This story – this vignette from a rather messy and undistinguished life – has never been told before.

This is the first time. Ever. Why? Because I think it is time to come clean. I think the family should know. I think they deserve to be told and I think, too, that they will understand. After all, it happened many years ago and I am now that much older. Three decades older.

So, yes, now is the time.

Gina would also understand — I’m quite sure of that — but I haven’t told her about this confession. Indeed, we haven’t spoken since we said our goodbyes in Italy all those years ago. She’s that much older too and she’s the type of woman — worldly, sophisticated, sensible — who, on hearing of this catharsis, would merely shrug and smile — I’m sure she would smile — and recall her last words to me …

“It is finished, Nico, but we have the memories, yes?” Yes Gina. Oh yes, we have the memories.

It started on an Alitalia flight from Geneva to Rome where I was to stay for a few days on pseudo-business — nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a couple of telephone calls or a brief chat over coffee — before heading home to Australia. I was travelling at the taxpayers’ expense and their generosity allowed me a seat in the first class compartment. There were only three rows — twelve seats in all — and I occupied the port side window seat in the second row. The only other passenger in first class that morning — a woman — was seated across the aisle in the starboard window seat. I didn’t notice her initially, chiefly because the two stewards were fussing over her to the extent that she was mostly hidden from my view.

After we had left the ground and levelled out, the stewards descended on my travelling companion with a most elaborate and heavily stocked drinks trolley. She asked for a Campari and soda, with which she was given some finely chopped egg and onion and accompanying wafers. When my turn came I opted for some champagne — I can’t recall the brand but it certainly wasn’t rough stuff from the bottom shelf — and was given the seemingly obligatory egg, onion and wafers. Now, for those of you young people seeking to get alongside the rich and famous, this next bit could be immensely important to you, tactically. You see, I was going through one of my ‘twirly’ stages at that time — a twirly being a roll-your-own cigarette — and Gina told me later that this was what prompted her to introduce herself. The twirly and the fact that I looked a bit ‘different’. In retrospect, I concluded that this interest was entirely consistent with her background. I’d take odds that Gina would have seen a few twirlies in the nether regions of Naples — and much else besides.

After much rolling, licking and pruning of the protruding bits, the twirly became the accompaniment to my French champagne. Some might consider a twirly and expensive champagne to be poles apart. But not me; nor Gina, as it transpired. And so, after a couple of puffs and a couple of sips .. .

“Please, would you like to join with me? For the drinks?”

It was not until she extended the invitation that I realised who she was. Bloody hell, I thought, the country bumpkin is in the dress circle this time. I muttered that I would be delighted to join her and did so, with almost intemperate haste. And in those few seconds I reflected on what I was wearing, what I would say, did my breath pong, were my nails clean — all those first date questions that I hadn’t asked myself for quite a few years. A low-to-middle ranking public servant only about ten years out of the Australian bush, in this company! I wasn’t nervous. I was terrified.

Holding my twirly

In fact, I had moved across the aisle still holding my twirly and, on settling down next to Gina and introducing ourselves — christian names only — my first move was to bury the twirly in the ash tray.

“No, no’, she said, ‘The smell, I like it. Can I make one also, please, for the smoking?”

“Yes, of course’, I passed her the tobacco and papers, ‘but … do you … ?”

“Si, si. Well, you see, I must remember. I think so.”

She proceeded to create a twirly with the application of a brain surgeon, occasionally glancing at me, not seeking applause but with the kind of look that said ‘I’m going to win this little test, come hell or high water. Even if you are laughing at me on the inside.’ For my part, I was too damned nervous to laugh, even on the inside.

Eventually, she triumphed and it was a very good twirly — well packed, well rolled, well licked. And fewer protruding bits than I had been required to tidy up. I lit it for her and she took a long draw, leaning back into the seat and letting the smoke drift out slowly and up into the air conditioning ducts. She looked at me for a moment, seemingly making a tentative assessment and then …

“So, Mister Englishman, tell me about yourself. What takes you to Roma?”

I explained that I was Australian — not English — and that I had been in Geneva for a conference and would be spending a few days in Rome for meetings. With this she became quite animated, explaining that she had met very few Australians and, glancing at my casual clothes — moleskins, skivvy, blunnies — asked whether I ‘farmed with the sheep’. Now, it is at this point that I must confess that I did not err on the conservative side in explaining my past and present. It is true that I spent part of my school days on a sheep, beef and cropping property and returned there for holidays while I was at high school. It is also true that, many years later — now married with children — I raised some fat lambs when we lived on a few acres ‘out of town’. It is also true that I have never ranked highly in a stockman of the year competition.

“Well, no, not these days’, I drawled, ‘but I’ve moved a fair sized mob in m’time. And I used to be able to kill and dress a two-tooth in about twenty minutes. Not bad for an amateur, you know.”

