New Year’s Eve was always a hectic time for Bob and Rita Duncan and Dodds Family Hotel, and the send-off for 1954 was promising to be no exception. It was barely nine o’clock and the dining room was packed, although most had finished eating. The lounge was crowded, as were the bars and the backroom which, officially, were ‘closed’. There was still a month to go before late-licensing became legal, but the Cooma cops tended to turn a blind eye on New Year’s Eve. Indeed, big Merv Pritchard was firmly of the opinion that it was preferable men celebrate the New Year in pubs rather than at separate drunken parties all over town. ‘Easier to control things if they get out of hand,’ he’d say.

So Cooma’s constabulary was conspicuous in its absence as men spilled out into the street, beers in hand. Merv and his mates would avoid the necessity of booking those who bent the law this evening, but they’d be there within minutes at the first hint of trouble.

As yet there was none, and the pubs of Cooma were doing a roaring trade. None more so than Dodds, and it would get even busier as the final hours of 1954 ticked by. They would arrive in droves, and they would cram themselves into every nook and cranny and sing with gusto, while Rita Duncan would sacrifice finesse for volume as she pounded away at the piano.

For the moment, however, the air was one of expectation. Rita was not at the piano, the singing had not yet begun, and, despite the general din, conversation was possible.

In the dining room, Peggy Minchin was chatting to Maureen. Lucky, Pietro and Violet were seated with them, but they were paying little attention. Lucky had pulled his chair to one side and was in deep conversation with Rob Harvey and an American who were sitting at the next table, and Pietro and Violet were in a huddle with eyes for no-one but each other.

The two women had not previously been well acquainted, but they were enjoying each other’s company. Peggy liked Maureen’s forthright manner, and Maureen found Peggy an intelligent young woman with an enquiring mind, which was hardly surprising in a schoolteacher, she supposed. She was glad now that she’d allowed Violet to bully her into joining them.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve, Auntie Maureen,’ Violet had said, ‘and I’m not leaving you at home on your own. You’re coming to Dodds with me and Pietro.’

Maureen hadn’t wanted to intrude upon the young couple. ‘Particularly under the circumstances,’ she’d said. ‘And besides,’ she’d added, ‘I never observe New Year’s Eve. I’ll be in bed by ten.’

‘You won’t be intruding,’ Violet had insisted. ‘We’re not going to sit there all lovey-dovey. Crikey, it’s New Year’s Eve. It’s a party. We’re having dinner with Lucky and Peggy, and everyone’ll be there. You’re coming with us, I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘Listen to you, Miss Bossy Boots,’ Maureen had said, but she’d given in, and she was pleased that she had.

While the two women chatted, Pietro sat with his arm protectively about Violet.

‘Eh,’ he called to a man who barged past, jostling Violet’s chair on his way to the bar, ‘be careful.’ But the man didn’t hear, or if he did he paid no attention.

‘Oh Pietro, stop it,’ Violet said with a smile. ‘I’m not made of glass, I won’t break.’ He’d been like this all day, ever since she’d told him about the baby.

Violet had been sure she was pregnant for the past several weeks and she’d longed to tell Pietro during their holiday in Sydney. But the doctor she’d seen at the hospital just before she left, a close friend of Maureen’s, had said it would be another week before tests could prove conclusive, so she’d said nothing. She was thrilled now that she’d kept her secret. The fact that the positive results of her test had come through on the very morning of New Year’s Eve was, to Violet, extraordinarily significant, and she’d relished the drama of the moment as she’d announced to her husband their impending parenthood.

‘Tomorrow is more than the beginning of a new year, Pietro,’ she’d said, ‘it is the start of a whole new life for us.’ The words had been an echo of any number of her favourite films, but they’d been apt and they’d come from the heart.

Pietro’s response had been no less dramatic. He’d dropped to his knees and clasped her to him, his head resting as if in worship against her stomach. Violet had found it splendidly European. But since then, his behaviour had been quite foolish, she thought. On their way to Dodds he’d taken her arm every time they’d stepped off a kerb to cross the street – it was embarrassing.

