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  From stage actor and international television star to blockbuster, best-selling author, Judy Nunn’s career has been meteoric.

  Her first forays into adult fiction resulted in what she describes as her ‘entertainment set’. The Glitter Game, Centre Stage and Araluen, three novels set in the worlds of television, theatre and film respectively, each became an instant bestseller.

  Next came her ‘city set’. Kal, a fiercely passionate novel about men and mining set in Kalgoorlie; Beneath the Southern Cross, a mammoth achievement chronicling the story of Sydney since first European settlement; and Territory, a tale of love, family and retribution set in Darwin. Territory took Australia by storm, making Judy one of the nation’s top-selling fiction writers, and her following novel, Pacific, set principally in Vanuatu, met with equal success.

  Her next work, Heritage, a thriller based in the 1950s and set in the Snowies during the construction of the massive Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme, embraces post-war immigration and the birth of multiculturalism. The resounding critical and commercial success of Heritage has consolidated Judy’s position as one of this country’s leading fiction writers. Floodtide, Judy’s ninth novel, is set in the ‘Iron Ore State’, Western Australia, and reveals, through three decades, the loss of innocence of a population caught up in the greed and avarice of the mining boom.

  Judy Nunn’s fame as a novelist is spreading rapidly. Her books are now published throughout Europe in English, German, French, Dutch and Czech.

  Judy lives with her husband, actor-author Bruce Venables, on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

  By the same author

  The Glitter Game

  Centre Stage

  Araluen

  Beneath the Southern Cross

  Territory

  Pacific

  Heritage

  Floodtide

  Maralinga

  Children’s fiction

  Eye in the Storm

  Eye in the City

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Kal

  ePub ISBN 9781742742021

  Kindle ISBN 9781742742038

  An Arrow Book

  Published by Random House Australia

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  Sydney New York Toronto

  London Auckland Johannesburg

  First published by Random House Australia 1996

  This Arrow edition published 2006, 2007

  Copyright © Judy Nunn 1996

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Nunn, Judy.

  Kal.

  ISBN 978 1 74166 596 3 (pbk.).

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  To my mother, Margaret Anne Nunn, whose childhood

  years were spent in Kal. Thanks, ‘Nancy’, you’re an

  inspiration.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to especially thank my husband Bruce Venables and Jane Palfreyman for their invaluable assistance in the creation of this book.

  A special thanks to Marg Mason of the Kalgoorlie-Boulder Tourist Centre and the many helpful people in Kalgoorlie to whom I spoke, particularly Pud and Vera Mann, Lorna Mitchell and the late, and sadly missed, Keith Quartermaine.

  Thanks also to Maddalena Sanders, Caterina Panuccio and Dr Robert Muller.

  Last but not least, my thanks to my friend and researcher, Robyn Gurney, for her tireless and inspirational struggle through the military history of World War I.

  I am indebted to Walter C. Belford and his fascinating account of the 11th Battalion, Legs Eleven.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the author

  By the same author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  BOOK ONE: The Migrants 1892

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  BOOK TWO: The Miners 1900

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  BOOK THREE: The Soldiers 1914

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  BENEATH THE SOUTHERN CROSS: Bonus Chapter Sampler

  MORE By the same author

  ‘Vide ’o mare quant’e bello,

  Spira tantu sentimento,

  Comme tu a chi tiene mente,

  Ca scetato ’o faie sunna.’

  A light snowfall started to blanket the earth as the men’s voices rang out across the mountainside. The men ignored the snow as they squatted around the open fire, clutching their mugs of red wine, their coat collars raised, their woollen caps pulled down over their ears.

  ‘Guarda, gua’, chistu ciardino;

  Siente, sie’ sti sciure arance …’

  Giovanni’s voice was raised above the others’. Although the youngest worker at the camp, he was the only one who could play the concertina and he always led the evening song. Besides, he had by far the finest voice. At least that’s what Rico thought as he glanced fondly at his younger brother as they sang the haunting ‘Torna a Surriento’. Several of the dozen or so men sang well, and all were of robust voice, but Giovanni, with his fine natural tenor, was a joy to the ear.

  Half an hour later the men acknowledged defeat—the snowfall had all but extinguished the fire—and, with mugs freshly refilled, they retreated to their tents. But, from Giovanni and Rico’s tent, the concertina played on.

