Chapter 1
Chapter One
Beaudesert 1968
E vie first laid eyes on Chris McIntosh on her very first day of primary school in 1968. She remembered it vividly because on that particular day—and that day alone—her mother walked her up the dirt road that ran past their house, turned left, and holding Evie's hand tightly, guided her through the main entrance of Beaudesert State School.
A large wooden archway with the school’s name emblazoned on its gable left Evie feeling as tiny as the insects clustered on top of a dead cockroach near her shoe. She sidestepped a group of yellow ants that wriggled and scurried around the larger insect, a few working together to drag the bug somewhere else. Perhaps they were trying to get it out of the line of mothers and children streaming into the school.
She wanted to stop and watch what happened to it, but her mother tugged at her hand, pulling her under and through the archway into the school grounds. She looked up at the sign that declared the school's name and a number, which she later learned said ‘Established 1887’.
When they stopped for a moment, Mother undid the hair clip in Evie’s hair and adjusted it to where she thought it should go. She tugged gently at Evie’s plaits, squinting at them to ensure they were even. Father had stopped Mother from cutting Evie’s hair the week before. ‘Leave it be, Maya,’ he said, using his firm voice. ‘It’s beautiful and nearly down to her waist.’
Mother had continued to brush it. ‘It’s a pity she didn’t inherit my blonde colour or your black hair. She’s in the middle. Dark brown. Definitely got your eyebrows, though.’ Father had won, and Evie’s plaits remained neat and long.
At last, Mother was satisfied with them, although she must have noticed a stray hair in Evie’s eyebrows because she licked her finger and then ran it over the top of both. Lick. Left one. Flatten. Lick. Right one. Flatten.
When Evie jutted out her chin and pulled her head back from her mother’s hand, she received a head shake in return. ‘Stand still, Evie. Let me check how you look.’
Her feet hurt and she scuffed them in the dust, annoyed that she had to wear the new shoes her mother had bought. She wasn’t used to anything on her feet, and she noticed that some of the other kids had bare feet and weren’t wearing stiff, black shoes that pinched their toes. ‘Why do I have to wear these shoes?’ she asked her mother, pointing to an older girl who walked past them. ‘She doesn’t have any on.’
Her mother made that tut-tutting noise that meant she wouldn’t answer the question. Instead, she pulled on Evie’s hand before walking quickly up the path to where a group of mothers, similarly holding fast to their children’s hands, were listening to a lady. The lady, who she later came to know as Mrs Montrose, was her year one teacher.
Evie scrunched her toes inside her shoes, the confines of the leather restrictive and tight. It was as though her feet were in jail, and she didn’t like that she had to do something she didn’t want to do. She stomped her foot, then tapped the toe end on the ground, scuffing the leather. Her mother made a growling noise and propelled her forward as Mrs Montrose started to call out names from a list she held in her hand. A boy beside Mrs Montrose held other pieces of paper, passing the teacher a page when she asked for them.
‘Thank you, Chris,’ the teacher said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Evie stared at the boy, and he must have felt her eyes on him because he stared back, unsmiling, as he shuffled his bare feet on the concrete pathway. He wasn’t much taller than her, his blonde hair short and neat. Like the other boys, he wore shorts and a T-shirt, his skinny legs moving up and down as he struggled to stand still.
‘He doesn’t have shoes on,’ Evie said. She must have spoken too loudly because her mother yanked her hand and told her to be quiet. Her complaints continued about wearing shoes, but she stopped when the boy poked his tongue out at her. It was an automatic response to poke hers back at him, and for a while they exchanged looks, their tongues poking out and then quickly back in when Mrs Montrose spoke again.
‘Thank you, Chris. You can go.’ No one seemed to notice the tongue-poking-out exchange; they were all too busy talking. The boy glanced at Evie again and poked his tongue out one more time, before turning on his heel and walking away. She watched him as he moved along the path, joining another group of boys gathered around the racks where the bicycles were kept.
Her attention was drawn back to the people around her, and she stared intently at the other kids starting year one. At least they were suffering the same shoe problem as her, each wearing some sort of footwear. A girl standing nearby offered a friendly smile. She wore brown sandals with silver buckles that kept them in place. At least she hadn’t poked her tongue out. Evie smiled back.