‘You have to stop fussing, sweetie,’ she said, as he glared at the receding back of the man who’d barged past.

‘I am sorry, Violetta,’ he replied. ‘But I am worry, you know?’

‘Worried,’ she automatically corrected. ‘Yes I know you are, but you mustn’t be, it’s silly. If you get worried because someone bumps my chair, we might as well go home right now. In a couple of hours this place’ll be packed, there won’t be room to move, and what’ll you do then?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ he agreed, but he looked about, his concern deepening.

Pietro’s initial reaction when Violet had told him they were going to have a baby had been one of pure joy. But now that the news had sunk in, he was lost in awe. He, Pietro Toscanini, who had neither family nor any childhood memory of one, was going to be a father. He was going to have a family of his own. The prospect was overwhelming, and he longed to tell the world.

‘I am to be a father!’ he would have liked to yell to all those within earshot, but Violet had sworn him to silence. No-one but Auntie Maureen must know, she said.

‘Not even Lucky?’ he’d asked hopefully.

‘Not even Lucky,’ she’d said, shaking her head. ‘Not until I’ve told Dad we’re married.’ Then she’d hastily added before he could interrupt, ‘And I’ll go and see him soon, in the New Year, just like I said I would.’ Pietro had been nagging her about her father as often as Auntie Maureen had. ‘After that,’ she’d said as she’d kissed him, ‘after that you can tell the world, I promise.’

And so Pietro sat in the crowded pub, surrounded by his friends and workmates, bursting with his news and maintaining his silence. It was difficult, particularly with Lucky sitting right beside him.

‘We’re off to the bar.’ Lucky, Rob Harvey and the American stood, Lucky giving Peggy’s hand a gentle squeeze as he excused himself from the table. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

It was an Aussie custom which, upon their arrival in the country, Europeans had found most strange. Australian men deserted their women at dances and pubs to gather in isolation and guzzle beer, quite often for the entire evening. And when they, the Europeans, paid attention to the women, inviting them to dance or join them for a drink, it created a great deal of friction. The Aussies didn’t like it at all. So why did they leave their women alone? the newly arrived migrants quite justifiably wondered.

Before long, the migrants themselves would become infected with ‘Snowy’ camaraderie, and they, too, would gather for ‘a beer with the mates’, but they never fully embraced the Australian custom. The Europeans were happy to join their fellow workers at the bar for a drink or two, but, unlike the Aussies, they always returned to their women.

‘Are you coming, Pietro?’ Lucky asked.

Pietro would normally have jumped at Lucky’s offer – he loved being ‘one of the boys’ – but tonight he stayed put. ‘No, thank you, Lucky, I stay here with Violet.’

‘For goodness sake, Pietro,’ she said with good-humoured exasperation. ‘Go and have a beer at the bar – all the other blokes are.’

‘No, no, I stay here,’ he insisted. He did not intend to leave Violet’s side for one second, but as he watched Lucky weave his way through the mob he wished he could tell him why. Lucky was his very best friend.

Despite the chaos that appeared to reign in the main bar, business was being conducted as efficiently as always. The bar staff moved like lightning, Bob Duncan and Robert Junior changed another beer keg as swiftly as they had the last, and Peter Minogue negotiated the crowds with his usual expertise. Two full trays of drinks, one on top of the other, sailed magically over people’s heads as the Irishman squirmed through a sea of bodies on his invisible way to the lounge.

In the backroom, at a table jammed in the corner, a poker game was progressing in deadly earnest. Word had spread like wildfire that Flash Jack Finnigan was at Dodds tonight and a number of heavy gamblers had turned up.

Jack had actually called in to Dodds several hours previously just to have a New Year drink with his good friend and fellow countryman, Peter Minogue, before the evening became too hectic. But he hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity that presented itself, and besides, he didn’t want to disappoint the men.

