Chapter Sixteen

 

Alan had opened his workshop in mid-April and by the start of the

crushing season barely two months later word had spread that this young

man knew his business. Now six months down the track the enterprise was

proving an unmitigated success, particularly as Toft Brothers had become a

regular client. Alan supplied spare parts and adaptations as required to

Tofts, specialising in steel sprockets made to order for cane harvesters.

His property in East Bundaberg appeared a bit of a shambles at first

sight. It sat just across the Kennedy Bridge, which forded a small tributary

of the Burnett River, and constituted a rather messy front yard, always

littered with machinery, beyond which was an extensive workshop with

modest living quarters above. The sign on the wire gates of the yard said in

letters big and bold, DURHAM ENGINEERING and beneath in smaller

letters Mechanical Harvesting Specialists. Alan had opted for the plural in

the belief that it sounded more impressive and in the hope that the business

would burgeon, as indeed it had. With orders pouring in it wouldn’t be long

before he’d need to employ assistant fitters and turners, although for the

moment he was enjoying working on his own.

Stan the Man detested the fact that his son had chosen to use the family

name. How dare the boy so presume! The sight aroused his anger whenever

he was in town and drove past the place, but he never confronted Alan. He

refused to speak to his son, even disappearing from the house on Sunday

afternoons when Alan visited his mother.

‘It’s so surly and childish of him,’ Hilda would complain as she and

Alan sat in the small drawing room taking afternoon tea, ‘but don’t worry, dear, he’ll get over it eventually.’

Alan would nod as if he agreed, but he did not share his mother’s

confidence.

Hilda had developed a strength of late, which had come about through

the only true confrontation she had had with her husband during their

twenty-six years of married life.

‘I have lost one son, Stanley,’ she had said defiantly when he’d tried to

forbid Alan’s visits to Elianne, ‘I am not prepared to lose another. If you

attempt to force this separation upon me I will leave you.’ Her boldness had

shocked them both, particularly Hilda, and from that day on their

relationship had undergone a subtle but distinct change. Stan had realised

that, despite the fact he’d taken his wife for granted throughout their entire

marriage, he did not dare lose her. And Hilda, in recognising her husband’s

fear, had become empowered, just a little, sometimes even enough to risk

annoying him.

‘Barbara told me at the bridge club the other day that Alan’s business is

doing remarkably well,’ she said one morning. ‘You should be proud of

him, Stanley.’

‘Don’t push me, woman,’ he growled before stomping away to his

study. Stan was sick of being told he should be proud of his son. He’d heard

the same thing again just the night before at the Burnett Club.

‘You must be proud of young Alan, Stan,’ Garnet Buss had said as

they’d shared a couple of rounds at the bar. ‘What a clever young

businessman he’s turned out to be.’

Everyone offered the same hearty congratulations, Rob Black, Stewart

Pettigrew, Carl Nielson and those others of Bundy’s elite business set who

met at the Burnett Club. ‘I’ll bet you’re proud of your boy, Stan,’ they’d

say. He knew why, of course. They’d commiserated with him over Neil for

months, every one of them, and they were now trying to give him a boost.

Well, it didn’t work. Alan’s success was no compensation for the loss of

Neil. Alan’s success and above all his use of the Durham name for his

business venture was a mockery to Neil’s memory.

Nearly one year after the death of his eldest son, Stan was still blinded

by grief, his pain as raw as ever.

Despite working long hours, often from dawn until dusk, Alan led an

active social life. He didn’t frequent the Burnett Club, respecting it as his father’s domain and wishing to avoid any possible unpleasantness, but the

Burnett Club was hardly necessary in any event. The younger male set with

whom he mingled, sons of prominent businessmen for the most part, were

members of Apex.

Apex was a club for young men aged eighteen to forty, its principal

function being to raise funds for charity and perform good works for the

community and the disadvantaged, none of which prevented its members

from having a good time. They would meet once a fortnight in the upstairs

dining room at Lewis Brothers Palais where, while discussing the club’s

latest project, they would demolish enormous steaks. As no alcohol was

permitted at an Apex meeting, they would liquor up beforehand at the

Commercial Hotel, then after the meeting and the steaks they’d adjourn to

‘The Met’ just up the road, where they’d scoff back more beers. The Apex

boys knew how to enjoy themselves.