As an only child, Evie didn’t have the company or security of brothers and sisters to look after her. Some of her friends who lived on her street were attending the same school, but they were either a few years older or a bit younger than she was.
There had been discussions at home about making friends. ‘Just tell them your name and say you want to be their friend,’ her father advised, tweaking her plaits and sweeping her up in his arms. He cuddled her tight. He had a sweet, warm smell that she loved. When she pushed her head into his chest and closed her eyes, the familiar scent of his aftershave lingered in her nostrils and sometimes she could still smell it on her clothes a long time after he held her. The smell always comforted her, as did his voice, his words spoken quickly but softly, with an accent different from anyone else she knew. Sometimes, he reverted to his native language, Italian. This usually happened when he was excited, sad, or argued with Mother. Father was a calm man though, so fortunately arguments didn’t happen very often. The best thing about him was he always told her he loved her. Mother never said those words, but Father said them to her at least once a day, sometimes more.
All the love she needed came from him. He said his love for Evie came all the way from Italy. ‘It’s from your nonnas and pappas. Even though you can’t see them and they can’t hug you, they are sending their love.’
Carlo migrated to Australia in the 1950s, travelling alone and leaving behind his entire family and friends. ‘I wanted a new life. I had dreams for this land of opportunity I had heard about,’ he told Evie. ‘I cut cane in North Queensland and met new friends. There were mosquitos as big as bumblebees and snakes longer than my body. Fa molto caldo. They call it humidity here. The heat was something else. We worked hard though, and made good money. When I came to Brisbane on a holiday, I met your mother. She was beautiful and made me laugh back then.’ His face fell with a wistful look, as if he wanted those old times back again. ‘She was looking for a husband, and I a wife. We bought this house, and I soon became Queensland's top vacuum cleaner salesman.’
She loved that story, even if she had heard it a hundred times before. Father’s voice was smooth, and his pronunciation of words differed from others because he spoke in his second language, English. Some people laughed at his accent and made fun of how he talked. Once she had even heard some people in the corner store say bad words about her father. He had been at the counter asking for milk while Evie dawdled behind. She had slid her feet along the shiny lino floor as she looked at the food on the shelves for sale. Father moved to the cash register, and she smiled as she listened to him talking while he paid. His words were eloquent, and he even threw in one of his own words, ‘ Graci ’, to thank the young girl behind the counter.
A lady and man were in front of Evie as she looked longingly at the chewing gum display, the imagined taste of Juicy Fruit rolling around her mouth.
The woman looked up and stared at Father, her face scrunched up in a nasty smirk as she twisted her mouth and nearly spat her words out. ‘Bloody wogs. Can’t even speak English. They’ll take over the country if we’re not careful.’
The man with the lady added more mean words, and the two of them muttered about ‘Ities’ and ‘filthy migrants’. Evie had heard the slang word ‘Ities’ before and she knew they were talking about her father. A nearby empty trolley was a valuable weapon for her vengeance, and she grabbed it without another thought, ramming it into the lady’s broad backside. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Evie apologised before pushing it harder, pretending she was trying to steer it in another direction.
The lady shrieked as she stumbled forward, a bottle of milk in her hand falling to the ground and shattering. The white liquid splashed back up over the lady's clothes and across the groceries in her trolley.
Without a backward glance, Evie continued down the aisle. She left the trolley near the front counter before skipping through the exit and quickly joining her father, who was waiting for her on the pavement outside.
‘Where were you? I only needed to get milk.’ He bent down and straightened her jumper. ‘Chewing gum? Was that what you were looking at? Maybe next time, my little bambino. Let’s go.’
Evie giggled, imagining the mess left behind and how annoyed the lady would be. It served her right, she thought. How dare they talk about her father in that way! Most people loved him and the way he spoke, especially the women who entered the vacuum cleaner shop where he worked. They hung off every word he said and fluttered their eyelids as he drew them into his sales pitch. They would then, without exception, purchase whatever vacuum cleaner he promoted that month.