The stakes were high, and the ever-silent, ever-watchful Antz stood to one side guarding the table. It was apparent that, to those hunched over their cards, the advent of 1955 meant little, and they would no doubt remain oblivious to the bedlam that surrounded them even upon the very stroke of midnight. Poker was always serious business, but never more so than in the presence of Flash Jack Finnigan.

The babble of the bar rendered conversation impossible and, despite the overhead fan, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Lucky, Rob Harvey and the American, a likeable, lanky mining engineer called Rusty, took their drinks outside. ‘I’m meeting up with a few buddies out front,’ Rusty said, so Rob and Lucky decided to join them.

Now employed as a site engineer with the American construction conglomerate, Kaiser, Rob Harvey had included in his team many of those who’d worked with him on the Guthega project, among them both Lucky and Pietro. Rob was well respected by the Americans and Lucky had found many a new ‘buddy’ among the Yanks, which was not unusual – Lucky found buddies everywhere.

It was a hot summer’s night, but not oppressively so, and on the pavement outside, Snowy workers were gathered in groups, smoking and chatting as they downed their beers. Some were earnestly ‘talking shop’, some telling bawdy jokes and some mingling from group to group.

Rob and Lucky chatted to Rusty and his three American buddies for ten minutes or so, but as soon as the Yanks had finished their beers they were off on a pub crawl.

‘It’s our first New Year’s in Cooma,’ Rusty said, ‘and we’re gonna have a beer at every bar in town. You guys wanna come?’ he asked.

Rob and Lucky bowed out, and when the Americans had left they moved away from the crowd a little, enjoying the respite and the ease of each other’s company. They talked shop, as they usually did these days. There was a lot to talk about since the Yanks had come to town.

As had been anticipated, Kaiser and its equipment and work methods had had an extraordinary effect upon the Snowy. In just one month of construction, the massive Eucumbene-Tumut tunnel, twenty-two feet in diameter, was progressing at an unprecedented speed. The Americans had not only imported the most sophisticated machinery, they’d set up a whole new work system designed to offer incentive and encourage competition, in keeping with their ‘time is money’ adage. Tunnelling went on round the clock six days a week. There was the day shift, from eight to four, the ‘swing’ shift, from four to midnight, and the ‘graveyard’ or ‘cranky’ shift from midnight to eight. The teams were paid a ‘footage bonus’: the further they advanced past an agreed minimum footage, the more money they received on payday. A large blackboard was set up outside the tunnel entrance and, in endless competition, each shift would mark up its footage, eager to be the best.

Already the Snowy’s huge network of tunnels was winding its way through the mountains like a vast underground railway system, but the progress to date had been slow and laborious. Kaiser was bringing about a massive change in the rate of construction. World records for the speed of tunnel excavation would soon be broken and new records for hard-rock drilling created, but with it would come danger, and it worried Rob Harvey. He’d spoken of his misgivings to Commissioner Hudson.

‘Safety is being sacrificed for speed,’ he’d said. ‘It’s an invitation to disaster.’

Hudson’s opinion had differed. ‘We have to move with the times, Rob, and the Yanks are leading the way. They have the equipment, the knowledge and the organisation – we must learn from them.’

‘But at what cost? It’s become a race and safety procedures are being ignored.’

‘Basic precautions need to be observed, I agree,’ Hudson countered, ‘but we’ve been held back by parochialism far too long. The days of the government bludge are over and men need to become canny on their own account.’ Hudson approved of the American attitude, which encouraged the survival and success of only the fittest.

Now, barely a week after his discussion with the Commissioner, it appeared that Rob’s fears had been well founded.

‘I visited the hospital this afternoon,’ he said, as he and Lucky sipped their beers. ‘The doctor said that he won’t lose the arm.’

‘It shouldn’t have happened.’ Lucky shook his head. ‘He was a new miner, inexperienced, but it still shouldn’t have happened.’

They were discussing the accident that had occurred during the morning shift that day, when a man had been injured in a rock-blasting operation. Lucky was in agreement with Rob Harvey. He blamed the accident on the American system.

‘They consider many basic safety procedures “time wasting”,’ he said. ‘I’ve actually heard some of the bosses use the term.’

