The death of Pietro Toscanini shook the whole community. Even those who’d barely known him were shocked by the news. He’d been so young and handsome, they all said, just twenty-two years old – and word quickly spread that his young wife was pregnant. It was a tragedy, a terrible, terrible tragedy, they agreed. It seemed the boy had been epileptic, but how could you tell? He never looked sickly, he’d been fit and strong; but he’d died of a heart attack while having a fit. It was shocking.

On the day of the funeral, the men of Lucky’s team, all forty of them, swapped their shifts so they could attend the burial service. As word spread around the district, they came from other work camps and sites, those who’d met the young Italian at the pubs and dances in town. They came from the township too, and from neighbouring towns. Some of them hadn’t even known the boy personally, but they were mates of the Campbell family and they came for young Vi.

Nearly two hundred people were gathered at the cemetery, standing a respectful distance from the graveside, leaving room for those who’d been closest to the boy as the service commenced.

Violet was supported by her mother, who had an arm firmly around her waist; the girl’s eyes remained fixed upon the coffin which sat over the open grave, resting on two planks of wood, with straps laid out on the ground either side. Not once did her eyes leave the coffin; she seemed numb and uncomprehending. Beside her stood her aunt Maureen and her two brothers, Dave keeping a close eye on his sister after Maureen had murmured to him that she thought Violet might faint.

Cam Campbell, hands clasped in front of him, granite face unreadable, was barely hearing the priest as he embarked upon his litany. Cam was surveying the crowd – he had little time for religion.

He’d expected quite a few migrants would turn up, workmates of Pietro’s, but they’d come out in force, he noted. The boy had obviously been popular. He was pleased, too, to see that so many of his own mates had come along to lend their support to young Vi. But he had not anticipated such overall numbers, nor so many dignitaries and local identities. He was impressed. The Commissioner himself, William Hudson, was there, and Rob Harvey and others of the Authority’s upper echelons whom he’d met from time to time. He’d had occasional run-ins with them, certainly, but they were powerful men and he respected them. The Yanks were there too, representatives of Kaiser, and among the crowd were many people well known throughout the entire district: Bob and Rita Duncan, and Peter Minogue; Merv Pritchard and his copper mates; Frank Halliday with his two young assistants – even the famous Flash Jack Finnigan had turned up with his offsider, Antz.

Cam realised he was more than impressed as the priest droned on. He was moved. The migrants, the bosses and the locals had all come to pay their respects to the young Italian who had found a new life among them and who had met such a tragically premature death. It was a sign of the changing times, Cam told himself with a touch of guilt, and it was a sign that he should move with them. He glanced at Vi, and the telltale bulge of her belly. What a bloody shame the kid would be born without a dad, he thought. Pietro would have made a fine father.

Opposite the family stood Lucky and Peggy. They were holding hands and Lucky could feel her fingers squeezing his tighter and tighter. He glanced at her, but she did not return his look; head erect, straight-backed, she remained every inch the schoolteacher as she clutched at the lifeline of his hand. Peggy was being stoic, determined not to cry. But her heart ached for Violet, the little girl whom she’d taught who was now staring vacantly at the coffin, barely a woman, widowed and carrying a baby.

Luigi and Elvio Capelli, the brothers Pietro had met when he’d first come to Cooma, had also claimed a graveside position near Lucky and Peggy. Pietro was Italian, one of their own, and they would help lower his coffin into the grave. Karl Heffner stood beside them; it had been his ‘young cobber’ Pietro who had carried him from the tunnel and it was his right, too, to help lower the coffin.

Father O’Riordan was glad he’d agreed to conduct the service – it was the finest turnout he’d had for a funeral. Not that he’d considered refusing, of course – the boy had still been one of the flock, after all, even though his marriage was not recognised by the Catholic Church, as he’d advised the boy at the time. He had strongly disapproved of Pietro’s flagrant disregard for the doctrines of his faith. But what a grand tribute it was, he now thought as he reached the crucial point in the service; amazing that the boy should have so many mourners paying their respects.

Without drawing breath, he gave the agreed nod to Lucky.

Lucky had been awaiting the signal from Father O’Riordan, and he squeezed Peggy’s hand before gently extricating himself from her grip. It was time to lower the coffin. As he crossed and knelt by one of the straps, the Capelli brothers and Karl took their cue from him and crossed also, to kneel at their prearranged positions. Then, as the priest continued his solemn intonation, they took up the straps and stood.

Violet, whose eyes had remained riveted on the coffin, blind and deaf to all about her, was suddenly shocked out of her stupor. The coffin was moving.

Two men stepped forward and slid away the planks, then Lucky, Karl and the brothers started to lower the coffin into the grave.

Violet’s mind was no longer a blank – it screamed at the outrage. Her Pietro was in that awful wooden box, and it was being lowered into a gaping hole in the ground. ‘You can’t do that to him,’ her mind screamed. ‘You can’t do it!’ But it wasn’t her mind screaming at all, it was her voice – and she hurled herself forward to grab at the coffin, to stop it disappearing into the ground.

Dave caught her in time, grasping her around the waist and they both stumbled forward, Violet falling to her knees and Dave not letting go, terrified that she was about to throw herself into the grave.

As he helped her to her feet, her mother was quickly by her side. Violet had stopped screaming and she didn’t try to struggle. She was sobbing now.

‘Stop it, please!’ she begged, tears of anguish pouring down her cheeks as she looked around at the crowd, desperately pleading with them.

‘Don’t do this to him,’ she begged. ‘Please! Please, don’t let this happen! Please!’

Then, as she searched among the faces of the mourners, she saw the doctor standing directly behind Father O’Riordan.

Violet stretched out her arm, her finger pointing accusingly at Maarten Vanpoucke. ‘You killed him!’ she screamed. ‘You killed him! You killed my Pietro!’

Dave and Marge tried gently to lead her away, but her full hysteria was unleashed and she yelled dementedly, the finger still jabbing ferociously at the air, pointing directly at the doctor.

‘You killed him, it was you. You have the eyes of the priest – Pietro told me! It was you. You killed him!’