It wasn’t just his smooth words or interesting accent that drew people in. Father looked different to a lot of the men who lived around them. He had a neatly trimmed moustache, the short, dark hairs tickling when she pressed her cheek to his lips. His black hair was slicked back, with never a strand out of place, and he wore collared shirts in various colours, thin dark ties, and black formal trousers that matched his shiny leather black or brown shoes. Even his socks were of the finest quality. The trips he made to Sydney were not only for selling vacuum cleaners and meeting up with other salesmen from around Australia, but he also spent time at the big department stores, seeking out the newest attire imported from Europe.
Even at five years old, she knew that her father loved her, more than he loved her mother. If she had something important to ask or a secret to tell, it was her father she turned to. He never told her he was too busy, or laughed at what she said. Instead, he asked for even more information, and made her feel like a grown-up with something important to say. Mother was always busy cleaning, cooking or dusting. Even if she was sitting down having a cup of tea or just staring out the window, she wasn’t really interested in what Evie had to say. ‘I just need some time to myself, Evie,’ she would say. ‘Go and talk to your father.’
Father said the reason her mother didn’t want to listen to her stories and needed to sometimes be alone, was that she had grown up in a household with a stern, strict, and argumentative father. Mother pulled a face when Evie asked her about her family. ‘Think yourself lucky that your father and I may not always agree, but we don’t fight or yell at each other. We always end up agreeing on what’s best for you.’
The only time Mother wasn’t serious or busy, was when Father gave her a second glass of wine with dinner. When the three of them sat around the yellow and white laminate table and ate their dinner together, her father would talk about his day at the shop. Mother would listen, usually not adding too much, but seeming to enjoy the conversation. What she did love was Father’s wine. After a couple of glasses, she would take her blonde hair out of the bun she usually wore. Shaking her head, she’d ruffle her hair with her hands and wiggle her shoulders, as if she had been set free. Set free from what, Evie wondered, but she had no idea .
Unlike any of her friends’ houses, there was a rack that held bottles of wine. Father had a drink of wine with Mother each night with dinner, and that was when everyone seemed to relax. It was as if her mother had become a different person. Mother said the kitchen made her happy. The bright yellow cupboards and drawers that lined one wall made her feel like she was sitting in the sun. Father had built wide shelves and brightly coloured canisters sat on them. They had yellow lids and flower patterns on the front and had been a present he brought back from one of his Sydney trips.
After the first glass, Father would start telling jokes, or he and Mother would talk about places they had lived before. Mother would laugh, her shoulders bouncing up and down, sometimes even happy tears running down her cheeks. A little more wine would be poured into her glass, and sometimes Father poured a small amount for Evie to try. Some nights Father showed Evie how to wind the spaghetti around her fork and suck it into her mouth. Once, her mother joined in the sucking contest, and the three of them competed for who could suck the longest piece of spaghetti the quickest. Her mother’s eyes had sparkled that night, and Evie noticed the looks exchanged between her parents. They were a family, just the three of them. Mother was beautiful, and in love with Father.
On nights like that, Evie’s world was complete. It was as though she had the most perfect family in the world. The trouble was, those nights didn’t happen that often.
Evie thought back to the night of the spaghetti sucking competition, and how beautiful her mother had looked. Now though, on Evie’s first day of school, Mother seemed as nervous as Evie felt. Her face wore its typically serious expression, and Evie pulled her hand away from her tight grip. She wiped it on her school uniform; her palm was sweaty and red from being held so tight. The girl next to her smiled and copied Evie, also prising her hand free.
The two mothers began talking. They seemed to know each other and before she knew it, the girl came up beside Evie. ‘My name is Layla.’
‘My name is Evie,’ she answered back, admiring Layla’s long blonde hair, which was tied up in two bouncy ponytails. Layla held out her hand, and she put hers into it. Both hands felt warm, but they weren’t sweaty, and neither squeezed hard.
Evie’s mother bent down and spoke to Layla. ’You two can be friends. Sit together and look after each other.’ It was a surprise to hear how kind her mother could sound. Usually, her directions were short and swift. The kind words and soft cuddles were what her father was for.
Evie had thought it would have been better if Father had come with her on the first day of school. But he was away on business. ‘Sydney. He’s gone to Sydney for a week,’ her mother replied when Evie asked where he was. Her mother frowned, like she often did when she asked more questions. ‘You don’t need to know everything, Evie. He’s in Sydney. Selling vacuum cleaners. That’s all. Now remember, keep your words and questions to yourself. Children are meant to be seen, not heard.’