, I know. But I will not be called a cripple. I am a man. I have my pride.' He was defiant.

‘No one called you a cripple, Rico.' Giovanni wondered why he was bothering to contradict his brother, it would lead nowhere.

‘Maybe not to my face. But I saw the man. I knew what he was thinking.'

‘You cannot fight people for what they are thinking.'

‘Yes, yes, I know.' Rico tried to look contrite but didn't really succeed. He changed the subject instead. ‘Why do you say such things to me, Gio? “I would kill my brother.” Why do you say this? I would kill
for
my brother. I would kill for my family.' He held Teresa's hand to his chest. ‘I would kill for my children. I would kill …'

‘But do you not see, Rico? There is no need to kill.' Giovanni could not quell his exasperation. ‘There is no need to kill for any one of us. We are not threatened. You disgrace our family when you do this.'

‘Yes. Yes.' Now the remorse. ‘I am sorry I disgraced you. I am sorry I disgraced our father and mother. It is the anger, it makes me crazy.'

Giovanni stayed for nearly an hour listening to Rico's excuses and apologies and, finally, the declarations of love. And then he left for the banquet. It would be half over by now, he supposed. Harry would be angry but that couldn't be helped.

Coffee had been served and the speeches were nearing completion when Giovanni arrived at the car barn. He stood in the shadows beside the main doors, hoping no one could see him, and searched the sea of faces for Harry. He had never seen so many people under one roof. How grand it all looked. Lights and decorations hung from the high ceilings. A long bar was at one end of the hall and at the other end, far from the main doors, was a podium from which a florid-looking
gentleman was addressing the crowd. The rest of the massive area was lined with row upon row of white-clothed tables at which were seated hundreds of finely dressed men and women. Try as he might, Giovanni could see no one he knew.

But Harry had seen him and in an instant, he was at Giovanni's side. He hurried him to his seat.

‘Where have you been?' he whispered urgently. ‘It's very rude of you, Gee-Gee. The speeches are almost over.'

‘I am sorry, Harry. It was family …'

‘No matter, no matter.' Harry bustled Giovanni into the seat beside him and flashed an apologetic smile at the attractive middle-aged woman seated opposite.

‘Ladies and Gentleman, a final toast,' the florid man on the podium was saying. ‘To Charles Yelverton O'Connor and the Goldfields Water Scheme.'

Harry hurriedly poured Giovanni a glass of champagne from one of the many bottles on the table and, together with the hundreds, they stood.

‘To Charles Yelverton O'Connor and the Goldfields Water Scheme,' five hundred voices said in unison.

‘The beard was a good idea,' Harry muttered. He winked suggestively as they sat. ‘You'll win hearts tonight, I tell you.'

Giovanni was relieved that his friend was not angry. Obviously no acrimony lingered from the afternoon's exchange and Harry was not even cross with him for being late. Of course he would probably be cross when he heard about Rico and the trouble at Maudie's but Giovanni would deal with that later.

The podium was being removed and the members of a ten-piece orchestra were setting themselves up at the far end of the hall. ‘Well, at least you arrived for the best part,' Harry whispered and Giovanni grinned back. Yes, he was looking forward to the dancing.

There was good reason for Harry Brearley's joviality. For him the evening could have ended before the speeches had even begun. His had been an early conquest.

It had started with the pre-banquet milling. Before the guests had been seated, Harry had already chatted to all three of the federal ministers present, including Sir John Forrest himself. He'd shared a joke with the Mayor of Kalgoorlie—but then he'd shared a joke with Koonan on many an occasion over a brandy at Hannan's—and he'd had conversations with a number of influential city businessmen. But he felt he hadn't yet made his impact. No one had seemed hugely impressed by his ideas or his social position or the fact that he owned the Clover. Then he met Gaston Picot.