‘Gedday, Rob, gedday, Lucky – do you want for another round?’

It was Karl Heffner. Since his own accident six months before, shortly after his arrival on the Snowy, the Austrian had worked hard to master his command of English. With his thick accent, he’d provided many a laugh as he constantly mangled the Aussie colloquialisms he insisted on adopting. But he continued unperturbed. Ever the pragmatist, Karl was determined to become a local.

‘Not for me thanks, Karl,’ Lucky declined the offer; he would rejoin Peggy when he’d finished his beer.

‘I’m all right thanks, mate,’ Rob said.

Karl looked about, surprised that Pietro was not with them. ‘My young cobber is not here?’ he asked. Pietro had become his ‘young cobber’ ever since he’d carried Karl from the tunnel, or rather since Karl had added the term to his ever-increasing list of Aussie expressions.

‘He’s inside with his girlfriend,’ Lucky said.

‘Ah. Good.’

Karl joined in the discussion of the previous day’s accident, and his opinions, interestingly enough, concurred with those of the Commissioner.

‘Is progress, mate,’ he said to Rob. ‘The Yanks bring progress, and with progress is accidents.’ He gave a philosophical shrug. ‘Is life, yes?’

Rob nodded. Karl was probably right, but Rob was nonetheless determined that his own teams would continue to observe every safety rule possible, he hoped without jeopardising Kaiser’s demands for speed. There had to be a happy medium.

‘Now I shout for my young cobber a round,’ Karl said five minutes later, and he went off in search of Pietro.

Rob and Lucky were caught up in conversation with a number of other workers as they mingled on the pavement and it was only when the sound of singing reached them that Lucky realised, guiltily, he’d been away from Peggy for over an hour. How very rude of him, he thought, and he left Rob Harvey in the street with the others and went back inside, hoping that she wasn’t hurt at having been so deserted.

But as he entered the main lounge he saw her beside the piano with Maureen and Pietro and Violet, obviously enjoying herself immensely. The three of them had left the dining room to get the best seats as soon as Rita Duncan had started to play.

Lucky watched her for a moment from across the room, in her little black dress, her hair pulled back in its impeccable bun. Her arm was linked in Maureen’s, and she was singing along with the others at the top of her voice. He thought how he loved the contradictions in Peggy Minchin: the passion and humour that lay beneath the schoolteacher facade, and the bravery too – the fact that, despite the image she so carefully maintained, she didn’t really give a damn about appearances. He realised how much he’d missed her. Since he’d been working for the Americans, his trips into town had become less frequent. He pushed his way through the crowd.

It’s a brown slouch hat with the side turned up …

Rita was playing a bracket of all the old Aussie favourites.

And it means the world to me …

As he reached Peggy’s side, he leaned down and whispered loudly into her ear. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to desert you.’

It’s a symbol of our nation …

She didn’t draw breath, but her smile was radiant as she linked her arm through his and continued to sing.

The land of liberty.

He loved her, he thought, returning her smile and joining in the song. He loved Peggy Minchin unreservedly and it was time to do something about it.

 

Rita played tirelessly for over an hour.

There’s a track winding back to an old fashioned shack …

They thronged about the piano, all singing as if their lungs would burst.

I’m going back again to Yarrawonga …

Half a dozen different nationalities lent their voices to every song.

Our Don Bradman, now I ask you is he any good …

Those who didn’t know the lyrics sang along anyway. And then came the favourite.

Every person present knew the words to ‘Snowy River Roll’ – it was the song of the Snowy Mountains Scheme.

At half-past eleven, Rita deserted her post for a moment to pop upstairs and tend to the baby. Two-year-old Paula was refusing to go to sleep and driving the nanny mad.

Those who had gained the best positions by the piano didn’t move, but stood eagerly awaiting the midnight singalong.

Ten minutes later, Rita was back, though she’d had little success with the baby, who’d kept playing. It appeared young Paula was intent upon seeing in the New Year, Rita thought as she once again seated herself at the piano.

