Chapter Nine

 

 

The conflict in Vietnam had become suddenly real. It was already

dubbed ‘The Television War’, and those back home did not have to wait for

news from the battlefront as they had in past conflicts. As though it were a

soap opera, disturbing images were beamed into households across the

world, and for Australians the first great shock in this television saga was

the Battle of Long Tan. Eighteen dead and twenty-four wounded in just one

afternoon! Over the ensuing weeks, the anti-war movement gained

momentum as the voice of activism became more readily heard.

‘The VAC’s planning a demonstration for Johnson’s visit,’ Jeremy

announced to Kate and the other students gathered at the Empress in

Redfern, a pub favoured by university activists. ‘They’re going to mass at

Hyde Park corner for the start of the motorcade procession and they’re

calling on all protest groups to join them – it’s going to be massive. We’ll

show bloody Holt that we’re not all the way with LB bloody J,’ he scoffed.

‘Christ alive, not content with selling us down the river the sycophantic

bastard can’t even come up with something original.’

‘Go Venner!’ Larry punched the air with closed fist and grinned at his

girlfriend Sylvia as he urged his mate on. They both knew Venner couldn’t

stand Harold Holt, and Larry so loved to stir.

Jeremy Venecourt had joined the Vietnam Action Campaign and true to

form was deeply passionate about the new cause he’d embraced. He was

enraged that Prime Minister Harold Holt, upon taking over the leadership

after Robert Menzies’s retirement, had strengthened American ties with the declaration that Australia would go ‘all the way with LBJ’ – Lyndon Baines

Johnson’s US presidential campaign slogan.

Kate watched in silence as Jeremy and the half dozen or so set about

discussing their strategy. It was decided to call a meeting with fellow

radical students at the university’s Wallace Hall during lunchtime the

following Tuesday. They would inform the others, a plan of action would be

adopted and word spread about the campus. Then a day or so before the

American President’s arrival a full demonstration would be mounted on the

front lawn to rally the troops in preparation.

As the group moved on to the subject of placards, avidly jotting down in

notebooks the most effective protest slogans they could come up with, Kate

remained silent. She was as much against the war as the rest of them, but

she felt she had little to offer. Jeremy had chastised her on a number of

occasions for not lending her voice to the anti-war campaign.

‘Why aren’t you more vocal, Kate?’ he’d demanded. ‘You’re a fighter,

why aren’t you making yourself heard? We need people to speak out.’

She’d tried to explain. ‘My brother’s in Vietnam,’ she’d said. ‘It doesn’t

seem right. I feel disloyal . . .’

But he hadn’t listened. Or rather he’d chosen not to hear her, which to

Kate was subtly different, so she hadn’t attempted to explain further. ‘All

the more reason to speak up,’ he’d insisted. ‘All the more reason to pull out

of Vietnam, to bring our boys home. This is not our war, they shouldn’t be

there . . .’

She’d let him rave on, knowing he wouldn’t understand. How can I

expect him to understand anyway, she’d thought, when I don’t understand

myself?

Living in constant fear as she did for her brother’s safety, Kate had

become uncharacteristically superstitious. Neil had survived the Battle of

Long Tan, but for how much longer would he be spared? She loathed and

detested the Vietnam War, just as she loathed and detested all wars, but her

brother, like so many others, was risking his life upon the orders of his

government. It seemed disloyal and disrespectful not to acknowledge that

fact, but of far greater importance it seemed somehow to court disaster. She

was prepared to demonstrate against the war itself, but she could not bring

herself to condemn the troops by saying they shouldn’t be there.

‘No, no,’ Larry interrupted Jeremy’s flow, disagreeing with the

suggestion they should include the conscription issue. ‘We must keep the

protest aimed solely at LBJ and America’s involvement in Vietnam. Make it

a direct attack on American policy; conscription’s a local concern. Don’t

you agree, Syl?’ He looked to his girlfriend for back-up.

‘Absolutely,’ she said, ‘and besides the SOS is bound to be there –

they’ll make their presence felt.’ Formed by the mothers of young

conscripted soldiers, the Save Our Sons campaign, now steadily growing in

numbers, called for the immediate abolition of conscription.

‘All right, I take your point.’ The rest of the group was clearly in

agreement and Jeremy was forced to defer to majority opinion, although he

did so reluctantly. ‘But in rallying the troops it’s imperative we push the

moral issue of conscription,’ he insisted. ‘Bill White was arrested for

refusing to kill people for God’s sake! That’s a powerful message to

students. Conscientious objectors are destined to become a major symbol in

the anti-war campaign. The voice of youth! We can’t afford to ignore that.’

As always his argument was persuasive and the others were quickly

convinced. The drive of the demonstration on the front lawn at university

must strongly incorporate the wrong perpetrated upon William White for

his moral stance. It would rouse the students into action.

Kate watched Jeremy, again feeling a sense of disloyalty, but this time

to him. She knew him very well: Jeremy would love to have been Bill

White. The newspaper image of the young man dragged from his home by

three burly policemen had become the potent symbol of youthful revolt.

How Jeremy wished that image could have been his. And the moral reasons

Bill White had given for refusing to report to an army induction centre had

been stirring, erudite – how Jeremy longed to have written those words.