Her Latin eyes were about the size of dinner plates by this time and she was seemingly unaware of the bit of twirly stuck to her top lip. I became transfixed by that bit of twirly because it wiggled every time she breathed out. Like a little wind sock, it was. Finally, she picked it off and flicked it to the floor. I’m positive that she knew it was there all the time. Now that’s what I call class.

“What is this mob? Like in a revolution but with the sheep?”

“Nah. Not really. A mob is just what we call a lot of sheep that you get together and move from one point to another. Like from one part of the farm to another. Or from your own farm to the saleyards, if the yards aren’t too far away. Or even down the ‘long paddock’ — the side of the road, that is — if you’re in a drought.”

“And this is with the horses? You ride the horses for the moving?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been on a few horses in my time. Horses and good sheep dogs we use.” This was said with a drover’s nonchalance. It was also technically correct. Sort of. I have been on a few horses, mostly very briefly.

“It is not possible perhaps to teach the sheep to follow you? Without the dogs and horses.”

“Nope. Thick as bricks, sheep.’

“Thick? Thick as the bricks?” The Chips Rafferty style obviously needed some modification.

“Sorry. It means they’re stupid. Silly as wheels. Not Nobel Prize winners, the sheep. None of them.’

Our sheep are very friendly

This was a tactical mistake because she went all dark and silent. Oops, I thought, we might have a problem here. Maybe she’s a bit of a Bardot and wants to save all the animals.

“Our Italian sheep are very friendly. They follow the farmers.”

Yeh, both of them, I thought.

It was time to recover the situation. I explained how docile and obedient our sheep dogs are and how they are taught not to bite or otherwise be nasty to the sheep. I also explained that the very magnitude of the flocks made individual sheep tuition a massive challenge. She was mollified by this and I prayed silently that she had not picked up the bit about killing and dressing a two-tooth!

And so she went back to her cross-examination, her animation and good humour quickly returning. It was directed at me and Australia, mostly the latter. Much as I tried to get a question in, I failed. No inside scandal on Anthony Quinn’s love life or Burton’s boozing. Nothing except a shudder and a sharp curl of the lip when I mentioned Sinatra’s name in passing.

She was interested in people and wildlife; sport and the outdoors; the arts, especially theatre and dance — she had met Finch and knew of Helpmann; the cities and the bush. A real little glutton for information she was. And, much to my surprise, she was certainly little. Tiny in fact. Oh well, I thought, they reckon they had to stand Alan Ladd on a box when he was required to kiss an actress of normal height. So, Gina is small. So what? All the necessary bits and pieces seemed to be in place. Little can be lovely, too.

What fascinated her most was to learn that I had spent most of World War II on our family farm in Australia, with an Italian prisoner-of-war as very much part of the family. More importantly from Gina’s viewpoint, Rafaele had come from her own territory — from Naples or, at least, nearby.

And then came the shock

His family had a small orange grove on the lower slopes of Mount Vesuvius. In fact, much to Gina’s delight, I could recall a few lines from a song that Rafaele had taught me and which was sung by the pickers during the orange harvest.

And then came the shock.

“You will enjoy Firenze. Florence. It is very beautiful.”

“I’m sure it is but I’m going to Rome.”

“Yes, you said Roma but you said it was only for little work. Not important work you said. Nico, you will be my guest in Florence. I will show you my city. Yes?”

By this time she had moved closer and was purring at my shoulder, gazing up at me. A rush of expensive perfume and big soft brown eyes and parted lips and the fetching little mole on her cheek. Normally, I might have been tempted to test the authenticity of the mole but not this time. This was heavy stuff. You have odd thoughts at moments like these, mine being to remind myself to get the name of the perfume, That’s the sort of stuff the wife would like, I thought. The whole set-up was getting pretty damned complicated; bizarre in fact. But she was quite right — there was very little to do in Rome and it could indeed be handled by a couple of phone calls. I diverted her by saying I thought she lived in Naples, to which she replied that she lived in many places. And snuggled a little closer, her breath coming in short puffs, her eyes misting over. As a gesture in decision deferral, I gave her a peck on the forehead. But Gina was not to be swayed. On the contrary, the peck was interpreted as endorsement of her plan.

“Ah, Nico. Thankyou. Grazie. Grazie. We drive straight from the airport. My driver, he is there to meet us. You make your telephone business from Florence. You will enjoy what we do in Florence.” With that she gave me a gentle kiss on the lips, after which she stayed close, her eyes taking in my bent nose and retreating sunburn.

Gina had decided. The trip from Geneva was over. The discussion was over. The rest was the future. The immediate future. Gina and Nico in Florence.

About six months later I couldn’t hold it any longer. I took a friend aside — my best friend in fact — and told him about my experience with Gina.

“Oh mate’, he said, ‘ you poor bugger. I can understand. I really can. Exactly the same thing happened to me with Liz Taylor on a PanAm flight from London to New York a couple of years ago. Let me tell you, old son, I was in a proper bloody state when I woke up.”

Oh well, at least the perfume went down a treat.

Nick Evers