Chapter Fifteen

 

Following Neil’s wake, the Durham family with the exception of

Bartholomew proceeded to get drunk all four in their own particular way.

Hilda displayed no visible effects of the several healthy nips of

medicinal brandy she downed in order to help her sleep, but without them

sleep would certainly have evaded her.

Stanley Durham was discovered by Max slumped over the desk in his

study, a near-empty bottle of Scotch before him. Upon being awoken, he did

not appear overly affected and waved Max away, offended by his offer of

assistance, but there was a distinct unsteadiness in his gait as he took

himself off to bed.

Kate and Alan practised no restraint whatsoever, setting out openly and

unashamedly to get drunk. After raiding their father’s liquor supply, they sat

at the table in the breakfast room swigging back Scotch and talking about

Neil.

A half an hour and two swift Scotches later, Kate wisely decided to tell

Alan about Yen before the alcohol took its effect. She recounted faithfully

and in detail everything Neil had told her, concluding with her promise that

she would look after his wife should anything happen to him.

Alan listened in silent and utter amazement, bottle forgotten, empty

glass unheeded on the table, astounded to hear of his brother’s marriage.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before, Al,’ she said finally, ‘but Neil

swore me to secrecy. He didn’t want anyone to know until the end of the

war when he could bring her home to Australia. I think he was worried that

word might get back to the army.’

‘And it would have for sure,’ Alan replied, ‘if Dad had ever heard about

it.’

‘Exactly. Which is why we must keep this strictly between ourselves

until we can bring Yen to Elianne as I promised. What do you say?’

‘You’re on.’ He poured them a third hefty Scotch and they clinked

glasses.

‘I want to show you something.’ She stood. ‘Don’t go away, won’t be a

tick.’

She disappeared to return a minute or so later with an envelope that she

handed him.

He recognised the writing immediately. ‘It’s from Neil,’ he said.

‘Yes. His last letter to me. Read it.’

Alan read the letter slowly, drinking in its every word. He was moved,

hearing so clearly the voice of his brother.

When he finished he looked up at her. ‘Neil never wrote to me like that.’

‘He never wrote to anyone like that,’ Kate said and her eyes welled with

tears.

She’s crying, Alan thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d

seen Kate openly cry. Even at the funeral she’d shown a restraint that most

others hadn’t. ‘It proves how much he loved you, Kitty-Kat.’

‘Yes. Yes, it does.’ The tears spilled out to course down her cheeks and

she did nothing to stop them.

The Scotch started to kick in very quickly after that. They told stories

and wept together, the two of them, stories of Neil and stories of their

childhood, on and on, until several hours later, exhausted and all cried out,

they seemed to have drunk themselves sober, or they felt they had.

Kate studied the half-empty tumbler on the table before her, closing one

eye and then the other, checking her vision, wondering if she was starting to

see double. ‘That was a terrible thing Dad said this afternoon.’ She’d

wanted to somehow make amends for the hurt her father’s vicious comment

must have caused, but she hadn’t known when or how to bring up the

subject. Now seemed a rather good time, she thought and a reference to the

diaries seemed a rather good opening. ‘He’s not the same as Big Jim, Al. It

was just grief speaking; he didn’t mean it.’

‘Course he did.’ Although the words were a little slurred Alan’s reply

was brutally honest, he was not prepared to be fobbed off. ‘Sure, Dad’s not the same as Big Jim, he’s not a bad man, but he can be bloody hurtful.’ He

gave one of those shrugs that Kate knew was never as careless as it was

intended to appear. ‘You can put things down to grief as much as you like,

Kate,’ he said, ‘but Dad’s sentiment is the same as Big Jim’s. If he had a

choice between who should have copped it, you can bet your bottom dollar

it’d be me. People can’t help having favourites. It’s only natural.’

‘Maybe it is, but people don’t have to make things that obvious, do

they?’ she replied harshly.

As he gave another supposedly nonchalant shrug and topped up their

glasses from the last of the bottle Kate felt a sudden and intense desire to

punish her father.

‘Let’s get back at him, Al,’ she said. ‘We can you know. We can give

him the diaries first thing tomorrow.’

‘Nah,’ Alan shook his head, aware it was the drink that was talking, ‘we

can’t do that, not now. One day, sure, he has to know the truth. But not now

– he’s too bloody vulnerable.’