Young Sydney schoolteacher, William White, in rebelling against his

government’s orders, had become the country’s first conscientious objector,

setting the example for others to follow. And there’ll no doubt be many who

will, Kate thought. But sadly Jeremy would not be one of them as he so

yearned to be. The bizarre truth was, Jeremy Venecourt regretted having

been one year too old to qualify for the conscription lottery. He’d told her

so in no uncertain terms.

‘I’d have shown those bastards,’ he’d said. ‘I’d have gone to gaol at the

drop of a hat rather than agree to fight in this filthy bloody war that’s none of our concern. Every conscript should have stood up to the government as

Bill White has. The National Service Act is morally wrong . . .’

He’d ranted on at some length, several of his quotes sounding

suspiciously like William White’s, although Kate supposed it was a little

unjust of her to be critical, for his views were the same as White’s. But she

couldn’t help feeling, as she had on occasion lately, that the radical way

Jeremy switched causes and with such passion denoted more a craving for

personal excitement than the achievement of change so fiercely fought for

by other activists. He’d all but forgotten the campaign for a referendum on

Aboriginal rights, a cause that had been of great concern to them both and

one to which Kate remained intensely committed. These days Jeremy

seemed to revel more in the drama that attended the anti-Vietnam war

campaign, particularly since the arrest of William White, and although he

remained as charismatic as ever an awful suspicion was dawning on Kate.

Over the year and a half of their affair, had lust blinded her to the fact that

Jeremy Venecourt was perhaps a little shallow?

The stars at night – are big and bright

Deep in the heart of Texas.

The prairie sky – is wide and high

Deep in the heart of Texas . . .

Aided by a powerful amplification system, the voices of the Mormon

Tabernacle Choir rang out across the park offering a robust and friendly

greeting to the Texan president. As yet the motorcade was nowhere in sight,

but the idea was to create atmosphere and whip up excitement amongst the

massive crowd gathered at Hyde Park Corner. Here the motorcade, having

travelled from the airport, would come to a brief halt for an official

welcome before starting on its slow procession through the maze of

cordoned-off city streets to the Art Gallery of New South Wales, where a

state reception would be held in the president’s honour.

The whirlwind three-day, five-city Australian tour by Lyndon Baines

Johnson and his wife, Lady Bird, was a ‘thank you’ for Australia’s ardent

support of the US-led war in Vietnam. The official visit had been warmly

embraced by Prime Minister Holt, who was only too keen to host an

occasion of such historic significance as the first presidential trip to

Australia, and the general public had been urged to show its appreciation of

the honour bestowed upon the nation.

The big day had now arrived and all was in readiness. Countless

thousands of specially designed ‘Welcome LBJ’ flags had been distributed

for the populace to wave at the passing motorcade; schoolchildren had been

marshalled from their classrooms to line the streets; the young, the old, and

family groups had taken up their places alongside the multitudes whose

employers had been harangued into giving their workers time off, and now,

as the final minutes ticked by, close to a million people thronged the

pavements of the procession route, jostling for position, eager to witness the

momentous event.

The sage in bloom – is like perfume

Deep in the heart of Texas.

Reminds me of – the one I love . . .

At Hyde Park Corner, where media had massed to capture the precious

moment of the motorcade’s arrival, excitement mounted. But there was a

sudden hitch. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s full-voiced rendition petered

out to almost nothing. The singers continued, but ‘Deep in the Heart of

Texas’ had dropped so drastically in volume it could barely be heard over

the noise of the crowd. Activists had cut the power line to the amplifier and

it was now the cries of the protestors that could be heard above all else.

Word of the demonstration had spread throughout the entire city and a

total of around ten thousand protestors of all ages and from all walks of life

had congregated at Hyde Park Corner. Militant Vietnam Action

Campaigners together with left-wing student activists, trade unionists,

women from Save Our Sons, and ordinary suburban middle-class citizens

affiliated with no particular action group at all had gathered with the

intention of making their presence felt in whatever way they could. There

was even a bunch of elderly female pensioners, organised by the

Communist Party of Australia, who had arrived at the site early enough to

take possession of a number of the seats that had been officially laid out for

groups welcoming the president.

There’s a yellow rose in Texas that I am gonna see,

Nobody else could miss her not half as much as me . . .

The resilient members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, having

managed to repair their power line, were now giving hearty and defiant

voice to the ever-popular Mitch Miller version of another of LBJ’s

favourites.

‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ did not last long, however, the activists

cutting the power line at another point and once again taking up their chant.

Even before the appearance of the motorcade, Hyde Park Corner was

becoming the scene of a battle for vocal supremacy.

She’s the sweetest little rose bud that Texas ever knew,

Her eyes are bright as diamonds they sparkle like the dew . . .

The choir refused to admit defeat. Five minutes later they’d repaired the

line and were again singing out in full amplified force.

Having rounded the corner at Taylor Square, the presidential motorcade

finally came into view, making its way down Oxford Street towards the

park, presenting even from some distance a splendid sight. Limousines with

Australian and American national flags fluttering were flanked on all sides

by a police motorcycle escort, while bringing up the rear were further police

mounted on horseback. A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd.

Children were hoisted onto shoulders and myriad flags started frantically

waving as the procession drew nearer.

The stars at night – are big and bright . . .