  ‘‘Vide ’o mare quant’e bello …’

  Gradually, the men joined in and, from tent to tent, their voices once more rang out until the wine was finished and it was time to sleep.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING it was Rico who first saw the four figures trudging up the mountain track, their bulky wool-clad bodies black against the snow.

  They looked tiny in the distance. Four dark dots. But then everything looked tiny in the Alps. Even the fir trees, thirty, forty feet high and shaggy with snow, were dwarfed by the landscape. And in the summer months, free of their white disguise, the massive grey boulders, some of which were as large
as the village church, looked like pebbles on the side of the mountain.

  But amongst the magnitude of nature’s architecture it was the village itself that looked tiniest of all. Nestled in the valley far below and built of rock quarried from the very mountains which dwarfed it, the village looked defiant. Its church bell rang importantly on Sundays, its stone chimneypots puffed busy smoke into the Alpine air, and its people lived their lives ignoring nature’s surrounding statement that human existence might not be of vast importance in the ultimate scheme of things. Against the backdrop of the mountain splendour, the village and its people were a testament to the wonderful audacity of man.

  That it was Rico who first saw the girls was no accident—he’d been watching for Teresa since the dawn light first cut the icy air. While the men scraped clear the small stone fireplace and fetched dry wood from their tents to boil their mugs of thick, black coffee, Rico stood stamping his heavy work boots in the snow, his black eyes searching the track to the village for the first sign of the girls.

  ‘She is coming,’ he said to Giovanni as his brother handed him a tin mug of scalding coffee, so hot he could feel the warmth of the metal through his thick leather working gloves. ‘See? There.’ He pointed. ‘She is coming.’

  It wasn’t long before the other men noticed the girls and gathered to whistle and heckle as they passed by.

  There were always girls climbing the mountain at this time of the year, peasant girls from nearby villages and farms, crossing the Alps to work in the chalets during the heavy tourist season when extra chambermaids and serving girls were required. The workers always whistled and heckled—but nothing more. They themselves were peasants, employed by the government to work in the stone quarries, or to chop the timber for railway sleepers, or to dig the railroad tunnels and service the tracks through and over the Alps. They came from similar farms and villages and they knew the girls to be good Italian virgins, just like their sisters. They would never dream of accosting them.

  For the most part the girls enjoyed the flirtation. Some pretended they didn’t and marched past with their noses in the air but, more often than not, they smiled saucily at the men and called out their own cheeky responses as they walked on.

  This morning, though, was different. This morning the girls stopped.

  ‘Teresa!’ Rico ran to the tallest of the group. He took her in his arms, lifted her into the air and kissed her passionately. She returned his kiss with equal ardour and the heckling died away as the men watched in envy. The couple’s lips finally parted and, arm in arm, they walked several paces away where, oblivious to their onlookers, they again fell into each other’s embrace.

  Giovanni was the first to initiate a conversation with one of the other girls. She had been standing closest to Teresa as the couple kissed and had stared with open-mouthed fascination at their passion.

  Teresa and the other two girls wore heavy skirts hitched up at the waist with twine to prevent the hems from dragging in the snow. However, the raised hemlines revealed no tempting display of ankle, just heavy walking shoes and thick woven leggings. They wore bulky overcoats and large woollen shawls draped over their heads and shoulders.

  The girl who attracted Giovanni’s attention was different. She wore men’s trousers, far too big for her, tied at the waist with a length of rope. Through the open front of her coat the swell of her breasts was visible beneath the coarse fabric of her shirt. A long woollen scarf was woven around her head and neck in the style that many men adopted when they worked in the bitter cold.

  Giovanni walked over to her. ‘You look like a boy.’

  She glanced down at the trousers. ‘They are my brother’s,’ she answered. ‘I did not want my skirt to be ruined.’

  Each of the girls was carrying a knapsack, on which was tied a pair of snowshoes. As several of the men drifted over, they put their bundles down and prepared to stop for a chat. Giovanni was determined to keep his girl to himself and as she eased her knapsack from her back, he took it from her.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said, managing to edge her to one side. ‘My name is Giovanni.’ The girl gave him a friendly smile and her blue eyes danced, but she did not offer her own name in reply. Her skin was milky white and Giovanni noticed that a wayward auburn curl had escaped the confines of her scarf.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked, fascinated. She was beautiful.