Kate studied her brother with affection. ‘How funny,’ she said, ‘I used

to think that Neil was the big softie and that you were the tough one.’

‘I am, always have been,’ he said with a smile.

A half an hour later they weaved their way off to their respective

bedrooms.

Alan stayed on at Elianne for a further month. There were plans he

needed to set in place, having decided his future must now take a different

path. He had secret and lengthy discussions with the three older Fiorelli

brothers and he took mysterious trips into town, where he visited a number

of businessmen and looked at properties for sale. He told only Paola of his

plans. Apart from the brothers no one else knew, certainly no one in the

family, not even Kate. The household was in mourning and it was no time

to discuss his personal future.

Christmas came and went without anyone noticing. Cook observed

tradition and prepared the customary feast, but no one was hungry. It was a

sombre affair.

Alan returned to Brisbane in the New Year, presumably to resume his

apprenticeship and his studies, but in actuality to tie up his affairs there.

Kate, however, did not return to Sydney. She’d passed her final year

with honours (1st class) and had applied for a Vet Science PhD scholarship funded by Vesteys, the large meat-producing company that, among its many

international interests, owned cattle stations in northern Australia. While

waiting to learn if her application was successful, she decided to stay at

Elianne in order to provide some added comfort for her mother, and most

particularly to be with her grandfather.

Bartholomew was dying. It was generally agreed that the shock of

Neil’s death had pushed him over the edge. That and the physical trip to and

from town for the funeral, but in any event the past two months had seen a

rapid decline. He was skeletal now, confined to his bed, even his favourite

armchair in the corner by the window tantalisingly out of bounds.

Stan had employed a live-in nurse who specialised in palliative care to

look after his father during the last weeks of the old man’s life, but he took

no personal interest himself, making the occasional token visit to

Bartholomew’s quarters with his wife simply in order to appease Hilda, who

insisted it was proper. Stan didn’t consider it proper at all. Why should one

bother with the elderly and infirm when one had lost a healthy son in the

prime of his life? Stan was functioning these days, but with difficulty. He

spent a great deal of time at the Burnett Club, where the combination of

men’s sympathy and the downing of Scotch afforded some level of escape if

not comfort.

Bartholomew was quite ready to die. In fact Bartholomew considered

death long overdue. Seventy-nine this year, he thought, good heavens am I

really that old? And over seven years since Mary went. It’s certainly time I

joined her.

They’d shifted his bed so that it faced the windows, affording him the

view he’d so treasured from his armchair. He never tired of the sight.

Unfolding before his eyes was the endless expanse of cane that had been his

life. He was looking at the past, the present and the future all in one.

Bartholomew loved the timelessness of sugar cane. Over the years he’d

seen many changes with the introduction of mechanisation and new

methods of production and there would no doubt be many more, but the

cane itself remained constant, re-generating itself with a hardy persistence

he found admirable. Even after the normal four-year growth period when a

field was ploughed and left briefly fallow, it was not long before the

freshly-planted cane emerged to grow tall and strong, starting the process all over again. The cycle of life itself, Bartholomew thought contentedly.

Cane was so reliable, so predictable, a most satisfying crop.

Kate sat with her grandfather most afternoons. Very often he was

sleeping and she would sit holding his hand, staring out at the beauty of the

view, and when he awoke, he would smile and squeeze her hand gently with

the little strength he had left. Sometimes she would chatter about

inconsequential things and he would nod, appearing interested in her every

word. And other times they would sit in silence, sharing the panorama of

the cane fields.

The experience for Kate was never in the least upsetting. Her

grandfather was at peace. He made no complaint and appeared to be

suffering no undue pain, except when the nurse moved him, rather brutally

at times, in order to correct his posture in the bed and straighten his spine.

He winced then, Kate noticed. It’s probably murder when she bathes him

and changes his pyjamas and rolls him around to put fresh linen on the bed.

Poor Grandpa, she thought.

When she’d offered her assistance, however, the nurse had politely but

brusquely refused.