The choir had segued back to ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’, deeming it

the appropriate choice for the official welcome, but their triumph was short-

lived as an activist went to work for the third time with a set of pliers. At

the crucial moment, just as the motorcade approached Hyde Park all that

could be heard above the general noise of the crowd was the angry chant of

anti-war protestors.

‘Johnson – murderer! Johnson – murderer! Johnson – murderer!’

The mood was contagious and others took up the chant. Even those

who’d intended to demonstrate in relative silence, to wave their placards

demanding an end to the Vietnam War, were compelled to join the activists

in voicing their anger.

‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

A further chant rang out and again it was picked up by the masses to be

repeated over and over like a mantra.

‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

Then the scene ignited as hundreds of protestors surged forwards in an

attempt to break through the barrier and the cordon of police. They were

held back, but not for long, the sheer force of their numbers proving too

powerful. Suddenly the barriers were broken and a number of university students raced out into the street, throwing themselves down in front of the

president’s car, forcing the motorcade to a halt.

Chaos ensued. American Secret Service men rushed to form a wall

around the car; horses following the vehicle reared, their riders struggling to

maintain control; police raced forwards and dragged the students bodily

across the asphalt, clearing a path for the motorcade to continue. The

activists did not fight back, choosing to employ a different delay tactic that

was less dangerous and far more effective than resistance. As each student

was dragged away another simply took his or her place, egged on by the

constant chant of fellow protestors.

‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

‘Johnson – murderer! Johnson – murderer!’

Before long before the police and security teams had the situation under

control and the motorcade was able to continue on its way, but the plan for a

brief welcoming halt at Hyde Park and a leisurely procession through the

city streets had now been well and truly abandoned. The president, the

prime minister, the premier and the rest of the official party were to be

transported along the planned route to the Art Gallery with as much haste as

was humanly possible.

‘Come on, Kate,’ Jeremy urged, ‘we’ve got to beat them to it.’

He started racing off through the park and Kate joined him, matching

his pace. Jeremy had been among the first to fling himself down in front of

the president’s car, Kate quickly following suit, but both had easily escaped

the clutches of the police who’d dragged them out of the way, as had most

of the other protestors. Amidst the bedlam the police had been frantically

intent upon clearing the roadway to allow access for the motorcade. There’d

been no time to make on-the-spot arrests.

From the outset, the students’ idea had been to cut through the park and

arrive at the Art Gallery before the official party, thereby allowing

opportunity for a further concerted protest, and already demonstrators were

racing on ahead.

Kate and Jeremy, sprinting at top speed, overtook many and were with

the first dozen or so to arrive. Others soon joined them. They too had

moved fast and were well ahead of the motorcade, despite its speedy

journey through the city streets.

American flags had been hoisted from the many flagpoles of the New

South Wales Art Gallery, and a cheer went up as the demonstrators

managed, one by one, to haul them down. By the time the motorcade

arrived, a single flag only remained.

Accompanied by the chants and jeers of protestors, the members of the

official party were hastily whisked from their limousines and into the art

gallery. The entire exercise had been a public relations disaster. This was

not at all the warm welcome intended by the Holt government; nor was it

the reception the Americans had expected from their staunch ally. The

demonstration had proved an immense success.

The full measure of its success became evident in the media coverage

that followed. Some of the local reportage was condemnatory, accusing the

demonstrators of ruining the day for schoolchildren who hadn’t even

noticed the president speed by. How heartless, they said. But the true impact

resonated far and wide, the message broadcast on television screens and

splashed across the front pages of newspapers around the globe. There were

clearly many Australians who were not ‘all the way with LBJ’.

‘I think we made our point,’ Jeremy said smugly and in a huge

understatement. ‘Well done, everybody.’

The students assembled at the Empress raised their glasses and cheered,

Kate as loudly as any present. Despite her recent reservations about Jeremy,

she supported the protest action on every possible level. If a demonstration

of such magnitude could help put a stop to Australia’s involvement in the

Vietnam War then she was proud to have played her part. Besides, the

sooner her brother came home the better.

Kate missed Neil that Christmas when she returned to Elianne. The two

had always been close, as had all three of the Durham siblings, but the

letters she’d received from her older brother over the past several months

had introduced a new level of intimacy.

There’s so much I’d like to share with you, Kate, he’d written on one

occasion. As a rule, he wrote chattily and often with humour, avoiding any

talk of the war, but this time he’d closed on a distinctly serious note.

. . . so much I long to talk about and can’t with my mates over

here. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a really beaut bunch of blokes – you

couldn’t get better – but in this particular instance they don’t

understand. I suppose I feel the need to unburden myself to a woman,

which of course makes me the ‘softie of the family’ that you always

said I was, but I don’t care. I’d love to pour a whole lot of things out

to you, but I’m unable to in a letter, the army being the way it is. I

know I sound enigmatic – sorry, don’t mean to, but the simple fact is I

miss you . . .

Several other letters had contained similarly veiled references to

something he couldn’t write about and Kate started to suspect that it might

be a woman. Is he having an affair? she wondered, on active duty, in the

middle of a war? If so, how extraordinary.