Her whole body was sagging from exhaustion, about to fall, and Dave and Marge half carried her away from the graveside. She wouldn’t give up: her voice, although weaker, was still raised in accusation. ‘You have the eyes of the priest, he told me. You killed him.’

Then Dave picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the car, Marge beside him and Maureen following.

‘Don’t worry, Cam,’ Maureen whispered to her brother before she joined them, ‘she’ll be all right, I’ll take her to the hospital, we’ll look after her there.’

Cam nodded, then glanced a directive at his younger son before redirecting his eyes to the proceedings. It was important that he and Johnno stay; the Campbell family needed to be represented.

But they could all hear Violet as she sobbed into her brother’s shoulder, ‘He killed him, he killed him – he has the eyes of the priest.’

There was an uncomfortable silence after the car drove off, all concerned for the tragic young widow.

Then Father O’Riordan continued with the service. But he was rattled. ‘The eyes of the priest?’ he was thinking. The poor girl was distraught in her grief; it was obvious, and she had his deepest sympathy, but it was most confusing. Why was she blaming him? What had he done wrong?

‘Ashes to ashes,’ he intoned as he poured the trowel of earth into the grave, then he paused, uncertain to whom he should hand the trowel; it was to have been Violet, or if the widow had not been able, then her mother.

Cam stepped forward and took the trowel, filling it from the mound of fresh earth beside the grave.

‘Dust to dust …’ Father O’Riordan continued.

When he’d tipped the earth into the grave, Cam handed the trowel to Lucky; Violet had told him that the German was Pietro’s best friend.

‘… certain hope of resurrection to eternal life …’

As the service drew to its conclusion, the trowel was passed from one to another. To Peggy, the Capelli brothers, Karl Heffner, and finally to Johnno, each adding their own piece of Monaro earth to Pietro’s grave.

After the funeral, Cam stayed long enough to shake hands and accept condolences, then he and Johnno left for the hospital to check on Vi.

The others mingled. The men would shortly go to Dodds and get drunk as they always did after a funeral. There had been a number of funerals for Snowy men, and God alone knew how many more there would be before the completion of the Scheme. They all worked with the knowledge that accidental deaths were a part of their job, but there hadn’t been a funeral like that before. The unexpected death of one so young and the sight of his distraught young widow had affected them all, and they stayed, talking in muted voices about the sheer bloody tragedy of it.

Among several of the townsfolk – those who enjoyed a good gossip – there was a touch of sympathy for Maarten Vanpoucke.

‘Well, of course Vi would blame him,’ Mavis said, trying to sound sympathetic, but inferring a criticism. ‘I mean, her husband died in the doctor’s surgery, didn’t he, and it was so unexpected she’d feel she had to blame someone. But it’s a bit much to accuse him publicly like that. I’m sure the poor man did all he could to save the boy.’

‘For goodness sake, Mavis, listen to yourself,’ Vera snapped. ‘Poor Vi was hysterical; she was distraught with grief.’

It wasn’t like Vera to snap, and Mavis realised that she might have overstepped the mark.

‘Oh, the doctor certainly did everything he could,’ old Mrs Chapman said.

She had their attention instantly. In fact, Mavis and Vera had made a bee-line for old Mrs Chapman – word had gone around that she’d been at the doctor’s surgery when it had happened.

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Mavis said with a snide glance at Vera, as if she’d been vindicated.

‘Oh yes, and so did poor Edith Beasley. Such a nice woman – she was most upset.’ Old Mrs Chapman was regularly at the doctor’s: she spent a great deal of time in the waiting room and she’d had many a long and pleasant chat with Edith. ‘She’s a very good nurse too, even though she’s retired. Between them they did everything they could to resuscitate the boy. Such a terrible business,’ she tut-tutted and shook her head sadly.

Old Mrs Chapman was having an excellent afternoon. At eighty-four she was desperately lonely and a regular mourner at funerals of people she’d never known. Usually she came and went unnoticed; this was the first time she’d ever been the centre of attention.

‘Goodness me, I can’t tell you what it was like,’ she said, ‘sitting in that waiting room, knowing that something terrible had happened.’

Mavis and Vera continued to give her their undivided attention.

Lucky and Peggy were talking with Maarten Vanpoucke. Lucky would take Peggy home soon and then join the men at Dodds where they would pay tribute to Pietro the way Snowy workers did – by reminiscing and getting drunk. But like the others, Lucky had felt it was respectful to stay and mingle before he left.

The three of them were discussing Violet’s heartbreaking outburst. Now that the service was over, Peggy had lost her poise and was openly dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Yes, yes, the poor girl,’ Maarten agreed, ‘insane with grief.’

‘Strange what she was saying about the eyes of the priest,’ Lucky said.

‘Strange?’ Maarten queried. It had surprised him when the girl had said that. How could Pietro have told her he had the eyes of the priest? The boy hadn’t recognised him until that day in his rooms. But if Pietro had mentioned him by name to the girl, then perhaps he had done so to Lucky, the man who was his father figure. ‘Strange, in what way?’ he asked.

‘Pietro told me he had dreams about a priest,’ Lucky said. ‘He was terrified of the man. Strange that Violet should see you as –’

‘As the demon priest?’ Maarten relaxed; the boy had said nothing. ‘No, no, my friend, not strange at all.’ He shook his head, his smile sympathetic, professional and just a touch patronising. ‘Pietro told me about his nightmares and his obsessive fear of the mythical priest – it’s all in my medical report.’ It was, Maarten had made sure of it – the demon priest was further evidence of the boy’s mental instability. ‘Unfortunately, it was the recounting of his nightmares that precipitated the seizure,’ he said sadly, ‘and then, of course, the heart attack. It’s understandable that Violet, in her distraught state, might see me as the evil figure in her husband’s nightmares.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Lucky agreed. ‘Poor little Violet, I hope she’ll be all right.’

‘Indeed, I worry for her mental state,’ Maarten said. ‘And she’s to have a baby, Pietro told me. I do hope the tragic loss of her husband won’t affect her pregnancy. It could well do so, I fear.’

Lucky decided it was time to take Peggy home. Maarten’s dire prophecy wasn’t helping and a fresh onslaught of tears threatened.