‘Thank you, Miss Durham, but this is what your father pays me to do,

this is my job –’

‘I just thought that perhaps with the two of us –’

‘No, no, it’s better this way, believe me.’ Norma Pendlebury was a

professional to her fingertips. Family members had a habit of interfering

with her routine and she needed no assistance from amateurs, however well

meaning.

Kate could only presume that Nurse Pendlebury, highly qualified as she

was, must be right, but she was a difficult woman to warm to, big and bossy

and seemingly insensitive. All of which no doubt comes with the territory,

Kate thought.

Then, early one Saturday afternoon, the most remarkable thing

happened.

Kate was sitting in the bedside chair looking out at the view and holding

Bartholomew’s hand as he slept. She was feeling rather sleepy herself. The

sun through the open shutters and the gentle stirring of air from the ceiling

fan formed a soporific combination and she was close to dozing off when

all of a sudden she could swear she heard her grandfather’s voice. At first she couldn’t believe it. She’d not heard her grandfather speak for years, no

one had, and she turned to stare down at him, presuming her imagination

was playing tricks that surely the voice belonged only in her mind. But no,

although his eyes remained closed his lips were moving. He’s talking in his

sleep, she thought. Leaning close, she tried to make out the words, but there

seemed to be none: the sounds were unintelligible, no more than a gentle

murmur.

She stayed watching and listening intently, holding his hand, hardly

daring to breathe. The murmurs became intermittent, stopping and then

starting again as if he was having some sort of conversation, and Kate

strained to discern any meaning in what he was saying. Then finally on the

gentle exhalation of his breath, she heard the words, quiet, barely audible,

but to Kate, listening with such care as she was, quite distinct. ‘Not long

now,’ he said in little more than a whisper, ‘not long.’

He went quiet after that and minutes later the nurse bustled in with his

medication. She was about to wake him, but Kate stopped her.

‘Nurse Pendlebury . . .’ Gently releasing Bartholomew’s hand, careful

not to disturb him, Kate rose to her feet. ‘He spoke,’ she said. ‘My

grandfather spoke.’

‘Oh yes,’ Norma Pendlebury replied, ‘he speaks quite a lot in his sleep,

just gobbledy-gook, no sense to it –’

‘But he hasn’t spoken for years, not since the stroke he suffered after

my grandmother’s death.’

‘Of course, Miss Durham, I’m fully aware of your grandfather’s

medical history,’ the nurse replied pleasantly enough, but in her usual brisk

manner. ‘Who can tell what the brain does in these final days, the strangest

things happen, believe me they do. But I wouldn’t read too much into it if I

were you, they’re just sounds he’s making, no more than that.’

Oh no, you’re wrong, Kate thought, you’re very, very wrong, they’re

not sounds at all, he’s speaking. She did not correct Nurse Pendlebury,

however. Instead she stepped to one side and watched as Bartholomew was

awoken and propped up higher in the bed in order to be fed his medication,

which had been ground up and mixed with water for ease of swallowing.

‘There we are, Mr Durham.’ Nurse Pendlebury handed him the glass of

fruit juice she always brought to wash away any after-taste. ‘Now I’ll leave you two to yourselves,’ she said checking her watch, ‘and I’ll be back with

your afternoon tea in three quarters of an hour.’

Bartholomew nodded his thanks, he was always most courteous to

Nurse Pendlebury, and he smiled up at Kate, pleased to see her. He had no

idea she’d been sitting holding his hand for the past forty minutes.

Kate waited until the nurse had left and the bedroom door was closed

before once again sitting beside her grandfather. Bartholomew handed her

the glass automatically; he didn’t want the fruit juice, he never did, but fruit

juice following medication was part of Nurse Pendlebury’s routine. Kate

placed the glass on the bedside table and took his hand.

‘Grandpa,’ she said. ‘You spoke.’

His expression was one of bemusement, as if to say did I? Did I really?

‘You were talking in your sleep. Nurse Pendlebury says you do it quite

often.’ As his eyes darted to the door Kate thought she detected a tiny

flicker of alarm. ‘She thinks you’re not really talking at all, she thinks it’s

only sounds you’re making.’ The flicker of alarm had gone now, Kate

noted. ‘But we know better, don’t we Grandpa. You can talk, can’t you.’