  ‘My family has a farm near Ridanna.’

  ‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘So how do you know Teresa and the other girls? They come from Santa Lena.’

  ‘I do not know them,’ she answered. ‘My father made enquiries. There were no girls from Ridanna climbing the mountain and he did not want me to walk on my own, so he took me to Santa Lena.’ She gave him a cheeky smile. ‘I do not know why Papa did not want me to walk alone—perhaps he worried about the railroad workers.’ Again the blue eyes danced. Laughter bubbled beneath the surface of her beauty.

  Giovanni knew she was joking but he was defensive nevertheless. ‘Oh we mean no harm, we are no danger—’

  ‘I know,’ she laughed. The young man was so serious, she should not make fun of him. ‘I know you are not.’ She cast a glance in Teresa’s direction. The lovers were still in a deep embrace. Rico had taken off his gloves and Teresa’s shawl lay unheeded on the snow as he raked his fingers through her dishevelled hair. A handsome woman with a strong-boned face and wild black tresses, Teresa clung fiercely to Rico’s body as his mouth left her lips and started to travel down her neck. She appeared transported, her mouth open, her eyes closed.

  The girl watched, shocked but fascinated. They were so blatant they might as well have been naked, she thought. They were making love, fully clothed, out here on the snowy mountainside for all to see.

  She was suddenly aware that Giovanni was watching her with as much interest as she was watching Teresa and she averted her eyes, embarrassed.

  Giovanni himself was a little embarrassed by his brother’s behaviour and felt he owed some explanation. ‘Rico is my brother,’ he said. ‘We also come from Santa Lena. He and Teresa have known each other for a long time, they are bound to marry some day.’

  The girl’s momentary confusion was over and her smile was warm. Genuine. ‘They love each other very much. That is good.’

  Then as quickly as Teresa had fallen into Rico’s arms, she thrust him away from her. ‘Enough, Rico, leave me alone,’ she cried laughingly. ‘It is a full day’s walk to Steinach and we must get there before dark.’ He tried to embrace her again but she pushed him away. ‘I will see you in four months,’ she said, picking up her knapsack. She started up the track, turning to wave every few steps, and the other girls followed.

  ‘Goodbye,’ the girl said to Giovanni.

  ‘Goodbye.’ He watched the four of them as they trudged on up the track but he was really only looking at the girl.

  THE FIRST HOUR wasn’t heavy going. The track wound gently around the base of the mountain and there was not much climbing. The girls chattered and breathed puffs of white steam as they walked. It was cold but there was little breeze and the sun’s rays would soon warm the air. It was going to be a fine day.

  The girls were excited, undaunted by the eight-hour trek to Steinach, the little Austrian village on the other side of the mountain where a sleigh would be waiting to take them to the ski resort.

  Teresa and her two friends had worked in chalets for the past two seasons. As they compared notes and giggled at stories about the incompetence of tourist skiers, the girl studied Teresa. Tall, handsome, strong, she wore her woman’s sexuality like a badge of honour. The image of the lovers and their unashamed passion was still fresh in the girl’s mind.

  Caterina had never seen people kiss like that. She had just turned eighteen and she had kissed several boys over the past two years, one of them a number of times. She had even parted her lips for Roberto and once his hand had brushed her breast as if by accident. Her heart had pumped wildly at the time but she had suffered terrib
le pangs of guilt until confession the following Sunday. After that, she avoided Roberto, but she could not keep at bay the memory of his moist lips and the tantalising touch of his hand on her breast.

  And now there was the image of Teresa and Rico. Rico had been strong, virile. He had lifted Teresa from her feet when he had embraced her. Caterina wondered momentarily what it might be like to kiss Rico’s brother, the serious young man, the one who’d said his name was Giovanni. He was certainly very handsome. But she breathed a sigh of frustration and forced the images from her mind. It was not only sinful, it was foolish to torment herself like this. Determined to concentrate instead on the exciting new world that lay ahead, she tuned into the girls’ chatter.

  They were agreeing that it was wise to be especially nice to the Americans—they invariably tipped. The Italians, Austrians, Swiss and Germans rarely did, the English only sparingly and the French never. No, definitely the Americans, they said, and Caterina thought they were very sophisticated.