‘I remember that print of the Madonna with a blue veil you had in the old house, was that one of his?’ Alex asked.
‘Yes, the Virgin Annunciata. We had the same print in our room at primary school,’ Antonello volunteered.
‘I gave it to your father as a wedding gift,’ Paolina said.
Antonello thought about all the stories he had not told his children, stories and memories he had locked away and kept to himself. Stories he would never have the chance to tell Ashleigh. But it wasn’t too late to tell his children and his remaining grandchildren — Jane and Thomas.
It was sunset. Paolina, exhausted, had fallen asleep on the couch, and the house was quiet. Antonello unfolded the rug and covered her. He watched her sleeping. She was beautiful; she was his home.
He left the house and headed back to the bridge, long and lean in the distance. It was oblivious to its own history, to the blood and bones crushed and buried under the silt and mud, beneath the concrete.
A neighbour waved as she stepped out of her front gate with her cocker spaniel, and then she pointed to two teenage boys sitting in the gutter smoking, and frowned. Antonello kept going without responding, making his way past the Mobil Oil terminal, the tanks glistening under the setting sun. Across the road, Jo’s house looked dark and tired, but a Sold sticker over the For Sale sign promised a chance at another life.
As he approached the bridge, Antonello could see the West Gate memorial plaque was surrounded by dozens of floral bouquets and wreaths, left over from the anniversary ceremony. He made his way to the small white cross that marked the place where his granddaughter died; he bent down, touched the cross, and whispered, I love you. Ashleigh and Bob and Slav were no more. Paolina might not make it to the end of the year. Death was everywhere — but so was life. And for the moment, he was alive.
Acknowledgements
When the West Gate collapsed during construction in 1970, I was a schoolgirl, living with my brother and working-class migrant parents in Yarraville, less than ten minutes drive from the bridge. The thirty-five men who died were workers whose employers failed to ensure a safe workplace. It is Victoria’s largest industrial accident, and it has haunted me for more than forty years. The real cost of progress is often borne by the working class, but while politicians, designers, and engineers might make it into the history books, the workers are forgotten. This novel is a work of fiction and none of the characters are based on real people. However, I have written it as a tribute to the men who built the West Gate Bridge — the victims and the survivors — and their families, to give voice to their stories.
This novel is also dedicated to my dear friend Teresa Corcoran, who passed away in 2005, and who believed we each have a responsibility to leave the world a little better than we found it. She was a humanitarian, storyteller, teacher, and gardener. I continue to miss our long and animated conversations, which always included lots of laughter and politics.
A substantial part of this novel was written while I was working as a full-time academic at Victoria University. My thanks go to the university, the College of Arts, and my colleagues for their support. I would also like to thank the City of Melbourne’s Arts Grant Program and Victoria University for funding that provided some of the time and space for me to focus on the novel.
My gratitude to Patricia Hayes, who was my research assistant in 2011 and spent time digging up archival materials on the West Gate; to John Tully, for talking to me about rigging; to the staff of the University of Melbourne Student Union Advocacy and Legal Service, who gave me advice about sentencing lengths and conditions for culpable and dangerous driving; and especially Danny Gardiner, from the West Gate Bridge Memorial Committee, who provided some archival materials and stories early on in the project and later read and provided feedback on a draft of the West Gate sections of the novel. I would like to acknowledge the work of the West Gate Bridge Memorial Committee and their website (http://www.westgatebridge.org/), which documents the collapse of the West Gate and commemorates the lives lost; Bill Hitchings’ book West Gate, published by Outback Press in 1979; and the many Melburnians I have met along the way who, when they heard I was writing about the West Gate Bridge disaster, shared their memories and recollections. I am grateful to everyone who was willing to offer their knowledge and experience. However, the facts are not always clear. While my aim has been to stay true to the historical circumstances of the collapse, not everything is known and sources differ.
To all my friends and family who have continued to show interest in my work, and faith in my ability to tell this story, my ongoing gratitude for your friendship and love. In particular I would like to thank:
Deb Warren and Robyn Williams, for their generous hospitality and for providing an inspiring space in which various sections of this novel were written.
My gifted readers for their thoughtful and insightful feedback: Helen Cerne, Barbara Brook, Bruno Annetta, and Megan Evans, who read a full draft of the manuscript, and Susan Holmes and Bronwen Hickman, who read various sections.
Vivienne Hadj, Helen Cerne, and Arty Owens for their enthusiasm and readiness to engage in long conversations about writing and literature, about life, about politics, and about the West Gate. These discussions have helped shape my thinking and my writing.
My gratitude to Alice Pung for making the time to read this novel and for her generosity and support.
I would like to thank everyone at Scribe Publications and especially my editor, Julia Carlomagno, for her perceptive and scrupulous editing, and for her commitment to and belief in the novel. The Bridge has been enhanced by her input. And thanks to David Golding for shepherding the novel in its final stages from manuscript to book.
Special thanks to my husband, Bruno Annetta, who has lived with this project as long as I have, for the thousands of conversations, for his love and partnership, and for his passion, generosity, and creative spirit; for believing in me even when I don’t believe in myself and for making every day a joy.
About the Author
Enza Gandolfo is a Melbourne writer and honorary professor in creative writing at Victoria University. She is interested in the power of stories to create understanding and empathy, with a focus on feminist and political fiction. Enza’s first novel, Swimming (2009), was shortlisted for the Barbara Jefferis Award. She also writes short stories and essays, and has co-authored three books, including Inventory: on op shops (2007) and It Keeps Me Sane: women craft wellbeing (2009).
Copyright
Scribe Publications
18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia
2 John Street, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom
First published by Scribe 2018
Copyright © Enza Gandolfo 2018
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into 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 publishers of this book.
9781925713015 (paperback edition)
9781925548938 (e-book edition)
A CiP record for this title is available from the National Library of Australia.