She looked into his eyes, making it very evident that she was not asking a

question at all, that she already knew the answer. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

The reply came after several seconds, as if Bartholomew had given the

matter a little thought. ‘Yes, Kate,’ he said, slowly and with care. ‘You are

right. I can talk.’

In throwing down the challenge Kate had expected some form of

response certainly, but she found herself nonetheless taken aback. His

voice, although weakened by his condition, was just as she remembered, a

gentle voice, a kind voice, like the man himself. She was moved, but fought

against showing it.

‘I would have thought, after all these years, you’d have been a bit out of

practice, Grandpa,’ she said with an element of accusation. ‘How long have

you been able to speak without letting any of us know?’

‘I’m not quite sure, to be honest. After Mary went, I had no desire to

speak and I think for some time I forgot how. Then one day, or rather one

night I recall, I started talking to her out loud and I’ve been doing so ever

since. She’s always nearby. I can feel her presence.’

‘Why didn’t you talk to any of us?’

‘I had nothing to say.’

‘Even to me?’

‘You and I never needed words, my dear.’ Bartholomew gave her hand

the lightest squeeze and as he turned away to gaze out at the cane fields

Kate felt a rush of guilt for having intruded upon his silent world.

‘I’m sorry, Grandpa. I won’t tell anyone your secret, I promise. I’m

truly sorry.’

‘Why?’ He turned back to her. ‘Why are you sorry?’

‘I had no right to confront you the way I did. If you don’t wish to speak

that’s your business, I should never have –’

‘Ah but now you have discovered my duplicity, Kate, I should like to

speak. Just to you, no one else. There are messages you can pass on for me

when I’m gone, my dear. Letter-writing is so wearying. I can no longer hold

the pen.’

‘Anything Grandpa, tell me anything. I’ll be a willing messenger, I

promise.’

‘Tell Julia she is all I could have wished for in a daughter. I know she

reproaches herself for not visiting me more often, but she mustn’t. She has a

family and responsibilities of her own. Tell her I love her very much.’

‘I will.’

‘And your father. Tell your father how deeply I feel for him on the loss

of his son.’ Bartholomew looked down at their hands resting entwined on

the bed, the flawless fingers of a young woman clasped in the wizened claw

of an old man. ‘Had I chosen to speak, Kate, I could never have found the

right words to express my sadness about Neil.’

‘No,’ Kate too gazed down at their hands, finding the sight beautiful,

just as she was finding the sound of her grandfather’s voice beautiful, ‘no, I

don’t think any of us could.’

‘I’ve gathered from the odd exchange between your father and mother

when they’ve visited me that Stan is very bitter. I’ve gathered also that he

would have preferred to have lost Alan than Neil.’

Meeting her grandfather’s eyes, Kate was amazed by the perceptiveness

she saw there, and by the matter-of-fact tone of his voice, weak as it was.

‘That too is sad,’ Bartholomew said, ‘and destructive, in some ways

more so for Stan than for Alan. Alan has always been strong.’

‘Yes, he has.’ Kate, riveted, waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He

simply looked away once again to gaze out the window and she presumed he was tired and that the time for talking had passed.

Bartholomew was tired, but the time for talking had not passed. ‘I was

strong too, Kate,’ he said after a full minute or so. ‘I was strong like Alan,

only Big Jim didn’t know it, just as Stan doesn’t recognise Alan’s strength.’

Kate remained breathlessly still, realising that as he looked out at the

cane fields Bartholomew was re-living the past.

‘When my brothers were killed at Gallipoli, Big Jim made it quite clear

that I should have been the one to die. Grief is such an illogical emotion I

believe he even in some way held me responsible for their deaths.’

‘Yes,’ Kate said with deliberation, ‘I know.’

‘You know?’ Bartholomew turned to her, puzzled. ‘How could you

possibly know, my dear?’

‘I’ve read Ellie’s diaries.’ Kate had decided in that instant that the time

was right. She would seize this opportunity and test her grandfather’s

knowledge. Just how much had Ellie shared with her son?

She told him about her discovery of the ledgers. ‘Ellie wrote very

intimately of her family,’ Kate explained, ‘and with complete candour, I

might add, she held nothing back.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew found Kate’s own intimacy charming, that she

should refer to the great-grandmother, whom she had known only briefly as

a very old woman when she herself was a very young child, as ‘Ellie’, the

way she would a contemporary or a friend. The diaries had clearly had a

strong effect upon her. ‘I am surprised that my mother should so risk

retribution at the hands of Big Jim. He would not like to be written of

intimately, and he could be a very harsh man.’

