The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean by Robertson Mira;

Author:Robertson, Mira;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Schwartz Publishing Pty, Limited

17

LIFE AT MOUNT PROSPECT CONTINUED to follow its usual pattern, which for Emily included her furtive morning visits to William’s workshop during the time that Eunice was absorbed in her piano practice. Now there was a new addition: by late afternoon she and Claudio were often to be found at the outdoor dining table, working their way through Henry Lawson’s short stories. Sometimes they abandoned formal lessons, moving to the kitchen garden instead, where Claudio had taken over from Old Stan, the one who had retired because of his rheumatism.

Della was pleased to have him tending the vegetables, and Emily had heard her tell Florrie, ‘Mussolini’s got a real green thumb.’

When together in the kitchen garden they practised conversation. Claudio’s English had improved already under her tutelage. Sometimes Emily tried out her Italian too, for he had taught her some words and phrases. Il mio nome è Emilia. Oggi il cielo è blu.

The Italian words thrilled her with their extravagant and sensual sounds, and it was exciting to speak to him in a language that nobody else knew, even if she was only commenting on the weather or introducing herself. Once he even sang a nursery rhyme to her from his childhood. It began trotta, trotta, bimbalotta. The rhythm of the words made them easy to remember.

‘From my nonna. Is not proper Italian,’ he told her. ‘Is dialetto.’ But it had made him sad, and he did not repeat it.

Today Claudio was staking the tomatoes as she weeded nearby, working along a row of beans. He wore a white singlet and a pair of baggy khaki shorts. In spite of the army’s rules, he no longer wore the magenta-dyed uniform, and not even Eunice seemed inclined to make an issue of it.

From beneath the brim of her straw hat, Emily cast furtive glances in his direction. His arms and shoulders were the colour of burnished copper, a description she couldn’t wait to include in her still-unfinished letter to Dorothy. She poked the weeding fork into the soil at random. The white singlet and baggy khaki shorts would need to be replaced by something more distinguished. He had moved a little way ahead, and she watched a bead of sweat form at the base of his neck, in the hollow just below the edge of his black curls. She felt it burst, salty, on the tip of her tongue, and swallowed hard. The drop of sweat rolled down his spine and sank into the cotton singlet.

Claudio hammered in another stake with the wooden mallet then sat back on his heels. He turned to her, lifting the front of his singlet to wipe the sweat from his face, and she glimpsed his strong pale belly, which made her thrust the weeding fork deep into the ground. She twisted it, pulling out the mallow weed with clods of dark soil still clinging to its roots.

‘What did you do before the war?’ she asked.

‘Ah, before the war. Eat, drink vino, sing.’ He grinned. ‘You?’

She would not be put off.

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