The latest letter, addressed to her at Elianne and arriving in mid-January,

had concluded even more enigmatically. After regaling her with the raucous

Christmas Eve he and his mates had spent in Vûng Tàu and the endless

toasts to family and friends back home, which he vaguely recalled had

reduced them all to drunken tears, he’d once again ended on a serious note.

I have a secret I need to entrust you with, Kate, and a favour I

need to ask of you. As before I can’t write of it, and I’m sure by now

these cryptic references to ‘something afoot’ have become thoroughly

irritating, but my tour of duty will be over in July and I promise all

will become known then. I won’t go home to Elianne on my return to

Australia: I’ll come directly to Sydney and we’ll talk.

In the meantime, a Happy New Year to you, Sis. I hope 1967

proves everything you wish it to be, particularly the outcome of the

referendum. I know how strongly you’ve been fighting for Aboriginal

rights and I admire your devotion to the cause, just as I admire

everything about you.

My love always,

Neil

Far from finding the mystery her brother hinted at irritating, Kate was

intrigued. If anything his cryptic references were helpful, distracting her as

they did, just a little, from the daily worry for his safety.

‘I get the feeling you’re not too happy about Tech, Al. Am I right?’

‘My oath you are, but Dad’s dug his heels in so there’s not much I can

do about it. I wish he’d just let me get on with my apprenticeship – I don’t

need a bloody diploma!’

Kate smiled sympathetically. Such vehemence was rare in Alan, and she

was aware of his frustration. ‘You probably know as much as the teachers do anyway,’ she said, but it appeared there was no humouring him. He just

scowled darkly and gazed out at The Basin, where Paola and Georgio were

splashing about in the shallows alongside the families and their children.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon and the four had driven to Bargara, Alan

at the wheel – he’d had his licence for a long time now and revelled in the

freedom it afforded him. This would be their last opportunity to spend time

at the beach together before Alan’s departure in two days. Having

matriculated the previous year, he was to take up his apprenticeship in

Brisbane as a fitter and turner, but his father had insisted he simultaneously

undertake a Diploma course in mechanical engineering at the Technical

College. Stan the Man considered it only proper that as a Durham his

youngest son should have a qualification that set him above the average

mechanic. Alan himself couldn’t have cared less.

‘Look at them dog-paddling, will you? Georgio’s nearly as lousy a

swimmer as Paola,’ he now said in a bid to make amends, aware that his

manner had been unnecessarily surly. ‘Mind you the kid makes up for it at

footie: by crikey, he can kick!’

Kate followed the direction of her brother’s gaze, but Alan was not

looking at Georgio. His eyes were unashamedly fixed upon Paola, which

was hardly a surprise. Kate had sensed from the moment she’d arrived

home that their relationship was stronger than ever.

‘You’ll miss her, won’t you?’ She expected the directness of her

question to be met with a careless shrug or some attempt at nonchalance,

but as he turned back to her the candour of his reply took her completely by

surprise.

‘Of course I will. I always do. But we’re used to it now, both of us. And

I’ll be back.’

How incredibly assured he is, she thought. He’s become a man and a

confident one at that. Her brother’s body had broadened certainly, and his

face had lost its boyishness to take on the brooding Durham look, but it was

his manner that most impressed. Alan was mature far beyond his seventeen

years.

‘I love her, Kate,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one I’ll tell, because I know

I can trust you. I love her and she loves me.’ Although he hadn’t planned

upon making any form of declaration, Alan found that he enjoyed saying

the words out loud. ‘Mum and Dad . . . Luigi and Maria . . . they all think that my going to Tech will somehow change things, or that Paola will meet

someone else while I’m away. But nothing will change. We’ve made our

plans. We’re going to wait until we’re eighteen and then we’re going to tell

them we want to get engaged. We won’t marry until after I’ve finished my

apprenticeship and gained my Diploma, but Paola and I will be together.

Nothing will stop us.’

For Alan it was quite a speech, but as usual he was succinct and to the

point. Alan never minced words. He awaited her response.

Kate could have stated the obvious. She could have warned him that all

hell was bound to break loose, but she didn’t. Why bother? He already

knew. ‘I’m happy for you Al,’ she said. ‘I’m happy for you both.’ She

smiled. ‘And I have to admit, just a little envious.’ She was, she realised.

She’d never experienced the depth of feeling these two shared. She didn’t

love Jeremy; she never had.

‘It’s good to have an ally, I must say.’ He grinned, his face reverting to

its former boyishness, and she resisted the urge to hug him, jumping to her

feet instead.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’m boiling. Let’s join the dog-paddlers.’

Before her trip home for Christmas, Kate had again contemplated

sharing the secret of Ellie’s diaries with Alan. After almost two years, she

had nearly finished translating the ledgers, there was just one more to go,

and throughout the entire process she had relived every moment of their

revelations. She welcomed the prospect of sharing the burden. But the

timing was wrong, she’d decided. Alan’s life was about to undergo a radical

change; he didn’t need the added pressure.

Perhaps she’d tell Neil when his tour of duty was over and he returned

in July. She always said ‘when’ not ‘if’ to herself, by way of affirmation

that Neil really would come home. Yes, that’s the best plan, she thought. By

then she’d have finished the translation and he could read the diaries for

himself. And he was now capable of handling the truth. Far from being the

family ‘softie’ as she’d jokingly accused him it was quite clear the army

had strengthened him immeasurably.