‘She wrote in French,’ Kate said.

Bartholomew heard himself laugh, no more than a throaty chuckle that

threatened to become a cough, but how long had it been since he’d laughed,

he wondered. ‘How very like Mother,’ he said, ‘she was so clever.’

‘She felt it was you who suffered at the hands of Big Jim, Grandpa. She

thought your father was cruel to you.’

‘He was, indeed he was, but he had his reasons. He saw me as the runt

of the litter, and he was quite right. I never had the strength or the stamina

of my brothers, certainly not as a child.’

‘It must have been very hurtful. Surely you must have grown up hating

your father for so openly displaying his favouritism?’

‘No, Kate, not at all. Big Jim’s bias towards my brothers only provided

me with an even greater love from my mother. I was the lucky one.’

‘So you were her favourite.’

Bartholomew shook his head. He was tired. He’d forgotten how

exhausting talking could be. ‘No, I don’t think so, she was just being

protective. But it was her love most certainly that made me strong.’

Reflecting upon his mother, he smiled fondly. ‘She was a person of great

strength herself. My father would not have survived the deaths of his sons

without my mother’s love, Kate, and yet she had love to spare also for me.

Ellie had love for us all. She was the true strength of the Durham family.’

You’re right, Kate thought, Ellie was indeed the strength of the Durham

family. But you don’t know the truth, Grandpa. You know only the lies Ellie

wished you to believe, the lies she invented for your own protection.

‘I’ve exhausted you, haven’t I?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied, closing his eyes and giving her hand another light

squeeze, ‘but in the nicest of ways. Do wake me, my dear, when the tea gets

here.’

Bartholomew died five days later and another family funeral took place

at Christ Church the following week. Alan drove up from Brisbane and

Julia flew out from Canada.

‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ Julia demanded of her brother when she

learnt that their father had been lingering on the brink of death for some

time.

‘Dad wouldn’t let me,’ Stan barked back, annoyed. ‘He wrote a note

saying under no circumstances were you to be informed. He didn’t want

you leaving your family to rush to his bedside. Christ alive, I told him you’d

come home for the funeral anyway so what difference would it make, but he

refused to listen. You know what a stubborn bastard he could be when he

felt like it.’

There was a large and impressive turnout at the funeral, members of

Bundaberg’s oldest families, the business elite, and representatives from

every area of the local sugar industry. The attendance was not only a tribute

to the social standing of the Durham family, but a personal testament to the

respect accorded Bartholomew over the years.

At the wake which followed, again upon Hilda’s insistence, Kate gave

Julia her father’s message.

‘He said that you were all he could have wished for in a daughter, Julia.

Those were his exact words.’

Her aunt made no attempt to mask her tears. ‘The wily old bugger,’ she

said, ‘he could speak. He could actually speak.’

‘Yes, and he said to tell you he loved you very much.’

‘Oh damn,’ delving in her handbag, Julia came up with a handful of

tissues, ‘there goes the mascara.’

Alan had arrived home, his car packed with his belongings and the day

after the funeral he announced he was not returning to Brisbane.

‘I’ve chucked in my apprenticeship at Evans Deakin and I’ve chucked

in the Diploma course,’ he said over breakfast, ‘I’m back to stay.’

Kate and Hilda both glanced at Stan, waiting for the fireworks they

presumed would follow, but after a long and suspenseful pause, his reaction

came as a total surprise.

‘Good for you, son,’ he said a little stiffly, ‘you’re doing the right thing.

I’m proud of you.’ Stan the Man appeared uncharacteristically at a loss for

words, but in truth he was having trouble expressing himself without

betraying emotion. Alan was coming home to assume his brother’s

responsibilities and take up the position that was now rightfully his. Bugger

the apprenticeship indeed, Stan thought, and bugger the Diploma, the boy

was doing his duty. This was just as things should be.

He cleared his throat. ‘I was a little hurtful last time you were home,

Alan,’ he said awkwardly, ‘grief makes a man say things he shouldn’t . . .’