 

Maarten adhered to his plan that Saturday. Arriving at Dodds at six o’clock in the evening, he stood in the front bar by the windows, where he had a perfect view of all who came and went from the hotel. Lucky and Peggy arrived on the dot of half-past six.

He waited a minute or so, finished his Scotch, then walked through to the lounge. He hoped he wouldn’t bump into Ruth. Though he longed to see her, it was not part of his plan to meet her just then.

Lucky was also hoping he wouldn’t bump into Ruth as he and Peggy sat and he ordered a couple of drinks from Peter Minogue.

‘Did you love her?’ Peggy had asked when he’d admitted to the affair he and Ruth had had during their university days.

‘Very much,’ he’d answered.

‘And she loved you.’ It had not been a question.

‘Yes.’

‘You still love each other, don’t you.’ Again it had been a statement.

‘Yes, and we probably always will,’ he’d said. He’d been determined to follow Ruth’s advice and tell as much of the truth as was possible. ‘But we loved each other in different lives when we were different people – we both know that. Ruth said it herself. We have new lives now. And you’re mine, Peggy. You’re my life.’

He hadn’t been sure whether she was laughing or crying as she’d kissed him – it had seemed a mixture of both.

‘Well, Ruth has great taste,’ she’d said, ‘and I’m willing to share you.’

Peggy’s reaction to the honesty of his admission had gone very much along the lines Ruth had predicted. It was amazing, Lucky had thought, how women always seemed one step ahead when it came to emotional issues. He would probably have tried to bluff it out, to pretend there had never been anything between them, but Ruth’s advice had proved correct.

Nevertheless, when it had come to their customary Saturday dinner at Dodds, Lucky had been in a state of indecision. Should he change the ritual of their weekends? Peggy would want to know why, and what would her reaction be if he suggested not going to Dodds because Ruth was staying there? He wished he could have asked Ruth – she would’ve known what to do.

What the hell, he thought now as Peter Minogue disappeared to the bar, perhaps Ruth herself had averted the possibility of a confrontation. She knew they regularly dined at Dodds on a Saturday – perhaps she’d taken herself out for the evening. But it was most uncomfortable, he thought, playing these cat and mouse games.

‘Lucky, what a pleasant surprise.’

Maarten Vanpoucke had appeared beside their table.

‘Maarten, hello.’ The two men shook hands.

‘And Miss Minchin.’ Maarten offered his hand to her too. ‘I was having a drink with some friends in the front bar when I saw you arrive, and I realised that I hadn’t offered you my congratulations on your engagement. But then,’ he added sadly, ‘it was hardly appropriate to do so the last time we met, was it?’ He smiled at Peggy, ‘I must say, my dear, in my personal opinion, you couldn’t have made a better choice.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Vanpoucke.’ Peggy returned the smile politely, but found his charm grating. ‘The last time we met’ referred to two days ago when they’d buried young Pietro, and Violet had been carted off to the hospital, hysterical. The doctor was rather a cold fish, she decided. ‘I tend to agree with you, but then I’m a little biased.’

Lucky sensed her reaction. Peggy was never very good at disguising her feelings – it was one of the things he loved most about her. But he felt sorry for Maarten, as he so often did, and he doubted whether the man had been having a drink with some friends in the front bar at all – Maarten didn’t have any friends. In fact, Lucky was surprised to see him in the pub at all. Loneliness must have got the better of him to bring him to Dodds, Lucky thought. He’d probably been sitting in a corner on his own.

‘Would you like to join us?’ he asked. ‘We’re having a quick drink before we go in to dinner.’

‘Well, if I’m not intruding …?’

‘Of course you’re not.’ It was Peggy who was quick to reassure him. She realised that Lucky had picked up on her brittle tone. She really must watch herself, she thought. She could be so impolite, and Lucky was always sensitive to the feelings of others. ‘Please, do join us.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ Maarten said, ‘just one quick beer.’ How could Lucky have chosen this one over Ruth? he wondered. And it had been a choice, he was quite sure of it. Observing them in the park, he’d seen the love that Ruth and Lucky shared, and yet Lucky had opted for the little schoolteacher. Unbelievable.

He sensed, however, that the little schoolteacher wasn’t quite the mouse he’d presumed her to be. There was an edge to her and, he recognised, an astute intelligence. He wondered briefly what she’d be like in bed.

When Peter Minogue arrived with the drinks, Lucky ordered a beer for Maarten, and it was Peggy who steered the conversation. It was deliberate on her part. She wanted to avoid any discussion of Pietro’s death; the doctor would speak of it coldly and clinically as he had at the funeral, and she didn’t want to hear his views. Violet was home with her family now, but Peggy was plagued by the memory of her in the hospital the day after the funeral. The girl had been under sedation; blank, emotionless, not wishing to talk. Peggy had found it heartbreaking.

‘Well, I really mustn’t keep you from your dinner,’ Maarten said barely twenty minutes later as he drained the last of his beer. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome and it was time to get to the point. ‘Oh, and speaking of dinner,’ he said as he stood, ‘I have an excellent idea. Next Saturday, instead of dining here, why don’t you join me for some home cooking? Mrs Hodgeman would love to demonstrate her expertise, and she gets so little opportunity.’ He smiled at Lucky, pulling on his heartstrings – he knew the man thought he was lonely.

Lucky suspected Peggy wasn’t all that keen to take Maarten up on his offer – for some reason she hadn’t seemed to warm to the man – and he found himself in a dilemma, not wanting to hurt Maarten’s feelings.

‘That’s very kind of you …’ he started to say, wondering what to say without giving offence.

‘Excellent.’ Maarten dived in before Lucky could come up with a valid reason to decline. ‘And I wonder,’ he added as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘whether you might like to ask your old friend Ruth to join us. As a newcomer to town, it might be nice to show her some local hospitality.’

His smile was affable, but he was studying Lucky’s reaction – he knew he’d put the man on the spot. Had Lucky made any mention to his fiancée of his ‘old friend Ruth’? If not, he’d have some explaining to do, Maarten thought, but either way the man couldn’t refuse his offer – it would look far too suspicious if he did. His fiancée might assume there had been something more than friendship between him and his ‘old friend’ Ruth.