The following day a farewell luncheon had been planned for Alan along

traditional family lines, complete with champagne, at Hilda’s insistence. ‘I

refuse to toast my son’s future with a glass of beer,’ she’d announced when

Stan had said he’d prefer to stick to Four X.

Ivan’s son, Henry, was to be present as representative of the Krantz

family. ‘Mum and Dad are in Melbourne,’ he’d told Hilda when she’d rung

to invite them, ‘Dad has a series of meetings with investors and Mum likes

to head south whenever she can during the summer.’

Stan had harrumphed at the news and the fact that no apology had been

offered. There had been a time when Ivan Krantz would have jumped to any

required height upon the merest click of his good friend Stanley Durham’s

fingers, but those days were clearly over. Stan felt like telling young Henry

not to bother turning up, but he didn’t. Ivan remained a close friend, and far

too much investment was at stake to risk a parting of the ways. Elianne was

reliant upon Krantz & Son.

Alan had wanted to invite the Fiorellis as well, but his mother and father

had suggested they keep the lunch strictly a family affair.

‘It’s easier on Cook, darling,’ Hilda had said mildly. ‘Four more guests

entails a great deal of extra work.’

He didn’t bother countering with a query about the Krantzes’ invitation.

And since when had the number of guests worried Cook, whose favourite

saying had always been ‘the more the merrier’? The reason behind the

Fiorellis’ exclusion was all too pathetically obvious, but it didn’t matter

anyway: he’d already arranged to take Paola for a drive in the late

afternoon. They’d make their own farewells in private, which was vastly

preferable.

With only six to table they dined casually in the breakfast room,

although Cook and Ivy had gone to great pains to create a celebratory

atmosphere, laying out one of the heavier lace tablecloths, the best

silverware and the cut crystal champagne flutes.

‘You’re at the other end, son,’ Stan said peremptorily as he seated

himself in his customary chair at the head of the table.

Alan dutifully took up his position while Hilda and Kate sat either side

of Stan as was expected, leaving the other two chairs for Bartholomew and

Henry. Being a sign of pecking order, seating was always important to

Stanley Durham, and most particularly today. Under no circumstances

would he have young Henry Krantz placed at the foot of the table, a

position that would have been reserved for his father had Ivan been present.

Henry was an uppity little prick with tickets on himself.

Henry Krantz did indeed give the impression of arrogance, possibly

because he tried too hard. Like his father he was a dapper dresser, believing

as his father did that in business appearances were all-important, but at

twenty-five, his body already tending to the fleshy, the image he wished to

portray was sadly beyond him. What should have been style and panache

came across as pomposity and self-importance. Young Henry had certainly

inherited his father’s head for business, but he’d missed out altogether on

Ivan’s intrinsic elegance.

Despite Cook’s lavish baked dinner and Ivy’s attention to the re-filling

of beer tumblers and champagne flutes, the luncheon was not a successful

affair. Henry insisted upon talking business from the outset, launching into a

detailed account of a further enterprise that could well be to Elianne’s

advantage.

‘With the mechanisation of the sugar industry galloping ahead as it is,

there are huge profits to be made for forward-thinking investors . . .’

He went on at some length, Stan the Man studiously ignoring him, and

when he finally got the message that he wasn’t being listened to, he turned

his attention undeterred to Durham the younger.

‘You of all people, Alan, with your expert knowledge of things

mechanical would be well aware that –’

By now Stan had had quite enough. ‘Shut up, Henry,’ he growled, and

Henry did, stopping mid-sentence, jaw agape. ‘This is not a bloody

boardroom, boy. Give it a rest, for Christ’s sake.’

Hilda did her best to compensate, filling in the awkwardness with

pleasant chit-chat. What a pity, she said, that Henry’s mother and father

couldn’t be here, she did so hope Ivan and Gerda were enjoying Melbourne.

‘Such an elegant city, don’t you think? I vastly prefer it to the raucousness

of Sydney myself, although in the winter of course it’s so unbearably cold, I

really don’t know how people can suffer such weather . . .’

But Hilda’s social graces did little to ease the general discomfort. Henry

remained sullen in the face of such an unmitigated insult. He would

complain to his father, although he knew it would do no good – his father

would simply say he’d asked for it trying to talk business at a Durham

family luncheon. Stan ignored the table altogether, concentrating on his

roast lamb, and so did Alan. Even during the height of midsummer, a baked

dinner preferably lamb was always Alan’s favourite, a fact well known by Cook, but much as he was enjoying his food, Alan was wishing the

luncheon was over. Even Hilda, having finally run out of chat, decided it

was a lost cause and forsaking the niceties signalled Ivy to fetch a fresh

bottle of champagne.

Kate looked about the table. The only person present who appeared

oblivious to the tension was her grandfather. Seated beside her,

Bartholomew had picked up the fine-bone china sauce jug and was clasping

it gently in both hands, examining its contents, breathing in the aroma of

Cook’s home-made mint sauce, which obviously evoked some pleasurable

memory. He’s off in a world of his own, Kate thought. She’d seen him do it

before, usually when unpleasantness threatened. Her grandfather had the

enviable talent of disappearing somewhere else altogether.