Good God, Alan thought, don’t tell me the old man’s actually

apologising!

That, however, was as close to an apology as Stan was prepared to go.

‘But we can put any unpleasantness behind us now, son,’ he continued.

‘You and I will make a good team. Elianne will be in safe hands with us at

the helm . . .’

Oh no, he’s making a speech. Alan’s mind went into overdrive. He

thinks I’m going to replace Neil as heir to the throne. Oh no, Dad, no,

you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick altogether.

‘Actually I won’t be going into management, Dad.’ He dived in quickly,

trying to sound casual, but knowing he had to set things straight right from

the start. ‘I aim to open up an engineering workshop in Bundaberg.’

Stan stared uncomprehendingly at his son. What on earth was the boy

talking about?

‘I have tremendous plans,’ Alan went on enthusiastically, ‘and I’ll be

much more use to Elianne this way, I can promise you. You don’t need me

to manage the place, that’s not what I’m good at and the Krantzes handle

the business side of things anyway. Honestly, Dad, with the plans I have

Elianne can become the most efficient, productive, cost-effective mill in the

region.’

‘The breakfast table is hardly an appropriate place to discuss business,’

Stan said coldly, and he stood. ‘I suggest we adjourn to my study.’

‘But your eggs, Stanley,’ Hilda protested, ‘you’ve hardly touched your

eggs.’

Her husband made no reply, however, marching off without a word, and

as Alan followed he shrugged an apology to his mother.

Once in his study, Stan settled himself behind the large mahogany desk

he’d had specially imported twenty years previously and demanded a full

explanation of his son.

‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about these grandiose plans that are of such

proportion you would relinquish your duty and your status as manager of

Elianne.’

Sitting in the hardback chair feeling as if he was at a job interview, Alan

ignored his father’s sarcasm. ‘I aim to concentrate on chopper harvesters,

Dad,’ he said. ‘As we both know they’ve been around for a few years, but

they’ve yet to replace whole-stalk harvesters in this region. They need to be

adapted to the local conditions and this requires quite a deal of expertise . .

.’

Stan said nothing. He wasn’t particularly interested, recalling that the

original disadvantage of chopper harvesters as opposed to the whole-stalk

design had been the deterioration of the cane caused by bacterial infection

through the cut ends of the billets. The problem had eventually been

rectified by controlling the length of the cane to produce longer billets, and

also by ensuring speedier delivery to the mill, but Stan had nonetheless

avoided the change to chopper harvesters. They seemed to spell trouble.

Alan presumed from the silence that his father was waiting for him to

go on, and he did so eagerly. He’d spent every spare moment at his disposal over the past two years researching and studying the revolutionary chopper

harvester design.

‘There’s no denying the chopper will change the industry and radically

increase production as it already has in the north,’ he continued, ‘but it’s a

far more complex piece of machinery than the whole-stick harvester. It

requires a great deal more adaptation to suit our local conditions. The

Bundaberg mills and cane growers want the chopper, Dad, but it has to be

modified and streamlined to work efficiently –’

‘And that’s where you and your engineering workshop come in, I take

it,’ Stan finally interrupted. He didn’t like being lectured about the business

he knew so well, although he had to admit he was a little in the dark when it

came to chopper harvesters.

‘Yes, that’s exactly where I come in. I’ve already bought several

second-hand lathes, they’re being delivered next week, and I’ve lined up an

ideal workshop location in East Bundaberg on the corner of Quay and

Kendall Streets.’

Alan, normally so attuned, and indeed accustomed, to his father’s

displeasure, didn’t notice the tell-tale signs as he carried on earnestly.

‘So you see, Dad, I’ll be able to make modifications for Elianne. You

get the choppers and I’ll adapt them. You can be one of my very first

customers. We’ll lead the market in a successful changeover from long-stalk

to chopper harvester. What do you say?’

‘I say, who the hell do you think will pay for all this? I presume you

expect me to foot the bill? That’s it, isn’t it? I’m to fund your enterprise

while you shirk your filial responsibilities.’

Alan finally registered his father’s disapproval. But his father didn’t

understand. ‘No, no Dad, that’s not it at all,’ he said hastily, ‘I already have

the finance. Enough to get myself set up anyway: I have investors.’