It was Peggy who answered. ‘What an excellent idea,’ she said, ‘don’t you think so, Lucky? It would be a lovely welcoming gesture; I’m sure Ruth would appreciate it.’ Then to Maarten: ‘It’s very kind of you, Doctor Vanpoucke.’

‘Call me Maarten, please,’ he smiled, ‘and may I call you Peggy?’

‘Of course.’

‘Splendid. Well, Peggy, I shall look forward to seeing you all next Saturday. Shall we say around seven?’

He shook hands with them both and made his farewells. How astounding, he thought, that the little schoolteacher herself had been the one to decide.

‘She might not be able to come,’ Lucky said sulkily when Maarten had gone. ‘She might have something else planned – she might not even want to come.’ He was wondering why Peggy had taken over the way she had.

‘She’ll want to come. And if she has something else planned, she’ll cancel it.’

He scowled. She sounded supremely and annoyingly confident.

‘Oh Lucky, stop sulking,’ she said briskly in the schoolteacher way she did when he was behaving childishly. ‘It’s best that Ruth and I get to know each other, at least on a social basis, and this is the perfect opportunity. We live in Cooma, for goodness sake; we can’t keep trying to avoid each other. It’s ridiculous.’

 

‘How very wise of her. I agree entirely,’ Ruth said the next day when he returned to Dodds to tell her about Maarten’s invitation and Peggy’s response.

‘But you said you thought it was best if you kept your distance.’ He was confused – she was contradicting herself. ‘That’s what you said, I remember, those were your exact words.’

She laughed. His expression of boyish bewilderment was one she easily recognised. Though he had such a way with women, Samuel really did not comprehend the workings of the female mind.

‘That was before we knew Peggy would be so understanding,’ she said; he’d told her of Peggy’s reaction to his admission. ‘It’s different now. I was wrong and Peggy is right.’

‘I give up.’ He was exasperated – women were a bloody mystery. They’d both patronised him as if he were a child.

‘Samuel,’ she said patiently, realising that he was becoming irritated, ‘when you dined here at Dodds last night, were you worried that I might appear?’

‘No, I wasn’t worried,’ he said, floundering, on the defensive, ‘but I was a bit concerned. I thought it might be … you know … awkward.’

‘So did I.’

He stopped floundering and his irritation subsided.

‘That’s why I went out for the evening,’ she said. ‘I didn’t particularly want to – I normally eat in the dining room downstairs – but I was worried that you and Peggy might be there.’

‘I thought of changing our routine,’ he admitted, ‘but I knew she’d ask why, and …’ He shrugged. ‘It all got a bit too difficult.’

‘Exactly, and it’ll stay that way if we don’t stop being so overprotective. Peggy doesn’t want it like that, and neither should we. We’re old friends now, and old friends don’t avoid each other.’

Lucky’s smile was rueful. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble thinking of you as an old friend, Ruth.’

‘I know,’ she agreed, ‘me too. But we must try. The past won’t disappear – but who knows, perhaps there’ll come a day when it won’t be so vivid.’ She smiled too, although for some strange reason she felt on the verge of tears. ‘In the meantime, my darling,’ she said lightly, ‘we don’t have to live in each other’s pockets, but we do have to live in the same town.’

He would have liked to have embraced her, just for old times’ sake. ‘Peggy and I’ll collect you shortly before seven,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you make it earlier?’ she suggested. ‘We could walk. Maarten Vanpoucke’s is only fifteen minutes from here, and these early autumn evenings are so beautiful.’ He hadn’t quite got her drift, she realised, but then it had been another subtle female ploy. ‘It’ll give Peggy and me time to talk,’ she said, ‘before everything becomes dinner table chat.’

‘Talk?’ he asked. ‘What would you want to talk about?’

‘Oh, fashion, jewellery, hairstyles, that sort of thing – or maybe we’ll talk about you. For heaven’s sake,’ she said as he looked alarmed, ‘who knows what we’ll talk about, Samuel? It doesn’t matter.’

Lucky left feeling distinctly uncomfortable – he was not looking forward to Saturday.

 

Peggy thought Ruth’s idea was excellent.

‘Let’s not take the car at all,’ she suggested as they dressed for Maarten’s dinner party. ‘Let’s walk to Dodds.’

‘We’re backtracking on ourselves a bit,’ he said. Peggy’s house was equidistant from Dodds and Maarten’s.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she insisted. ‘I’d really prefer to walk, would you mind?’

He didn’t mind at all, and they both enjoyed the ten-minute stroll to Dodds, walking hand in hand. It was a beautiful evening; March was always a pleasant time of year in Cooma.

As they approached the hotel, Peggy felt a vague trepidation; she’d known that she would. From the outset, she had been nowhere near as confident as she’d led Lucky to believe. She knew she was right to forge some sort of connection with Ruth, however superficial – they couldn’t avoid each other constantly in a town like Cooma – but she was daunted by the prospect of the confrontation.

Ruth was waiting at the front of Dodds when they arrived, even though they were several minutes early. ‘How nice to see you, Peggy.’ She didn’t offer her hand, but her cheek instead; a half-embrace, woman to woman, the greeting of old friends.

‘Hello, Ruth.’ Peggy felt herself relax.

‘Lucky,’ the name still felt strange, Ruth thought as she kissed his cheek. ‘Now wasn’t I right about walking? What a glorious evening.’

They set off at a slow pace, the women more intent upon talking to each other than their route. Lucky dawdled along beside them, his hand still in Peggy’s.

Peggy asked Ruth about her new job, which they’d discussed with Rob Harvey over dinner that night at Dodds. Had she started work yet? Was it interesting?

Lucky realised, guiltily, that he hadn’t asked Ruth about her job.

She loved it, Ruth said. She’d been working for the SMA for a week now, and in three days’ time she would move to the accommodation they’d arranged for her in Cooma North.

As she responded to Peggy’s enquiries, Ruth found herself deeply admiring the woman for her open reference to the night they’d met. Peggy had been hurt and humiliated throughout the entire evening – Ruth had sensed it, now she felt she should apologise.

