The proxy bride, p.8
The Proxy Bride, page 8
Frank came up the path whistling and without knocking barrelled inside and along the hallway straight to the kitchen. ‘You didn’t make caponata again did you, Ma?’ And even from my room I could hear the usual mischief in his voice.
‘Oh, get away with you!’ Nonna cried, sounding more hysterical than necessary.
The whole house was bathed in agrodolce, a sweet and sour aroma from the frying eggplant, capsicums and zucchini from her garden, as well as red onions and garlic. Since breakfast, she’d had them cooking in a saucepan of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, brown sugar, a handful of salt and her secret ingredient, lemon zest. Its richness had smelt a bit much first thing in the morning as I’d sat and eaten some toast. The stereogram had been going since that hour too, and just then ‘In Napoli’ coursed from the speakers, Dean Martin’s smile dipping into his sung words.
‘Dino helping again too, is he?’ Frank teased Nonna, giving me a wink as I came to join them. ‘How are you, Sof?’ He kissed both my cheeks twice, his wiry moustache chafing me.
Frank’s moustache, eyebrows and chest hair were akin to Tom Selleck in Magnum, P.I. and he embraced his Italian-ness in an easygoing way that Mum didn’t so much. Though I noticed he tamed his curly hair into waves with some type of gel product. Again, to please Nonna, I hadn’t straightened my hair but I had forced most of my curls into an unruly plait.
‘Right!’ Frank rubbed his hands together. ‘Ready to roll?’
I nodded. ‘I’ll get my things.’
Again, he began whistling, this time along to ‘In Napoli’. Frank had a way of cares resting lightly on him and not taking much too seriously. Which was mostly cheering, except when you wanted anything deeper from him.
My favourite memory of Frank was when I was about four. That year, 1972, the Stanthorpe Apple and Grape Harvest Festival was also the town centenary and we later found out nearly sixty thousand people had crammed into the main street to watch the Grand Parade. People crowded along footpaths and out windows, perched on roofs and shop awnings. Frank had whisked me up onto his shoulders from where I joyfully watched the entire procession of floats and marching bands going by, feeling like I had a dad. But Connie was already pregnant with Lena by then and after she was born, and especially once Sam followed, Frank was only ever an uncle to me.
‘We got everything?’ Nonna Gia locked the front door.
From the shadows of the portico, Zucchero peevishly watched on, perhaps aware our getting in the truck meant he once again faced a couple of days left alone, being fed by the neighbour next door. He could still get into the laundry to sleep but I hoped he’d be okay.
As Frank put our things in the back of the truck, I nodded towards the old man across the road. ‘There he is again. Always sitting there, watching.’ I stared back, my eyes a little more exaggerated.
‘Eh?’ Frank furrowed his brow, looking over. ‘Is that right?’ He gave him a wave.
The old man didn’t wave back.
‘Smettila. Stop it,’ hissed Nonna. ‘Sofia, get in.’ She shoved the big, lidded saucepan of cooling caponata into Frank’s hands. ‘And you, hold this.’ Nonna climbed up into the cabin after me and gave Frank another glare as he handed her back the saucepan to nurse.
Nonna needn’t have worried. It was like nothing could rouse the old man.
Frank drove us out along Stanthorpe’s main street, tunelessly humming Joe Dolce’s ‘Shaddap You Face’ to himself. He still thought the song funny though the rest of us rolled our eyes at it by then. We passed the pretty buildings and shops that dwindled to houses and trees in full summer leaf. Sitting on the bench seat with the sun hot on my bare legs, I found myself thinking of Nonna being driven along this way, coming to the farm for the first time in Keith Dawson’s truck. And now it was me sitting in the middle.
I turned to Frank. ‘How is your back going?’
He halted mid-hum. ‘Oh, right as rain.’ He changed gears. ‘Ma reckoned someone put the malocchio on me, right, Ma? Lucky for that chilli.’
She gave a grunt and shifted the saucepan slightly, making it emit the sweet and vinegary aroma of the still-warm caponata. I turned to her.
‘How come Tim is happy to mow your lawn but the old man is unfriendly and stares?’