‘Oh? And who exactly would these investors be?’

‘A number of local cane growers who are keen to make the

changeover,’ Alan replied a little warily. He knew his father would be none

too happy to discover who, but what the hell he thought, it was only a

matter of time before word got around. ‘The Fiorelli brothers actually.’

Stan’s burgeoning anger turned to sheer outrage. ‘You’re abandoning

your family and your duty in order to ally yourself with Luigi and his

brothers!’

Oh God, here we go, Alan thought, the full histrionics, I should have

seen it coming. ‘Luigi doesn’t even know, Dad,’ he said patiently, ‘the

arrangement is strictly between the brothers and me. They’ll have a share in

the business when it takes off, and we all agree it’s bound to, in fact Tofts

have already expressed interest in the regular supply of sprockets and

adaptations for various chopper designs –’

‘You ungrateful young bastard, this is nothing short of betrayal!’

‘No it’s not. It’s common sense. As I said before, I’ll be of far greater

use to Elianne with my own business than I would –’

‘You’ll be of no use to Elianne whatsoever,’ Stan rose angrily to his

feet, ‘and don’t think you’re going to live here while all this is going on!

Don’t think for one minute you’re going to live here!’

‘I won’t actually, Dad,’ Alan said as if politely declining an invitation.

‘There’s a flat above the workshop, so it’ll be easier if I stay in Bundy.

Saving on travel time will give me more daily work hours.’ He stood. ‘Now

if it’s all right with you, I’ll go back and finish my breakfast.’

Burning with impotent rage, Stan watched as his son walked out of the

study, gently closing the door behind him. Alan’s implacability had always

managed to infuriate. The boy did it on purpose of course.

Kate’s application for PhD scholarship funding proved successful. It

was hardly surprising. A company like Vesteys was only too keen to acquire

the services of a talented young honours graduate eager to specialise in

livestock. She returned to Sydney in early April to take up a laboratory

position conducting research for Vesteys, while embarking upon her PhD

thesis at Sydney University.

‘Welcome back.’

She’d rung Frank shortly after her arrival, and they’d arranged to meet

in the park on Saturday. Saturday lunches in the park, dependent upon the

weather, had become quite a fixture the previous year.

‘How’s everyone coping at home?’ he asked sympathetically when

they’d bought their ham and salad rolls and coffee and were settled on their

usual bench. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since her brother’s death

over four months earlier.

‘So-so,’ she said with a shrug, ‘Mum’s better than Dad, but . . .’ Another

shrug.

‘And how are you coping?’ He was concerned. She looked tired and

under some strain, which he supposed was understandable.

‘I’m fine.’ She took a healthy bite of her bread roll as if to prove she

was, and Frank, assuming she didn’t want to talk about the situation at

home, changed the subject.

‘Great about your PhD scholarship,’ he said, she’d told him the news

over the phone, ‘you must be really pleased.’

She nodded a ‘yes’ with her mouth full of food and he started on his

own ham and salad roll after which they lapsed into a companionable

silence, chomping away together.

‘What an irony,’ he said after a while, ‘that Vesteys should prove your

champion. I mean you of all people.’

‘Why me of all people?’

‘Your commitment to the cause,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee, ‘you

and Vesteys are pretty strange bedfellows, you have to agree.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh,’ he could see she was puzzled, ‘sorry, I presumed you knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘About Vesteys and the Gurindji Strike . . .’ She looked at him blankly

and he went on to explain. ‘In 1966 two hundred Gurindji stockmen and

house servants together with their families walked off the Wave Hill Cattle

Station, one of Vesteys’ properties in the Northern Territory. They settled at

a sacred site near Wattie Creek not far away and they’ve been there ever

since, over two and half years now. You haven’t heard of this?’

‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘no I haven’t.’

‘The strike was originally presumed to be about conditions,’ he

continued. ‘Vesteys are notorious for denying their Aboriginal labour even

the most basic of human rights, but the campaign is really far bigger than

that. The Gurindji are after the return of their land, or at least part of it, and

rightly so. Vesteys, like most of the big northern pastoralists, have deprived

the local people of their hunting grounds and traditional way of life, leaving

them no alternative but to accept work on the cattle stations, where they

serve as cheap labour. The Gurindji have a particularly strong case in this

instance. They petitioned the Governor General in 1967 and their claim was

rejected, but they don’t intend to give up. And nor should they.’