‘I’m sorry about that night at Dodds,’ she said.

The words came out jarringly in the midst of what had been everyday conversation, and the three of them halted, Lucky feeling ill-at-ease. Ruth was going too far, he thought.

‘We should have said something, both of us.’ Undaunted, Ruth continued, ‘But it was such a surprise, seeing … Lucky after all these years.’ She stopped herself saying ‘Samuel’ just in time.

Peggy noticed the stumble. It was silly, she decided in her eminently practical way, that Ruth should feel such a need to be on her guard.

‘He wasn’t “Lucky” then, though, was he?’

‘No,’ Ruth admitted. ‘He was Samuel.’

Peggy nodded. ‘Samuel Lachmann.’ Her pronunciation of the German surname was faultless.

‘That’s right.’ Ruth was surprised, although she supposed she shouldn’t be. Samuel would naturally have told his fiancée about his past. She turned to him. ‘So how did “Lucky” come into being?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

Lucky stopped feeling self-conscious. Why should he? he wondered. The women obviously weren’t.

‘An Authority official misspelled my name on the application form,’ he said. ‘He put “Luckman” and I couldn’t be bothered correcting him.’

‘And Aussies being Aussies, he was “Lucky” from then on,’ Peggy chimed in.

‘I like it,’ Ruth said.

Peggy was glad they were talking so candidly. ‘He can be Samuel to you and Lucky to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Oh, I’m getting used to Lucky,’ Ruth smiled. ‘It suits him.’

They both looked at Lucky, and he turned to peer comically over his shoulder as if there were someone behind him. They laughed and he took Peggy’s hand once more.

‘Shall we keep walking?’ he suggested. ‘I’d like to reach Maarten’s before dinner gets cold.’

They continued on their way, the women still talking, and Lucky thought how alike Ruth and Peggy were at heart. They were strong, unpretentious and scrupulously honest. No wonder he loved them.

It was Ruth who brought up the subject of Pietro. She knew all about the circumstances of his death – her fellow workers had talked of little else for the past week. She’d found it hard to believe that the handsome young Italian she’d met at Dodds barely a month ago was dead, remembering how he and his pretty young wife had spent the whole evening dancing. They’d also told her at work that the girl was pregnant, which had made the news of her husband’s death even more shockingly sad.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Pietro,’ she said to Lucky. ‘Rob Harvey told me you were good friends.’

‘We were,’ Lucky nodded, ‘we were very close.’

‘How is poor Violet coping?’ She directed the question to Peggy.

‘She’s not,’ Peggy replied. ‘She’s a mess. At first everyone worried she might lose the baby, but she’ll keep it, they say, she’s physically strong. It’s her mental state that’s the problem. Oh God, you should have seen her at the funeral – it was awful. She was deranged.’

For the past week Peggy had avoided all discussion of Pietro and Violet. She’d talked to Lucky but no-one else – her guard had gone up the moment the topic was mentioned. She found it a relief now to speak openly to Ruth, knowing she was removed from the grapevine of gossip that was Cooma.

‘She accused Maarten Vanpoucke of killing him. She kept yelling “you killed him, you killed him, you have the eyes of the priest” – she was demented in her grief. It was horrible to see.’ The scene at the graveside remained etched in Peggy’s mind.

Lucky was relieved she was unburdening herself. He knew how deeply she’d been affected and had been concerned by the way she’d closed herself off, even in the company of those who truly cared.

‘Pietro had recurring nightmares about a priest who wanted to kill him,’ he explained to Ruth. ‘And because he died in Maarten’s surgery, Violet developed this fixation. In her mind, the doctor became the priest.’

‘She still believes it,’ Peggy said. She’d visited Violet at the family property a few days earlier and had initially been relieved to discover the girl was no longer under sedation. But it had disturbed her to find that Violet was still in a state of distraction. ‘She keeps saying the doctor killed her husband and he has the eyes of the priest. She says it over and over.’

‘How terrible,’ Ruth said. ‘The poor girl.’

They were still discussing Violet when they arrived at Maarten’s house, and as they walked through the open gate and approached the front door, Ruth looked at the ground-floor bay windows of the doctor’s surgery. That was where the young man had died, she thought, in the very same room where she’d had her examination; it was awful to contemplate.

Lucky rang the bell and it was Maarten himself who opened the front door and greeted them. He’d intended to have Mrs Hodgeman show them in, but he’d become impatient – they were fifteen minutes late.

‘Lucky,’ he said, shaking his hand effusively, ‘welcome.’

‘Sorry we’re a bit late. We walked.’

‘No matter, no matter. Peggy,’ he said and made a show of kissing her hand.

Peggy felt self-conscious at the theatrical gesture but she chastised herself. The man was European and in his own home – what right did she have to be critical of a social etiquette to which she was unaccustomed?

‘Hello, Maarten.’ She turned to smile at Ruth. ‘We’re to blame for being late; we were too busy talking.’

‘Naturally.’ How comfortable the women seemed with each other, he thought. ‘And, Ruth, my dear.’ He kissed her hand also, careful not to allow his lips to linger too long. ‘Welcome.’

‘Hello, Maarten, thank you for inviting me.’

‘My pleasure.’ He delighted in her use of his Christian name; he’d thought that he might have to remind her. ‘Come in, come in.’

He escorted them through the hall and up the grand staircase.

‘What a beautiful house,’ Peggy said as they emerged onto a polished wooden landing and Maarten ushered them into the lounge room. It was certainly impressive, she thought, taking in the lavish furnishings, the Persian carpets, the paintings and the objets d’art, although a little too opulent for her taste.

‘Thank you, I like to surround myself with beautiful things.’ He didn’t look at Ruth as he said it, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye. She, too, was gazing around the room, and he noticed how perfectly she belonged here. A creature of such beauty should be surrounded by beautiful things.

‘A comfortable lifestyle is important to me,’ he said to Peggy, but the words were directed at Ruth. It was his intention to impress on her the comfort, the life and the style his wealth could offer her. That was why it had been necessary to bring her here. It was a pity Lucky and Peggy had to be involved, but there’d been no other way.