Watching him, Kate wondered, as she had many times over the past two

years, how much Bartholomew might know. Ellie had said in her diaries

that she’d lived a lie in order to protect her children from the threat of Big

Jim, but was it possible Bartholomew knew the truth, or at least part of it?

Had he been aware that the great love shared by his parents was a sham,

that his mother had actually considered her husband a monster?

If only Grandpa could speak, Kate thought. But then what difference

would that make? He didn’t need to, did he? His mind was unimpaired, he

could hear and understand. I could ask him questions, she thought. I could

ask him questions and he could write down the answers. But she knew she

would take no such course of action. Prior to the death of his wife and his

ensuing stroke, Bartholomew had spoken often of his brothers and of his

mother and father, but there had been no mention, no apparent knowledge at

all of a sister who had died as a baby. Wasn’t that something of a giveaway?

Most families shared such a history. Surely the omission of baby Beatrice’s

existence was indicative of Ellie’s secrecy about so much more.

Kate watched her grandfather place the sauce jug back on the table with

infinitesimal care as if it was something quite precious, and she thought

how frail he looked, much more so than last year. He’s old and he’s suffered

quite enough tragedy, she told herself, he doesn’t need to be confronted

with harsh truths at the end of his life.

She switched her brain back to the present, and her voice cut through

the oppressive silence. ‘Hey, Dad,’ she said, ‘isn’t it time for the toast?’

Stan Durham stopped attacking his second serve of lamb and rose to his

feet.

‘Of course it is, how remiss of me,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Kate. Glasses

charged, everyone.’ How could he have allowed himself to be so distracted

from the true purpose of the lunch by that dumb prick Henry, he thought as

Ivy scuttled about replenishing everyone’s drinks.

‘I propose a toast to our son . . .’ Stan shared a smile with Hilda, who

breathed a sigh of relief that some form of normalcy had returned to the

gathering. ‘After achieving a fine matriculation Alan is about to embark

upon his Diploma of Engineering and I know he will do us all proud.’ He

raised his glass in true patriarchal fashion. ‘To my son,’ he said, ‘to Alan,’

and they all followed suit.

‘To Alan,’ they chanted.

When the seemingly interminable lunch was over, Henry took his

departure with a stilted thank you to his hosts. He hesitated for a moment,

uncertain whether Stan would offer the customary handshake.

Stan did. ‘Give my best to your parents,’ he said amiably enough. He

could tell Henry was desperately nervous. Good, he thought, insufferable

little prick.

‘I will indeed, they’re bound to phone tonight.’ Henry winced at the

bone-crushing clasp, which he could swear was even more brutal than

usual.

When Henry had gone, the family went their separate ways,

Bartholomew returning to his quarters and his latest book, Hilda weaving

her way off for ‘a bit of a lie down’ and Stan retiring to his study and his

paperwork, leaving the younger members to fill in the remainder of the day

as they wished.

‘Well the lamb was good,’ Alan drily remarked.

‘Poor Henry,’ Kate said, ‘he’s so terrified of Dad.’

‘For once I’m on the old man’s side. Henry’s a pompous bore.’

She couldn’t disagree with that. ‘Want to go for a swim in the dam?’

He checked his watch. ‘Not enough time. I’m picking Paola up at half

past four.’

‘Ah, of course.’ She should have known. ‘Do you want to borrow the

Holden?’

‘No thanks.’ He registered her surprise. ‘Too conspicuous,’ he

explained. ‘I always use a Land Rover from the mill. Ted signs one out to

me and half the time no one even knows who’s driving the thing, let alone

who the passenger is.’

‘That’s smart.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is, but I don’t want to be smart.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t

want to sneak around, it’s bloody annoying. I’d much rather be open about

everything.’

‘Of course you would.’ She smiled brazenly as she threw out the

challenge. ‘Well the offer’s there, Al, if you want to flaunt it on your last

day you’re welcome to swan around in the Holden.’

The smile he returned her was wry. ‘Crikey, Kate, I’d be in it like a shot

if the choice was mine – I couldn’t give a damn what turn Dad put on – but

I’d only be making trouble for Paola. She’s playing a cat and mouse game

at home. Luigi doesn’t say anything to her face, but she knows he

disapproves. Better we keep things as low-key as possible – for now

anyway.’

‘Fair enough.’

Forty minutes later, Alan drove out of the massive garage that housed

the pool of work vehicles: the Land Rovers, the Holden utilities, the Blitz

trucks and more. He circled around the rear of the towering mill and pulled

up behind the nearby sugar shed, where Paola stood waiting in the shadows.

It was their customary rendezvous point during the slack season. When he

was home on holiday during the crushing the mill and its surrounds was a

hive of human activity and finding time alone was far more difficult. They

were forced then to meet down near the pumping station and make do with

a walk along the track that, during childhood days, had been forged through

the tumble of growth beside the river.

She climbed hastily into the passenger side, sinking low in the seat so

that she was not visible to anyone they might pass. She would remain that

way until they had left the property and were on the Bundaberg–Gin Gin

road heading into town.

Like Alan, the need for subterfuge annoyed Paola. She was tired of the

game being played out between her and her parents. Whenever she returned

home, her father would glower suspiciously at her, while the glances her

mother darted him halted any challenge about where she’d been or with whom. If he’d asked, she would have told him – it was clear he knew

anyway – but her parents had obviously agreed to avoid confrontation on

the assumption that she and Alan would get over their childhood crush now

that he was joining the work force and the adult world. Well they’re wrong,

Paola thought. They’re very, very wrong.