Shine on, shine on harvest moon …

There followed a bracket of standard favourites, and as midnight drew near those from the bar tried to cram themselves into the lounge. It was nearly time for the countdown and ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Pietro, worried, wedged Violet between his arms and gripped the back of the piano, protecting her from the jostling crowd with his body, but she laughed and told him again to stop fussing.

Then the countdown began.

‘Three! Two! One!’ they all chanted, then ‘Happy New Year!’ they screamed, hugging and kissing, and hurling the streamers that Bob Duncan and his staff had handed out. Rita started pounding the piano keys with all the power she had left in her.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind …

They sang for all they were worth, and at the end of the song there was more hugging and kissing.

‘Marry me, Peggy,’ Lucky yelled above the din, their arms about each other, their bodies jammed together by the rest of the crowd.

She stared at him, not sure she’d heard correctly.

‘I said marry me!’ he yelled again.

She laughed. ‘You don’t have to feel obliged to make an honest woman of me, Lucky,’ she yelled back. He wasn’t serious – it was the exhilaration of New Year’s Eve, nothing more.

Her reaction was so in character, he thought as he hugged her. The brittle facade of capable, tough little Peggy Minchin hid such a wealth of insecurity. He would ask her again later.

He did. Two hours later, to be precise.

You made me love you. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do it …

The excitement had died down. Most of the revellers had gone and several couples were dancing languorously to Rita Duncan’s final number which, volume no longer an issue, she played to perfection, a few stray voices singing along.

Lucky glided Peggy across the dance floor to where Pietro and Violet were swaying gently in each other’s arms.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘Oh, keep dancing,’ he added as the young couple stopped.

You made me love you, and all the time you knew it. I guess you always knew it …

‘I need witnesses,’ Lucky said as the four of them swayed to the music. ‘It appears she won’t take me seriously.’ He kept dancing, but held Peggy at arm’s length as he studied her, the beads of perspiration on her brow, strands of her hair now untidy and attractively free.

‘Marry me, Peggy,’ he said with a raise of his eyebrows and a mischievous challenge in his voice.

You made me happy sometimes, you made me glad …

The music continued, but the four had stopped dancing, and Pietro and Violet stood breathlessly awaiting Peggy’s response.

She was silent for a moment, and Violet wondered why on earth Peggy was being indecisive. It was obvious that Peggy Minchin was madly in love with Lucky, and his proposal couldn’t have been more romantic.

But Peggy was in a state of disbelief, not indecision. It was often difficult to tell when Lucky was joking. Perhaps it was his bloodhound eye. Sometimes his expression seemed comical, sometimes even dangerous, and right now, he appeared to be daring her to say no. Was he serious? If it was a joke, she thought, then it was in very poor taste.

‘I’m asking again,’ he prompted. ‘Marry me.’

‘That’s not asking.’ She tried to sound flippant. ‘That’s telling.’

‘I love you, Peggy’ he said, and it was no longer a challenge, it was a declaration. ‘Will you marry me?’

Perhaps it was the moment she’d secretly longed for, she wasn’t sure, but it was certainly the moment she’d never believed possible.

‘Yes, Lucky,’ she said, aware that her voice sounded strange, but she didn’t care, ‘of course I’ll marry you.’

As the two of them kissed, Violet felt on the verge of swooning.

After the hugs and congratulations, Pietro shook Lucky’s hand solemnly.

‘It is a great honour that you share this with Violetta and me, Lucky,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Violet agreed, and then the words just popped out, the timing was perfect and they seemed only right: ‘We have some news we’d like to share with you, too.’ She looked at Pietro, whose face was a picture of amazement and delight. ‘You tell them, Pietro,’ she said. She knew how important it was to him.

‘Violetta is to have a baby,’ he said. ‘I am to be a father.’ Imparting the news to his best friend, Lucky, was the proudest moment in Pietro’s life.

 

The following day, Lucky regretted having accepted Maarten Vanpoucke’s offer.