There was silence and, for several moments, I felt besieged by it and the smells in the close cabin of seat vinyl and caponata, despite Frank’s window being down.
Nonna blustered, ‘I paid Tim and gave him a drink.’
Frank glanced past me to her and back to the road. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about him. He had a stroke a while back. Can’t do much these days.’
‘Oh.’ At once I felt sorry for the old man and for staring back at him like I had. I glanced at Nonna, my mouth twisting. It would have helped if she’d told me that earlier.
Switching course, she said to Frank, ‘We didn’t see you at Mass on Sunday.’
‘Oh, we went on Saturday night this week,’ he smoothly replied, sliding me a look.
About fifteen kilometres from town, we reached the turnoff. The road was sealed these days but the orchards of apple, pear and peach trees standing north to south must’ve looked similar to when Gia had first arrived, even if I knew many of the older trees had been replaced by now. Front gates still sat almost a kilometre apart, however I guessed more clearing between them must have gone on over the decades for most houses were no longer hidden from each other.
Lena and Sam dangled on the front gate in wait, and when we drove in they closed it behind us, chasing the truck’s dust up the drive. Frank and Connie lived in the same timber house where Nonna and Nonno had begun their married life. It still had steep steps and a shotgun hallway but in recent years they’d painted it white, added verandahs and closed in underneath with orange brick. All since Nonno Taddeo had died, when I came to think of it.
The lower brick didn’t match the upper timber but it kept the storage area cool. It was an Italian cantina under there, musky with hanging salume from the annual pig slaughter (always done in midwinter’s la luna calante, the waning moon, that Nonna told us was the optimal part of the cycle for the female pig). There were also preserved olives and vegetables in jars, homemade wine, and passata from tomato day, all of which we all had to help with – conveniently each task occurring on weekends or school holidays so Mum and I could be there, returning to Brisbane with boxes of whatever we’d helped pick or pickle. Except this year Mum had decided not to join us, and at that moment I didn’t feel so bad about hanging up on her.
‘Salvatore, give Nonna a kiss!’ Nonna cried as ten-year-old Sam dodged away.
Connie took the caponata and leant over to kiss my cheeks. ‘Lena had me set up beds on the verandah for you two tonight.’ Her eyes were very dark, almost as black as her hair, and crinkled, for she seemed always smiling. ‘Early night tonight. Big day tomorrow.’
‘What’s ready to pick tomorrow?’ I asked Lena from my camp bed beside hers.
She slapped at her arm despite the acrid smoulder of a mozzie coil. ‘Peaches.’
I groaned, knowing how their fuzz itched.
‘When did you get a Walkman?’
I heard the wonder in her voice and knew Lena still looked up to me, being four years older and living in the city. It made me feel bad for being irritated by her naivety.
‘For my birthday.’
‘Can I have a go tomorrow? Mum won’t let me get one. Says it’ll make me go deaf.’
‘You can listen for a little while but I need to save the batteries.’ Springs nudged at my back through the thin mattress. ‘Hey … is your mum friends with Dianne at the pub?’
‘Who? Mrs Dinning? I don’t know.’ Lena pushed back her sheet. ‘Do you like my baby-doll pyjamas? They’re new. Oh, you probably can’t see them in the dark.’
‘I saw them before when we were brushing our teeth. They’re nice.’ I’d worn such pyjamas last summer and I smiled with fondness for Lena. ‘We better get to sleep.’
But my eyes stayed open. If Connie and Mrs Dinning had arranged for Tim to do the mowing, they must be friendly. Unless it was just small-town helpfulness. But if they were friends, Connie might help bring round Nonna so that I could see Tim. I pondered when he might next be over. Grass grew faster in summer but I wasn’t sure just how long might it take to need mowing.
The darkened timber house spoke in creaks and soughs. Crickets chirred. Far in the distance a dog howled, a forlorn, reaching arc despite the summer night’s balminess.
‘They might have gone to school together,’ Lena said suddenly out of the dark.
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Mrs Dinning.’
‘Oh. So, the Dinnings have run the hotel a fair while then?’
Lena pulled the sheet back up. ‘No, just a few years. But they’re not blow-ins.’