Pretty little Paola Fiorelli was no longer the shy, insecure girl she’d

once been. She’d developed a steely side. Paola was a young woman in

love, prepared to defy her parents, her religion and her entire upbringing.

‘How was the farewell lunch?’ she asked, looking up at him from the

depths of the passenger seat.

‘The roast lamb was good.’

She laughed. ‘That bad.’

‘Yep, that bad. Henry Krantz talked business, Dad told him to shut up

and after that everything went downhill.’

‘Just as well we weren’t invited then.’

‘Yep.’ He drove on a little further and they turned into the main road.

‘Safe now,’ he said.

She sat up and wound down the window, the warm afternoon wind

streaming through, whipping her hair into a fierce black frenzy. Scraping

the unruly mess back from her face, she reached behind her head, deftly

twisted a pony tail and locked her hair at the base of her neck in a knot of its

own making.

Alan just loved the way she did that.

They drove over the bridge and upon reaching Bourbong Street turned

right, away from the town centre, heading for Queens Park, the favoured

haunt of many a young courting couple.

Alan pulled the Land Rover up in the rear grounds of the Hospital and

when they’d alighted they took each other’s hand to wander the narrow

paths that meandered through the park. They were comfortably silent,

words unnecessary, although the ache of their imminent parting rested

between them.

Upon reaching their favourite spot beside the river’s steep banks, away

from the paths and the eyes of others, they came to a halt and wordlessly

gravitated into each other’s arms.

Their kiss was tender, but full of the longing they both felt. Passion was

never far away. Alan fought a constant battle to keep himself in check, and he wondered sometimes if Paola knew just how sexual a creature she had

become. The fullness of her breasts against his chest, the softness of her

lips, the inviting moistness of her mouth . . . God it drove him mad. But

inevitably it was he who was the one forced to call a halt – Paola didn’t

seem to recognise when enough was enough.

Paola in her innocence may have been unaware of the extent to which

she aroused him, but she was not unaware of her own longing. Just turned

seventeen, she was undeniably beautiful, but it was love that lent her the

confidence she’d always lacked. Far from feeling self-conscious about her

Italian looks as she once had, she now revelled in her appearance. Alan

loved the way she looked, and if Alan found her beautiful, then she felt

beautiful. She was his, her beauty belonged to him, and she yearned to

please.

Paola’s desire to please was a continual test of Alan’s powers of

restraint and today was no exception. Despite the passion mounting on both

sides, he broke away, as he always did, in order to create some physical

space between them. She must surely have been aware of his erection.

They stood, a little breathless, looking down the steep banks to the river

far below, where the late afternoon light played prettily across the water’s

surface.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she said after a minute or so. He nodded; he’d miss her

too. ‘It’ll hardly be the same as boarding school, will it?’ she added lightly.

‘You won’t be locked away with hundreds of other boys. I suppose I should

worry.’

She’d tried to sound as though she was making a joke, but he sensed her

concern.

‘No need,’ he said simply. ‘Why would I look at anyone else? I love

you.’ Alan, as always, was a man of few words.

‘I love you too.’

They kissed again, very gently. Then they sat on the grassy riverbank,

his arm about her, her head resting upon his shoulder, and gazed down at

the glistening water.

A half an hour or so later, as the light faded and the day began its

transition to dusk they left the park and drove back to Elianne.

Two weeks after Alan’s departure, Kate returned to Sydney. She was

relishing the prospect of fourth year. There were some who found the veterinary science course gruelling, but to Kate, who was academically

gifted, it presented little hardship: she enjoyed her studies.

University and the multi-faceted existence she led in Sydney continued

to stimulate Kate on every level, but it was her commitment to the fight for

human rights that added true purpose to her life, and this year promised a

major breakthrough in the campaign most dear to her.

‘They’ve set a date for the referendum,’ she said as she unlocked the

front door. She’d arrived home late Saturday afternoon to discover Jeremy

sitting on the doorstep of the little cottage in Campbell Street. He’d been

waiting for nearly an hour he’d said, disgruntled, but she hadn’t listened,

she was too excited. ‘They told us at the meeting this arvo: 27th of May.

It’ll be announced to the media on Monday.’

‘Great,’ he said in a manner she found rather lacking in interest.

They stepped inside and he closed the door behind them.

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ she said critically. ‘Charlie Perkins

and the gang have been working day and night, Aboriginal rights groups

have been campaigning all over the country – you could at least sound

pleased that the date’s finally been set.’

‘I am, Kate, I am, I’m very happy for you, honestly.’ His patronising

tone annoyed her. ‘But come on now, you have to admit,’ he added, aware

she was piqued, which in turn annoyed him, ‘it’s not a really big deal in the

scheme of things. Even if the yes vote wins, the referendum’s hardly going

to change the face of the nation.’

‘I beg to disagree,’ she said, aware she sounded prim. ‘In my personal

opinion amending the Australian constitution is a very big deal indeed.’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said, trying to remain patient when all he

wanted to do was take her upstairs to bed, ‘it’s not as if you’re giving

Aborigines the vote, for God’s sake – they’ve had that for ages.’