He crossed to the bottle of Dom Perignon which sat in an ice-bucket on the sideboard. ‘Do make yourselves at home. Is everyone happy with champagne? Lucky, would you prefer a beer?’

‘Champagne’s fine by me,’ Lucky said. He would have preferred a beer, but he didn’t want to halt the man’s flow – Maarten was in his element, playing the host with great flair.

‘May I?’ Ruth asked, gesturing to the open French windows leading to the balcony.

‘Of course,’ Maarten said, opening the champagne.

He watched her as she stepped outside. This is your home, Ruth, he thought, as he eased the cork from the bottle.

Ruth stood on the balcony, breathing in the air with its first hint of autumn chill. She looked out over Vale Street. Several blocks away to the right she could see the crosses of the Brigidine Convent silhouetted against the clear night sky, but her mind was on the boy and his pretty wife, the way they had danced and been so in love. The talk tonight had disturbed her, and she couldn’t rid herself of the couple’s image as she thought how young Pietro had died in the room just below. She rejoined the others.

They sat sipping their champagne, and Mrs Hodgeman arrived with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Maarten heralded her entrance with great aplomb. ‘Mrs Hodgeman is our chef extraordinaire,’ he said, and Noreen Hodgeman, overwhelmed by the honour, gave a clumsy approximation of a curtsy.

He introduced her to his guests. ‘Miss Minchin,’ he said, ‘Miss Stein, and of course you know Lucky.’

‘Nice to meet you, Miss,’ she said to each of the women, and to Lucky, ‘Good to see you, sir.’

‘Hello, Mrs Hodgeman.’ Lucky gave her a special grin, aware that no amount of urging would make her call him ‘Lucky’ – at least not under the doctor’s roof. Under the doctor’s roof he would always be ‘sir’.

Peggy found it bizarre. She realised that Lucky and Ruth, being European, might not find it so, but she certainly did. Mrs Hodgeman was an outback Australian. Her worn and weathered look and her accent said she was a woman of the land – Peggy knew such women well – but her manner, her servility was very strange. In fact, Peggy was finding the whole household strange, a fragment of Europe, complete with its class distinction, transplanted right here in Cooma.

Then Mrs Hodgeman disappeared and Kevin arrived with the wines, which Peggy found even more bizarre. Maarten didn’t introduce the young man – he simply announced that they were having beef tonight.

‘Which will it be, the Bordeaux or the Burgundy?’ he asked as he took the two bottles from Kevin and rose from his armchair to present them to Lucky, who was sitting on the sofa with Peggy.

‘Hello, Kevin,’ Lucky said. As always, he didn’t like the dismissive way Maarten treated the young man, but his friendly recognition did the boy no favours. Kevin ducked his head, more shy than ever with other people present.

‘I’ve absolutely no idea, Maarten,’ Lucky said, not bothering to examine the labels on the bottles. ‘I’m sure we’re all happy to bow to your judgement.’

‘Very well, we’ll have a palate test then.’ Maarten was pleased; he loved a discussion of good wines. ‘Decant them both,’ he said to Kevin.

Having been careful not to make eye contact with anyone, Kevin virtually backed out of the room.

Lucky didn’t dare glance at Peggy. He knew she found Maarten’s peremptory attitude offensive and this treatment of Kevin disgraceful, but it was just Maarten’s way, he thought. The Dutchman was trying too hard to impress perhaps, but he was lonely, he enjoyed entertaining, and he was behaving in the manner to which he’d no doubt been accustomed in his homeland. Lucky preferred the Australian way himself, and he would freely admit the fact to Peggy when they got home and she ranted about snobbery, but for now he hoped she would exercise a little self-control. When Peggy saw what she perceived as an injustice she could be very outspoken.

‘And how is poor Violet, Peggy?’ Maarten asked as he picked up a napkin and side plate from the large coffee table and helped himself to the hors d’oeuvres. He’d gathered that Peggy was very close to the girl, and it seemed the right thing to ask, under the circumstances. ‘I believe her physical state is stable and she won’t lose the baby, is that right?’ It was what he’d heard.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Peggy replied.

‘How fortunate,’ he said. ‘I was very concerned, given her outbreak at the funeral, that there may have been repercussions.’

‘There were none.’ Peggy’s tone was curt.

‘I’m so glad,’ he replied, faking sincerity. How dare the schoolteacher speak to him like that?

‘It must have been very hard for you, Maarten.’ Ruth tried to cover the uncomfortable gap in the conversation. She was surprised Peggy had sounded so abrupt. Surely the doctor deserved some sympathy. ‘Such a terrible thing to have happened – he was so very young.’

‘Indeed, most shocking.’ How like Ruth to show tact and diplomacy, he thought; she was a woman of style, unlike the crass little schoolteacher. ‘It’s always sad to lose a patient, but as you say, Ruth, one so young …’ Maarten shook his head sadly. ‘Edith and I did everything humanly possible, but he was gone, poor boy. Edith herself was most upset. I gave her several days off work to recuperate, she was so affected.’

‘Do you think we could change the subject?’ It was Peggy, being brittle again.

‘Of course, my dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.’ The little schoolteacher was showing herself in a most unfavourable light, he thought. She was not only plain, she was waspish. He sensed that she didn’t much like him. Well, the feeling was mutual, he thought.

‘Peggy’s quite right,’ he said, ‘it’s not a night to be maudlin. And when all’s said and done,’ he smiled at Ruth, ‘we cannot undo the past, can we?’ He looked at her for just a fraction too long, and, not sure what to say, Ruth nodded politely.

Maarten turned to Lucky. ‘It’s your choice, my friend,’ he said. ‘What shall we talk about?’

‘The Cooma Show,’ Lucky said. ‘Why not? Everyone else is – only a fortnight to go now.’

It was an innocuous and wise choice, and the awkwardness of the moment passed. Ruth had heard of little else but the Cooma Show for the past week, she said. Well, apart from Pietro, she thought. She was interested to learn all about the forthcoming event, which was obviously of such local significance.

‘Peggy’s the expert – she’s on the committee, has been for years.’ Lucky sensed that Peggy was regretting her abruptness. The others didn’t realise, he thought, that her brittle manner was simply her way of coping.

