The Baldinis were generous to a fault. Their home was open to all, and their food and wine was there to be shared. And there was never a shortage of those eager to accept the hospitality on offer. The Baldinis were popular.

So why all of a sudden were they vilified? Why was there talk among some that Tony Baldini should be sent to an alien internment camp? And perhaps also his two older sons?

Was it just their Italian-ness? Was it because they ate spaghetti bolognaise and made their own wine? Was it because their home was always ripe with the pungent smell of freshly cooked garlic? Was it because of Tony Baldini’s flamboyance, and his accent, and the fact that his children, despite having been born in Australia, spoke Italian?

Yes, it was all of this. It was every one of these things, and nothing more. There were some among the peaceful citizens of Townsville who suddenly feared those who were no longer merely colourful, but threateningly different.

And there were other citizens who were outraged by the injustice.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ Pete Vickers of the Townsville Daily Bulletin stormed into his editor’s office fuming with rage. ‘They’re talking about sending Tony Baldini to an internment camp! And his sons, too! For God’s sake, Tony’s been here forever and his bloody sons are as Australian as I am —’

‘Yes, yes,’ his boss, Jim Burnet, said, cutting Pete off mid-stream. ‘I’ve heard the word going around, I know there are a few out to cause Tony trouble, but —’

‘Some bastard stuck a sign on his shop window last night saying, Lock up the fascists!’ Pete exclaimed in utter outrage. ‘Tony! A fucking fascist! They’ve got to be joking!’

‘All right, mate, all right. Calm down.’ Jim was accustomed to dousing the flames when it came to young Pete Vickers. Twenty-five-year-old Pete was a volatile bloke. Idealistic, ambitious, passionate about his work and the true purpose of journalism, all of which meant he was a bloody good reporter. But Jim, seasoned newspaper man that he was, recognised a renegade side. The kid has to learn to roll with the punches, he thought.

‘Don’t get yourself too worked up,’ he said.

Seated comfortably behind his desk, Jim watched Pete stride about the office, his awkward gait reminiscent of a restless colt with an injury. He was a gangly young man always on the move, his clubfoot not in any way a disability, but rather lending him something between a limp and a lurch of which he seemed quite unaware.

‘It won’t come to anything, I’m sure,’ Jim went on. ‘Tom Aikens is sympathetic to the cause, he won’t let them take Tony away … Or Tony’s sons for that matter,’ he added as Pete threatened once again to explode.