At midday, the table in the feathery shade from the peppercorn trees was a welcome sanctuary after many hours in the hot orchard. Whiffs of sunscreen and sweat drifted as we all sat down along bench seats to set-out plates and bowls, mismatched to cater for the extras there. Nonna Gia sprinkled pepper around on the tablecloth to deter flies and I self-consciously looked along the table to the local youths there for summer holiday work, but they chatted on between themselves.
Nonna plonked her serving bowl of caponata in the table centre and Connie placed platters of roast chicken in among the bread baskets, lettuce in oil and vinegar, bowls of tinned tuna mixed with onion and tomato and a reheated truscello di Messina, meatball and ricotta bake – Connie’s family was from Sicily. Frank went straight for it, unaware of Nonna Gia’s puckered lips when she saw he didn’t go for her caponata first, but then Nonna saw Sam’s plate.
‘Salvatore, don’t cross your cutlery over or you’ll have many crosses to bear!’
‘Non … na.’ He puffed out his cheeks but moved his knife and fork apart, likely unaware what a cross to bear even was by the look on his face, I thought, watching him.
‘Did you put chilli in this caponata?’ Connie asked Nonna.
I lowered my forkful and Nonna frowned at her. ‘What’s wrong with you? I never put chilli in my caponata Calabrese.’
I gingerly tried to detect any underlying heat but the sweetness of the agrodolce was busy singing away any sharpness. Besides, the peach fur itched, my shoulders hurt from the picking-bag straps digging into them all morning and I could’ve been at Deb’s pool party that afternoon. I so resented Mum not helping with the harvest when I wasn’t able to get out of it.
‘Must be some fancy job for Elena to miss the pick this year, eh?’ It seemed Frank was thinking the same.
Nonna Gia muttered in Italian and I caught her saying, ‘… egoista.’ Selfish.
‘It’s a very important project on an old building,’ I spoke up, suddenly defensive, though I’d been begrudging Mum only moments before.
‘El was always smarter than you at school, Frank.’ Connie chuckled, shaking her head as he gaped and exaggerated a hurt look at her.
‘Come on, everyone, eat,’ said Nonna. ‘Frank, some more tuna? A meatball?’
Lena said, ‘If I’m good at school, maybe I can go to the city too?’
‘But we’d miss you too much.’ Connie fought to hide her alarm.
‘And what would you eat?’ Nonna cried. ‘You don’t need to leave when you have us.’
‘Oh, Nonna!’ Lena beamed.
I bent over my plate as though I wasn’t really paying attention, but I was.
Frank added, ‘Besides, you can help Salvatore when he runs the farm one day.’
I glanced to Sam wiping his mouth, seemingly oblivious. And I couldn’t help but wonder, when Mum got pregnant did anyone say to her, you don’t need to leave when you have us.
Lena fell asleep almost at once in her camp bed, yet despite my tiredness after that day’s harvest, I lay awake breathing the mozzie coil’s pungency and listening to the crickets whirr. I longed for some chocolate. Something. That bit of lunchtime conversation had played over in my head all afternoon as we’d gone on picking. I wanted something sweet. Needed it. Maybe I could go and sneak a spoonful of leftover tiramisu from in the fridge. I kicked off the sheet.
In the summery night, the hallway linoleum felt almost warm beneath my bare feet. Frank and Connie had had it laid a year or so ago and its new vinyl tang lingered. It was softer than the thin lino we’d barrelled along as young kids when it was still Nonno Taddeo’s house. Smetti di correre, he’d yell at us, stop running. But Lena, Sam and I wouldn’t be stilled. Nonno’s eyes showed he thought me the ringleader and in his balled fists and frustration I sensed he felt I was corrupting the others just by being there. Perhaps I was.
Hushed voices and the kitchen light made me stop unseen. Nonna and Connie were still up.
‘… no, Elena has that big job on now.’ Nonna’s murmur.
I strained to listen, wishing Frank wasn’t snoring so loud behind a nearby bedroom door. Keeping to the dim hallway, I leant closer, my toes curled on the lino.
‘But she does seem, a bit … unsettled.’ Connie then, very tentative. ‘Maybe if you—’
‘No.’ Again, Nonna, ‘Quando la pera è matura casca da sé.’ When the pear is ripe, it falls by itself, meaning what was coming would come and one just had to be patient.