Peggy gratefully seized on the chance to vindicate herself. She spoke briefly about the Show’s importance to the district and the impact the advent of the Snowy Scheme had had upon it, but she mainly amused them with stories of local rivalry.

They were still talking about the Show when Mrs Hodgeman announced that dinner was ready.

‘Shall we adjourn?’ Maarten said, and he led the way through to the dining room.

Where was she? Peggy wondered as they entered the room. It certainly wasn’t Cooma. A dining table that could have seated twelve was set for four with Dresden china, silver cutlery, damask napkins and crystal wine goblets. A huge floral arrangement was placed at the far end of the table as if to disguise the absence of other guests, and a candelabra with four lit candles sat in the centre, alongside two huge silver domed platters, a crystal bowl of steamed green vegetables, a silver gravy boat and a condiment set. Mrs Hodgeman stood by, waiting for them to be seated, and Kevin hovered beside her, a decanter of wine held reverently in his terrified hands.

Maarten indicated where they were to sit and, as Lucky pulled out Peggy’s chair and sat beside her, the brief look she gave him spoke multitudes. He had told her that Maarten was a lonely man, and she understood what he meant now. Maarten Vanpoucke longed for more than company, she thought. He longed for another world.

‘Forgive me,’ Maarten said, seating himself beside Ruth, ‘but with just the four of us I thought we’d keep the meal simple, Australian style, and forgo an entrée. But I promise Mrs Hodgeman will make up for it with dessert.’

Kevin poured a taste of wine for Maarten, and Mrs Hodgeman unveiled the platters – eye fillet already carved, glistening pink, and roast vegetables laid out decoratively in rows. As she started to serve, Maarten swirled the wine in the glass, held it up to the light, sniffed it and gave a satisfied nod.

While Kevin filled the guests’ glasses with the utmost care, the conversation from the lounge room continued.

‘The best thing about the Cooma Show,’ Lucky announced, ‘is the ball. I’m sorry, Peggy,’ he said in mock apology, ‘but you can keep your prize heifers and wood-choppers and showjumpers. For me, it’s the ball.’ He grinned at her. Remember, his eyes asked, remember when you invited me to the ball and flaunted our relationship the way you did?

‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes answering that she remembered vividly. How could she forget? ‘The ball is always exciting, particularly if you’re fond of dancing.’ They’d danced till they were ready to drop that night.

The intimacy of their exchange was quite obvious to the others, but of far greater interest to Maarten was Ruth’s reaction to it. She was happy for Lucky, he realised as he glanced at her. She was actually happy that her husband had found a new love. The two had severed their ties completely: she was free. Maarten felt exhilarated.

‘You must come along with us, Ruth.’ Peggy hauled herself back to the conversation, a little flustered, aware that she and Lucky had been eminently readable. ‘We could invite Rob Harvey and make up a four.’

Behind his spectacles, Maarten’s eyes flashed angrily. How dare the little schoolteacher interfere, and who was this Rob Harvey? Of what importance to Ruth was he? He distracted himself by examining his glass of wine, giving it a swirl, another inhalation.

‘Rob Harvey and I are just friends,’ Ruth gently corrected Peggy. She wanted no misunderstanding – she wasn’t ready to be paired off with anyone yet.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought …’ Peggy realised that in her flustered state she’d been rather tactless, so she decided to make a joke of it. ‘Just as well,’ she said, ‘he’s a terrible dancer.’

‘So I gathered.’ The women shared a smile. It was another reference to the night they’d met and they liked each other for it.

Maarten’s anger turned instantly to elation. Ruth had been sending him a message – she wanted him to know she was unattached. She was already attracted to Maarten Vanpoucke; the chemistry they’d always shared was making itself felt.

‘I’m very fond of dancing myself,’ he said, smiling at the schoolteacher; he forgave her now. ‘In fact, I’m quite an expert in the tango.’ He turned to Ruth. ‘But they probably don’t tango in Cooma,’ he said, intimating a worldliness they had in common. She must have noted that the two of them were a cut above the others: the schoolteacher was crass, and for all his style Lucky had developed a common Australian streak.

‘I don’t tango, I’m afraid,’ Ruth said. ‘I never learned how.’ Maarten seemed to be inferring they shared a love of the tango, she thought. It was rather odd.

‘Ah well,’ he smiled forgivingly, ‘perhaps I can teach you. I’ve learned from the best – no-one tangos as they do in Buenos Aires.’

‘Oh, you’ve been to Buenos Aires?’ she asked with interest.

‘Yes, I worked there briefly after the war for a Dutch medical centre,’ he replied. He wondered why he’d brought up Buenos Aires; he’d never spoken of the place since he’d been in Australia. Probably just to impress her, he thought. But it had paid off, he’d caught her attention.

‘I’ve always wanted to go there,’ Ruth said. ‘Is it as colourful as they say?’

‘More so. More colourful than one can imagine.’ He would take her to Buenos Aires, he decided. He would take her anywhere in the world she wanted to go.

‘Do start, everyone,’ he said. He would have preferred to have continued his personal conversation with Ruth, but Mrs Hodgeman had served them all and left the room.

‘A toast.’ He raised his glass. ‘To old friends reunited, and to new friendships forged.’

It was a strange toast, enigmatic, but to Lucky and Ruth very pertinent and their eyes met briefly as they raised their glasses.

‘To friendship,’ they all said.

The meal and particularly the wine dominated the conversation, Maarten insisting they try the Burgundy after the Bordeaux, and there was a German Spätlese to go with the dessert – individual crème caramels. Mrs Hodgeman had done herself proud.

They were all quite mellow as they retired to the lounge for coffee, port and petits fours. Maarten turned on the gramophone and Chopin’s Nocturnes playing quietly in the background.

‘Not for me thanks, Kevin,’ Lucky said as the young man offered him a port.

‘A Cognac perhaps?’ Maarten asked; the women, too, had declined the port.

‘Coffee’s fine, thanks, Maarten.’

‘Ah well,’ he gestured at the Cognac bottle, ‘it’s just me then,’ and Kevin fetched a brandy balloon from the cabinet.