‘How terrible,’ Kate said. She felt shockingly guilty. ‘I’m appalled that I

didn’t know about all this.’

‘Don’t be. Most of Australia doesn’t. Besides, your work’s been based

principally here. The Northern Territory’s a long way away.’

‘That’s no excuse, I should have known. And I certainly can’t accept

funding from Vesteys now that I do.’

‘You most certainly can,’ he said emphatically, ‘in fact that’s exactly

what you must do.’ She was about to protest, but he continued. ‘For

goodness’ sake Kate, take their money and put it to good purpose. Get

everything you can out of Vesteys – you’d be mad not to.’

She looked so troubled that it was Frank’s turn to feel guilty. ‘Kate,

please,’ he insisted, ‘if I’d known this was going to upset you I wouldn’t

have said anything. I presumed that you knew, and I was only making

conversation to take your mind off your worries anyway. Refusing funding

from Vesteys would have no impact on the situation whatsoever. Please,

please, don’t make any foolish decisions that could jeopardise your future.

If you do, I’ll end up suffering guilt for the rest of my life.’

She gave a wan smile. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?’

‘You promise me?’

‘I promise,’ she nodded, ‘principles out the window as of now.’

Frank thought how forlorn she looked, how insecure and vulnerable,

quite unlike the Kate Durham he knew, always so forthright and strong. He

wanted to protect her, to gather her in his arms and kiss her and tell her that

everything would be all right.

‘Do you need to talk, Kate?’ he said instead. ‘Do you need a shoulder?’

‘Nope.’ She took a swig of her coffee, which was by now cold and

decidedly unpleasant. ‘No, really, I’m fine.’ How could she tell him about

the emptiness of Christmas at Elianne without Neil? How could she tell him

about her mother’s cupboard drinking and her father’s hideous moods and

her younger brother, who’d been banished from the family home? Things

were getting to Kate, but they were not things she could talk about.

‘Have you seen Planet of the Apes?’ he asked.

The non sequitur surprised her. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Good, neither have I. Let’s go tonight. It’s on at the State,’ he added,

knowing that he was offering an added incentive. Of all the cinemas in

Sydney the gloriously ornate State Theatre was Kate’s favourite.

‘All right.’

They sat in the first row of the dress circle, eating chocolate-coated ice

creams and loving every minute of the Hollywood epic.

‘Now that’s what I call a movie,’ Frank said as they walked through the

main atrium and out into the street. ‘You’ve got to admit, the Yanks know

how to make them.’

They strolled to the car, which was parked half a block away. ‘We’re off

to the Cross now,’ he said, ‘we’re going to have supper at the B & B – all

right by you?’

‘Sure, sounds fine.’ Kate allowed herself to be swept along by his plans,

aware Frank was going out of his way to distract her from her worries. And

it was working.

‘You seem a lot happier,’ he said as they sat by the windows at the

Bourbon and Beefsteak, sipping wine and gazing out at the throngs

revelling in the heady nightlife of Kings Cross on a Saturday.

‘Well I must admit I found it rather difficult to stay dismal,’ she said,

‘eating a chocolate ice cream and watching Planet of the Apes.’ She smiled

gratefully and raised her glass to him. ‘Thank you, Frank.’

‘My pleasure.’

After supper he drove her home.

‘Do you want to come in for a coffee?’ she asked when he walked her to

the front door.

‘No thanks.’ He would love to have come in for a coffee, but he wasn’t

sure what it might lead to; he had a feeling it could be dangerous. ‘Think

I’ll call it a night.’

‘Right you are. Thanks again, Frank, I had a lovely evening and I really

am grateful.’ He was a tall man and Kate, although not short herself, was

forced to stand on tiptoe in order to kiss his cheek. ‘You’re a very good

friend,’ she said.

It would have been impossible for him not to kiss her. As their lips met

he guarded against any overt show of passion, but the desire was there –

they both knew it – along with the tenderness.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said as they parted. ‘I’m really sorry. That shouldn’t have

happened.’

‘Yes, it should.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t be scared, Frank – I’m

not. Good night.’

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