He'd heard of Gaston Picot, of course; everyone in Kalgoorlie had. The man was not only a major shareholder in the Midas mine, he owned numerous real estate holdings in Boulder and Kal. Furthermore, he was known throughout the State of Western Australia as a man of fashion, a gourmet and a wine connoisseur.

In his middle forties, Picot resided in Perth and, despite the fact that he cut a dashing and rakish figure, he was by all accounts a happily married family man. He, his French-born wife and their two children, a son and a daughter, lived an opulent life in the district of Cottesloe, eight miles from the city, where their palatial mansion overlooked the Indian Ocean. Several times a year he paid a brief visit to Kalgoorlie. His family never accompanied him, he always stayed at the Palace Hotel and occasionally he frequented Hannan's.

Harry had seen the flamboyant Frenchman at the club on two occasions in the past but, try as he might, he had not been able to gain an introduction.

‘Richard!' He pretended not to notice that he'd interrupted a conversation as he shook Laverton's hand
effusively. He nodded to Prudence. ‘Lady Laverton.'

‘Mr Brearley.' Prudence was seething. Gaston Picot had just been complimenting her on her gown.

‘Good to see you, Harry, old man,' Laverton lisped. ‘You know Gaston Picot, I take it?'

‘Oh.' Harry pretended suddenly to notice Picot. ‘No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure.'

‘Gaston Picot, Harry Brearley,' Laverton said, each ‘r' sounding suspiciously like a ‘w'. The two men shook hands. ‘And Gaston's friend, Madame Renoir.'

‘Madame.'

The Frenchwoman offered her hand and when Harry kissed it, she smiled her approval, as did Gaston. Prudence seethed a little more.

Although she must have been in her mid-thirties, Jeanne Renoir was even more beautiful at close quarters. Like most, Harry had only seen her from afar on the rare occasion she visited the Palace Hotel to sip tea on the balcony with a lady friend. She was the widow of a wealthy Frenchman who was said to have been a close friend of Picot's, but rumour had it that she was really Picot's mistress. Pierre Auguste Renoir, the famous impressionist painter, was reputedly her uncle and no one had any cause to disbelieve the fact.

Jeanne Renoir lived with her servants and a lady friend, an Englishwoman, in an elegant house at the lower end of Hannan Street. To the extreme disappointment of the gossip-mongers, she kept very much to herself.

‘I believe you own the Clover, Mr Brearley,' Gaston was saying. ‘You and your partners.' Harry was deeply impressed. The city businessmen to whom he had spoken earlier had not even heard of the Clover. When they'd discovered the mine wasn't on the Golden Mile they'd lost interest. Harry had found it rather disheartening.

‘That's right, I do. She's a grand mine. Doing very well.'

‘This is what I hear.
Trés bien
.' Picot's command of the English language was faultless and his accent only slight, but he always injected his conversation with the odd French phrase to enhance his image. Harry recognised the ploy and, far from being intimidated by the man's style, he was encouraged. Harry could compete with any man when it came to style and the ploys he used himself were not dissimilar. In an instant, Harry felt at home with Picot. Despite the man's wealth and power, they were two of a kind.

‘I am very interested in your mine, Mr Brearley.'

‘I would be more than happy to take you on a guided tour, Mr Picot. At any time.' Harry bowed his head in mock servility. ‘I am your servant.'

‘Call me Gaston.' Picot stroked his perfectly manicured goatee and the curls of his waxed moustache twitched as he smiled. He too recognised one of a kind. He was reminded of himself ten years ago. But only slightly. Brearley had a lot of catching up to do. Charm alone was not enough; one must be cunning.

An announcement was being made requesting the guests take their seats and, as Laverton and Picot escorted the ladies to their table near the podium, Harry accompanied them.

Surely the man wasn't presuming he could join them, Prudence thought with horror. She had had the seating plan sent to her well in advance and if Richard dared send for another chair and have another place set …

‘Evan!' Harry exclaimed jovially. At the table a disconcerted Evan Jones was waiting with his wife Kate at his arm, wondering whether or not he should seat her before the arrival of the others.