When they were all settled with their coffees, Maarten leaned back contentedly in his armchair. ‘The king of all instruments,’ he said, referring to the piano now playing Chopin’s Nocturne in G minor. They all agreed and it led to a discussion of music.

Peggy’s tastes were eclectic. She rather liked modern music, she said. She was very fond of jazz, and blues, and even some country. But she couldn’t quite come to terms with the latest rock and roll craze.

‘There must be something in it, I suppose, to drive the youth mad the way it does, but I’m afraid its attraction escapes me. I’m probably too old,’ she smiled. ‘It just sounds like noise.’

Maarten had feigned attention, but the schoolteacher’s views held no interest for him. ‘And what sort of music do you like, Ruth?’ he asked.

‘I’m very fond of Italian lyric opera,’ she said, ‘particularly Verdi and Puccini.’

As she said it, Lucky could hear her favourite aria from La Bohème, Ruth’s true, sweet voice singing Rachel to sleep.

Ruth looked at him and knew exactly what he was thinking. Samuel was remembering. For a second or so they shared thoughts of Rachel, before Ruth quickly returned her attention to her half-finished coffee.

The moment had gone unobserved by Peggy, but not by Maarten. He had seen all too clearly the raw, tender exchange. No, no, he thought, we will not have that. We will have no rekindling of old flames. Their love was dead, a thing of the past: he had the claim on Ruth now. And he had power over her too. She simply needed to recognise it.

The evening was wearing a little thin, Maarten decided. He wanted Lucky and the schoolteacher to go. He needed to be alone with Ruth.

Skolling the last of his Cognac, he stood, brandy balloon in hand, and crossed to where the drinks sat on the sideboard.

‘Are you sure I can’t interest anyone in a nightcap?’ he asked, holding up a bottle and looking a query at them in the sideboard mirror.

As he’d anticipated, the offer prompted their departure.

‘No thanks, Maarten.’ Lucky rose from his chair. ‘I think we’d better be on our way.’

The women also stood.

‘So soon?’ He turned to face them. ‘What a pity.’

‘Thank you for an excellent evening.’ Lucky shook Maarten’s hand.

‘Yes,’ Peggy agreed, ‘and do thank Mrs Hodgeman for us. And Kevin too,’ she couldn’t resist adding.

‘Of course, thank you so much for coming.’ Before Ruth could offer her thanks, he turned to Lucky. ‘You walked, you said?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But Dodds is in the opposite direction.’ How convenient, he thought. ‘You must allow me to escort Ruth back to her hotel.’

‘No, no, we’re more than happy to do that, aren’t we, Peggy?’

Peggy nodded.

‘I’m quite capable of walking on my own.’ Ruth smiled.

‘We wouldn’t hear of it, my dear,’ Maarten insisted. ‘Please do allow me – a stroll in the night air would do me the world of good.’

‘Thank you,’ Ruth gave in with good grace, there was no other option, ‘it’s very kind.’

‘Not at all, I’ll just see Lucky and Peggy to the front door.’

‘We can see ourselves out,’ Lucky said.

‘I insist.’

Lucky and Peggy said their goodnights to Ruth, and Maarten ushered them out onto the landing, turning back at the door.

‘I won’t be long, my dear,’ he said, ‘pour yourself another coffee.’

She sat, resigned; she didn’t want another coffee.

Peggy left with the distinct impression that Maarten was interested in Ruth. Poor Ruth, she thought. The man was so detestably arrogant.

Through the open door to the landing, Ruth could hear the three of them talking as they walked down the stairs. Then the talking stopped and she heard the front door close.

She wanted to go home; she was weary, but she suspected the man would pursue further conversation.

It appeared she was right.

‘Now, where were we?’ Maarten asked as he closed the door behind him. ‘Ah yes, that’s right, Italian lyric opera …’

She stood. ‘I really think it’s time I left, Maarten, I’m rather tired …’

‘Of course, my dear, of course, just one quick coffee and then we’ll be on our way, I promise.’

He poured her a fresh cup from the jug on the coffee table, and Ruth sat again, feeling irritated. The man was becoming wearing.

‘Personally I find Italian tenors a little brassy, and sopranos on occasion too shrill,’ he said, pouring himself another Cognac, ‘but I do believe there is no instrument finer than the human voice, particularly when joined in perfect harmony.’

He studied her in the sideboard mirror as she sipped at her coffee. How glorious she looked, he thought, sitting here in this room which so perfectly suited her. It was where she belonged.

‘I’m a great admirer of choral arrangements,’ he continued. “‘Va Pensiero”, the chorus of exiles from Nabucco – quite splendid.’ He took a swig of his Cognac. ‘Verdi, Ruth …’

She looked up at the mention of her name, and he smiled at her in the mirror.

‘… as you said, one of your favourite composers.’

She returned his smile politely. ‘Yes, it’s a beautiful piece of music.’ She would allow five minutes, she decided, then she would leave with or without him.

He placed the brandy balloon on the sideboard and crossed to the gramophone, replacing the Chopin record with another.

Good God, she thought, did he expect her to sit here and listen to music with him all night? She’d said she wanted to go home. The man’s arrogance was extraordinary.

‘I’m particularly fond of close harmony groups,’ he said, ‘so long as they’re good, of course.’

He took off his spectacles and placed them in his pocket. If the boy had recognised him, he thought, then surely she should. All she needed was a little prompting.

The needle found its groove on the record; there was a slight scratchiness to start with.

He moved behind her chair, watching her in the mirror as the music began.

Ruth leaned forward to place her cup on the coffee table, deciding she would leave right then.

Schöne Nacht, du Liebesnacht …

She froze. The Comedian Harmonists.

O stille mein Verlangen …

‘Barcarole’. Of all pieces, why had he chosen that?

Süsser als der Tag und lacht …

She looked up at the mirror and saw he was standing directly behind her.

Die schöne Liebesnacht.

He was smiling, and the eyes that met hers were the eyes of Klaus Henkel.

The cup clattered to the polished wooden floor, coffee spilling onto the nearby Persian carpet.

‘Es war eine lange Zeit, Ruth,’ he said.