‘A quick get-together to toast the New Year,’ the Dutchman had said on the phone. Lucky had felt sorry for him; Maarten never socialised at the pub and he seemed to have so few friends – it was little hardship to pop around the corner from Peggy’s for a quick drink on New Year’s Day. But when he arrived in the late afternoon the chess board had been all set up, and it was obvious that Maarten had presumed they would follow their usual ritual. Lucky hadn’t had the heart to say no.

Now the game was in progress, and Lucky’s mind was consumed by Peggy. They’d stayed up all night, making love, eating cheese on toast and laughing about whether it was supper or breakfast. And they’d talked.

‘Are you sure?’ she’d asked, not tentatively, but honestly. ‘You don’t need to marry me, you know.’

‘Pretty Peggy Minchin,’ he’d said and he’d kissed her, tasting the pepper and cheese on her lips, ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’ He’d wondered why it had taken him so long to realise just how much he loved her.

The game was fortunately not in Lucky’s favour, and his fatigue and lack of concentration saw an early defeat.

‘You’re not on your normal form tonight, Lucky,’ Maarten remarked, the jovial host as always. He poured himself another champagne; Lucky’s glass was still full.

‘No, it was a fairly big night, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course, New Year’s Eve.’ Maarten shook his head as if he remembered ‘those days’. He was barely six years older than Lucky, but the role of responsible middle-aged man seemed fitting for one in his position. ‘I suppose I can’t tempt you to stay for dinner? Mrs Hodgeman is preparing a veritable feast.’

‘Thank you, Maarten, but no,’ Lucky said firmly. ‘Peggy is expecting me.’

The schoolteacher, Maarten thought, how interesting, Lucky didn’t normally mention the schoolteacher by name, although it was common knowledge they were lovers.

‘Miss Minchin, of course,’ he said. ‘A most worthy woman.’

‘Yes,’ Lucky agreed, ‘most worthy indeed.’ He didn’t like the patronising edge in Maarten’s voice. ‘We’re to be married. I proposed to her last night and I’m proud to say that she accepted.’

‘My dear friend,’ Maarten said, rising from the table and offering his hand. ‘What wonderful news. My sincerest congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ Lucky stood and they shook.

‘Well, it’s understandable you don’t wish to stay for dinner,’ the Dutchman said. ‘In fact, under the circumstances, I’m most honoured by your visit.’

‘It was my pleasure, Maarten,’ Lucky said, ‘thank you for the invitation,’ and again he felt sorry for the doctor.

He felt even worse when Maarten opened the door to the landing and Kevin Hodgeman was standing there, a bottle of red wine in each hand, awaiting instructions in his usual gauche manner.

‘Lucky will not be joining us,’ the Dutchman announced, and Lucky left thinking that Maarten Vanpoucke must be the loneliest man on earth.

Maarten selected a wine and told Kevin to decant it. When the young man had left, he sat at the dining table and removed his spectacles. They made his eyes ache when he wore them for long periods. The lenses were slightly tinted and they had a mild prescription which he didn’t need, but he felt it wise not to risk plain glass in case someone picked them up by mistake. The spectacles were a nuisance and probably unnecessary, but they’d become a part of his identity, and it was best to maintain the image.

How remarkable, he thought as he drained the last of his champagne, that Lucky should be content with the little schoolteacher. The man had once had Ruth. How could he settle for something so inferior?

He rose and prowled the room restlessly. Thinking of Ruth disturbed him, and especially thinking of her with another man. Had she loved Lucky? She must have – she’d married him. He pictured the two of them together; Ruth offering herself to Lucky the way she never had to him. It was an image that had recurred with monotonous regularity lately, ever since he’d seen the photograph.

He needed a woman, he thought – he would have to find a prostitute. The sex would help, but it was never satisfactory – he always despised the whores for not being Ruth.

He poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter; he’d get drunk again tonight. Why not? And why the hell shouldn’t Lucky settle for the schoolteacher? Good luck to him. He’d never find another woman like Ruth. But Ruth had given herself to him, at least the bastard had that. It was a fantasy that had haunted Maarten for years.