Evan was uncomfortable in his unfamiliar suit. It
was a hot night and he was sure he was sweating more than most. ‘Should we sit, Kate?' he'd whispered.

‘No, my dear, wait for the others.' She had smiled encouragingly, aware of his discomfort, but then hadn't been able to resist turning her attention to her surroundings. Kate was having a wonderful time. It was like a fairyland. The lights, the decorations, the people in their finery. She was drinking in every moment, unaware of the looks cast in her direction.

‘Harry.' Evan pumped Harry's hand, glad to see a familiar face.

‘Hello, Kate,' Harry said and boldly took it upon himself to make the introductions, much to Prudence Laverton's disgust. ‘Mr Picot and Madame Renoir, Mr and Mrs Jones.'

Good God, Prudence thought, the man was behaving as if he were the host for the evening.

Harry watched the two women as they nodded to each other. Jeanne Renoir might be beautiful, he thought, but she had more than met her match in Kate.

Harry had seen Evan arrive with his wife. He had seen the swathe they had cut as they walked through the crowd. All eyes had been on Kate Jones. The slender neck with the auburn curls pinned up under the wide-brimmed hat with its blue plume; the breasts, which the modest high-necked bodice could not disguise; the nipped-in waist beneath the little bolero jacket: everything a mixture of innocence and sexuality. As she'd stared, up wide-eyed, at the hanging decorations and whispered, ‘Look, Evan, look', she was a child in a wonderland.

Harry tore his attention away. ‘Forgive me,' he said, bowing slightly to the assembled company. ‘I must search for my table. And indeed for my partner who has not yet arrived. I envy you gentlemen,' he smiled. ‘I envy you the company of the most beautiful ladies present this
evening.' His gaze shifted from Kate to Jeanne and finally came to rest on Prudence who was an average-looking woman at the very best of times. Fortunately Prudence herself was not aware of the fact. She smiled and nodded graciously, accepting the compliment as her due. She could afford to be cordial, she told herself, now that the man was leaving. And Harry Brearley was very handsome when all was said and done. Perhaps, later in the evening, she might agree to dance with him after all.

‘Mr Brearley.' Picot's voice halted Harry as he turned to go.

‘Harry, Gaston. Harry. Please.' Harry's roguish grin and the familiar twinkle in his eyes promised an instant and lifelong friendship. The man was cheeky, Picot thought, damn cheeky. Many might find him insulting but Gaston had rather warmed to him.

‘Harry,' he corrected. ‘Perhaps you would like to join me for an aperitif at the bar before you join your table. Proceedings will not get under way for a good fifteen minutes yet I'm sure.'

‘Delighted.'

When the ladies were seated the two men made their excuses and repaired to the bar.

Half an hour later, when he left the bar to join his own table, Harry found that he was seated far from the podium in a rather inferior position near the main doors. But he was not irritated in the least. He was too euphoric to care. He wasn't even annoyed when he discovered that Giovanni had still not arrived. Indeed, given the conversation he had just had with Gaston Picot, Giovanni's absence had proved fortunate.

Now Giovanni had turned up and the more formal aspect of the evening had been concluded, Harry was set for fun.

‘This is my partner and very good friend Giovanni Gianni.' He introduced the Italian to the party of guests
and then whispered in his ear, ‘Dance with Mrs Beresford, Gee-Gee.' He indicated the attractive woman in her forties seated opposite. He had noticed her appraisal of Giovanni when he'd arrived. He had also noticed the way she was watching the musicians. This was a woman who loved to dance.

‘Her husband is here,' Giovanni murmured back. ‘He may be offended.'

‘Rubbish, he's twenty years older than she is and he's got a gammy leg,' Harry hissed out of the side of his wine glass. ‘Look at her, her foot's tapping away under that table, she can't wait to be whirled about the floor.'