I wondered what that had to do with Mum. Again Connie spoke, but softer, and I didn’t catch her words. Frank’s snores persisted. I took a step closer, making the floor creak.
‘Sssh, is someone there?’
As swiftly and quietly as I could, I hastened back to bed and slid in, forcing my breathing to still. Luckily, Lena kept sleeping. I heard Connie or Nonna come to the end of the hall to peer out to the darkened verandah. Moments ticked. I almost sat up and asked what they’d been talking about but I knew I’d only get in trouble for eavesdropping. Instead, I feigned sleep. The footfalls returned to the kitchen and soon after I heard their bedroom doors close. I lay pondering what they’d meant about Mum. Again, crickets chanted close and far off in the distance, the dog made sad howls. The house voiced its creaks and sighs. I opened my eyes. I’d assumed they’d been talking about Mum, but maybe it was about me.
After Frank dropped Nonna Gia and me back to her house – and Zucchero’s gladness – we’d barely opened the windows before she asked me to go up the street and buy a bottle of milk. I must’ve had a look on my face for I was tired and just wanted to lie down and watch TV.
‘We need it for coffee in the morning.’ Nonna pushed some coins in my hand. ‘And hurry, the shop will soon shut.’
More likely she wanted to have milk mixed with Tia Maria that night, which she usually did after spending a few days at Frank and Connie’s. Also, as a rule, the foot bath and Epsom salts would come out too, Nonna placing the old dishwashing tub on towels to protect the carpet in front of her lounge chair, before immersing her red-painted toes.
I didn’t look to see if the old man was on his verandah. I still felt bad for staring back when I hadn’t known he’d had a stroke. The main street was quiet. The setting sun assailed the shut shopfronts, their glass glinting. I got the milk as the grocery shop was closing, and also a KitKat I slipped in my pocket. When I came out, the sun had already gone and streetlights were blinking on. The hotel bar on the other side of the road showed cheery light and people within. A Mondo Rock song drifted from it, ‘Come Said the Boy’, but it was silly to think it was a sign or had any meaning to do with Tim.
I crossed the main road, going out of my way up the side street that led to the railway station to take a closer look at the pub on the corner. My gaze ran along the guest rooms on its top floor to the far end at the rear where Lena had told me the Dinnings lived, wrinkling her nose at the idea of living in a noisy pub. But the dwelling part that appeared to be both upstairs and down at the back was furthest from the public bar and even from the other side of the road I saw it was well-kept.
Carnations bordered a cement path to the Hills Hoist between the kitchen and the chook pen, which was closed for the night. The last sets of French doors stood open on the verandah above. I realised one was likely Tim’s room and in that moment wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed there was no sign of him. I turned back and hurried on past. I’d only been gone about fifteen minutes but it was almost dark already – twilight never lasted long in southern Queensland. Nonna would be worrying.
From the pub behind me came a soft whistle, not a wolf-whistle, more teasing or appreciative.
Heat rushed to my face. Was that for me? I couldn’t tell if it came from the bar or above and kept going, head down. But then, something made me chance a wary look back. Someone had come out onto the verandah and leant on the railing. Tim. He grinned and gave a sort of wave. I smiled and held up the milk as if to say I had to hurry home and didn’t glance back again. My steps were fast and light, my body humming. I’d got what I needed. I hadn’t imagined it. He’d felt the same instant connection from the moment we’d met. I almost skipped into Nonna’s street.
‘Sofia!’ Nonna Gia was waiting just inside the front gate. ‘It’s almost dark!’
‘Sorry, Nonna.’ Shit. I’d only been gone about twenty minutes by then. I got out the KitKat I’d planned to hide. ‘I was buying this too.’
‘Come on,’ was all she said, taking the milk, and I hoped my face wasn’t still flushed.
At least she couldn’t accuse me of being a cupboard eater this time and, besides, how was it so different to her wanting a Tia Maria after the days out at the farm. But, in truth, just thinking of Tim doing that whistle … nothing could touch me just then. As I closed the gate, I found myself looking over through the falling darkness. The old man wasn’t on his verandah.
