Free Shame and the Captives by Thomas Keneally Page B

nodded.
    â€œThe stupid question,” he said, condemning himself.
    â€œNo, it isn’t. It’s accents, that’s all. Let me pour you some tea.”
    She did it as they both stood. He didn’t want milk or sugar when she asked him about them. Strange, he didn’t want sugar. But a welcome response, given the stuff was rationed. She slid fruitcake from a dish on the tray to his saucer and handed him the lot.
    â€œWife of boss?” he asked, nodding at her.
    â€œNo. I’m Mr. Herman’s daughter. Daughter-in-law, in fact.”
    â€œDaughter?”
    â€œIn-law. I am married to his son, Neville.”
    He understood and showed it by saying, “Missus ’Erman” softly, nodding.
    She thought he had a measured voice compared to hers. Compared to everyone she knew. It seemed to move in meters, like Shakespeare.
    â€œYou have what you need in here?” she asked.
    â€œAll A-1,” he assured her. “All sweet.”
    He must have learned those terms from the guards, she thought. But still he did not touch either the cup or cake, and seemed to wait for permission.
    â€œGo ahead,” she told him firmly.
    He nodded to the tray she had already put down.
    â€œFor you, signora?”
    â€œNo, I’ve had some.”
    But he seemed still to wait for instructions. “Look,” she said, “I’ll leave you, and when you’re finished, bring the tray . . . the tray there . . . up to the house. To the back door there. Gate’s always open.”
    She edged out of the door and indicated the direction of the back door. He nodded again, and she noticed how the bones showed through the flesh of the tops of his hands when he flexed them for the small task of lifting the cup.
    â€œ Grazie ,” he called to her, “Missus ’Erman.”
    â€œAnd don’t forget,” she said, enjoying giving him orders. “Bring it back to the kitchen door. The other side of the break of gums and through the fruit trees.”
    â€œSure thing, signora,” he murmured.
    An Americanism. She could bet he got “all sweet” from the garrison and “sure thing” from the American films shown up there at the compound.
    She couldn’t stay any longer and still maintain her hauteur and her authority.
    Later, without ceremony, when he’d moved his chair and table outside onto the shearers’ quarters’ veranda, she delivered his evening meal, which Australians—without any sense of contradiction—also called tea. She did it without ceremony and with just a few words.
    The next morning, a hot one again, Alice found Giancarlo Molisano already milking the cow, Dotty. Duncan must have told him to. He brought the full bucket to the door and she took it, with no more than a thank-you, and poured it into the separator and began to crank the handle. It became obvious, though she did not yet say so to Duncan, that it would be most convenient if the Italian had his breakfast on the veranda, instead of her having to take his porridge and cream and his bread down to the shearers’ quarters. But it was somehow not time for such a suggestion yet. Things were not to be rushed.
    So she carried another tray down to him this morning, and found him sitting on the veranda by his pine table. Although he stood in a courtly manner, she put down the breakfast with barely a word and went away. She was making up, of course, for having talked at length yesterday. She thought if she began a conversation, it would run on too long, and there was the question of what Duncan might think. She also enjoyed making her own mysteries to keep the Italian wondering. She didn’t know who he really was yet, and she should work him out before he worked out Duncan and her.

6
    B y 1943 Ewan Abercare had few illusions left that this war was going to elevate him to general rank. He realized by now that he was one of those men of limited gifts who