‘Aboriginal people were not granted the right to vote in Western

Australia until 1962,’ she replied icily, ‘and Queensland gave them the vote

less than two years ago. You call that ages, do you?’

‘All right, all right, WA and Queensland were late coming to the party.’

Bed would have to wait, he realised. She was angry now. ‘I know the facts

as well as you do, I worked on the campaign, remember?’

‘Yes I do. What happened?’

‘I believe in the referendum, Kate, truly I do,’ he said, trying to appear

earnest as she clearly needed placating. ‘I’m just questioning its importance,

that’s all. I mean voting rights were given to all British male citizens

including Aborigines in the nineteenth century – there were Aborigines who

voted in the first Federal election.’ He reeled off the statistics in his

customarily superior fashion, which most found impressive, but which to

Kate was now intensely irritating. ‘The Chifley government gave the

federal vote to those who’d been granted a state vote in ’49, and the

Menzies government gave the vote to all Aborigines –’

‘Yes, yes, in 1962,’ she interrupted impatiently, ‘I know all that. Where

the hell is this leading, Jeremy? What exactly is it you’re trying to say?’

God, she’s belligerent, he thought. ‘In bringing up the vote issue, I’m

just putting a perspective on the referendum’s historic significance,’ he said

with a saintly patience that to Kate sounded more patronising than ever, ‘the

suggested amendments to the constitution will hardly alter the Aboriginal

condition –’

‘Of course they will,’ she burst out angrily, ‘they’ll change perceptions

across the nation. It’s called awareness, Jeremy, awareness! People, both

white and black, live in ignorance. Most Aborigines don’t even know

they’re allowed to vote. They’re not counted in the census, they’re not

treated as equal citizens, the white population is encouraged to think of

them as inferior, the referendum will open people’s eyes . . .’

Jeremy watched with admiration as she blazed away, angered by the

injustice that surrounded her. She’s magnificent, he thought. How amazing

that someone so enraged can look so beautiful. Kate, when impassioned,

was terribly sexy.

‘This is the sixties, for God’s sake!’ There was no stopping her. ‘Look at

what’s happening in America! Look at what’s happening in South Africa!

How can we let that happen here in Australia? There should be no colour,

no race issue in this country. We’re a new nation, we should be learning

from the mistakes of others, not following in their path!’

‘OK, OK.’ He held his hands up in surrender. ‘You’ve won me. Calm

down, now, calm down.’

She came to an abrupt halt. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I got carried away.’

‘Yes, you did a bit.’ He grinned amiably. ‘We’re on the same side, you

know. It’s hardly as if I need converting.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I was impressed, truly I was.’ He took her in his arms and she

didn’t resist. ‘You really did win me, Kate,’ he murmured. ‘Now can I win

you?’ He kissed her, his hand straying to her breast, and Kate, obeying the

dictates of her body, couldn’t help but respond.

They retired to the attic, where their lovemaking was as mutually

satisfying as ever, but she knew the affair was over. The affair’s been over

for some time, she thought, it’s only been lust keeping us together. Well she

could live without sex, she decided.

He stayed the night and they made love again in the morning as they

always did. Then, over toast and coffee at the little table, she told him.

‘You’re joking.’ Jeremy didn’t believe for one moment she could

possibly be serious. ‘After two years, it’s over,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘just

like that.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ she said apologetically.

‘Oh, I get it.’ He gave a knowing nod. ‘It’s because I wasn’t as

passionate about the referendum as I should have been – that’s it, isn’t it?’

he said. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, I should have –’

‘It has nothing whatsoever to do with the referendum, Jeremy. It’s over,

that’s all.’

He stared at her in stunned amazement. Good God, he thought, I’m

being dumped, I’m actually being dumped. He’d never been dumped

before. He was always the one who did the dumping, and usually after three

months, six at the outside. He’d never had a relationship that had lasted a

whole two years. What on earth had gone wrong?

‘Is there someone else?’ There has to be, he thought. But how come he

hadn’t read the signs? How come he hadn’t guessed?

‘Of course there’s no one else.’ Kate couldn’t help but smile. His

reaction was one of amazement, not heartbreak, and his disbelief was

verging on comical. ‘You’re special to me, Jeremy,’ she said in all sincerity,

‘you always will be. It’s only the affair that’s over, not the friendship. I’m

grateful for everything we’ve shared and I hope we’ll remain friends.’

‘Oh we will, Kate, we will, no doubt about that.’ He stood, still dazed

and somewhat in a state of shock. ‘Well I’ll just gather up a few things,

shall I?’

‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’

‘No, no, best to get it over and done with I think.’

She fetched him a carry bag and, five minutes later, when he’d gathered

together his toothbrush and toiletries and spare underpants, they said their

goodbyes at the front door.

‘I feel rather pathetic,’ he said forlornly.

‘You don’t look it. You look as gorgeous as ever.’ She kissed him

fondly. ‘Thank you for being my first love. I consider myself very lucky,

and I really do mean that.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said with his customary panache. ‘So I’ll see you

around the campus then.’

‘Yes. See you around, Venner.’

He smiled, and Kate saw in his eyes a regret that she found surprisingly

touching. Then he turned away and she closed the door.

 

OceanofPDF.com