The highlight of Alan’s social existence, however, was Saturday night,

which was always reserved exclusively for Paola. He saw her regularly

during the week, in fact nearly every day. She worked as a filing clerk in the

office of Wyper Brothers main emporium in Bourbong Street and during her

one-hour lunch break she’d bring sandwiches to his workshop. She’d make

them a pot of tea in the upstairs kitchen and sit chattering away happily

while she watched him work – he never took more than a fifteen-minute

break himself – and they would discuss what they’d do the following

Saturday. Saturday nights were precious to them both. Occasionally they’d

go out for an early dinner and then on to the pictures, but as a rule they

preferred to go dancing, sometimes as far afield as the Bargara Surf Club,

although more often than not it would be the Lewis Brothers Palais, which

was closer to home.

The Lewis Brothers Palais was above Harry Lewis’s Milk Bar in

Bourbong Street. A set of stairs led up from the milk bar, at the top of

which to the left was the dining room, famous for its steaks, where the Apex

Club met each fortnight, and to the right was the Palais, which came alive

every Saturday.

A circular bandstand sat in the centre of the dance floor, a local band

pumping out old favourites and popular songs of the day while dancers

whirled all about them, graceful or frenzied dependent upon the choice of

music. Doors led to a balcony overlooking the street where exhausted couples could take a breather now and then before returning to the fray. The

Lewis Brothers Palais was a buzzy place for Bundy’s younger set on a

Saturday night.

After the dance, Alan would drive Paola home to Elianne and they’d

share a final good-night kiss outside the Fiorellis’ cottage, Alan fighting to

control his own passion and also hers, which threatened to further enflame

him. Then he would return to town and his little flat in East Bundaberg.

At first it had seemed strange not to stay at The Big House, odd indeed

to feel like a visitor on the property that had been his childhood home. But

he’d quickly grown to enjoy his independence. He loved the poky little flat

above the workshop and the fact that the life he led was one totally of his

own choosing, unaffected by the dictates of his father. It was a strangely

double life too: only Paola knew the true contradictory nature of his

existence. His friends from the Apex Club, Anglicans to a man, had no idea

of his secret and the members of his family were most certainly unaware.

Alan had embarked upon his conversion some months previously and

was shortly to be accepted into the Catholic Church. He’d attended the

requisite series of initiation classes with the priest at the Holy Rosary

Catholic Church, he’d read his bible and catechism as instructed and had

even attended Sunday-morning Mass on a number of occasions, although

he’d been required to leave before Holy Communion as he couldn’t receive

the Eucharist until he’d been officially welcomed into the fold.

During the Mass he would sit alongside the Fiorelli clan, of which he

was already considered a member. The families would drive into town and

meet up outside the huge towering white stone edifice on the corner of

Woongarra and Barolin Streets, its grand entrance marked by six stately

Greek columns; and when they had all congregated, the brothers, their

wives and their children would march into church together, the sheer force

of their numbers a statement of their faith. Sunday Mass was of great

importance to the Fiorellis.

Alan often wondered, as they milled about outside the church in clear

view of those gathering at Christ Church just down the road, whether one or

more of his friends from Apex might spy him in the crowd. He wondered

also whether reports had got back to his family. The idea did not in the least

bother him for his family and friends were all destined to know at some

stage, but he kept awaiting comment from one quarter or another. As yet, however, there had been none. Perhaps people don’t see what they don’t

expect to see, he thought. And with his dark hair he probably looked like

one of the extended Fiorelli family anyway, a notion that he found

immensely pleasing.

The conversion exercise itself had had little effect upon Alan. He

remained a non-believer at heart, which made him feel something of a

fraud, but the importance of the Fiorelli connection could not be

underestimated. He loved Paola as deeply as it was possible to love and he

also loved her family. If being accepted into the church and following its

practises made him one of them, then so be it.

Paola knew her fiancé had not embraced the faith and from time to time

she teased him about it. ‘You’re a terrible phoney, Alan,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I am.’

‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ she added in all seriousness.

‘I want to,’ he said, ‘I want to do everything that pleases your family. If

they were Buddhists I’d become a monk.’

She laughed. ‘That’d make our marriage interesting,’ she said. Then she

gave a mock frown. ‘You’d better watch the blasphemy though: you’re

about to face baptism and Communion, which is a pretty daunting

prospect.’ Paola’s teasing was nothing more than a cover. She couldn’t find

the right words to express how touched she was that he should go to such

lengths for her and her family.

‘I’ll manage,’ he replied with an easy shrug. ‘And just think, by the time

we get married I’ll have been a good practising Catholic for a whole year.

That’ll impress your dad no end.’

‘Yes,’ she replied a little distractedly, ‘it will.’

Paola was shortly to turn twenty and they planned to marry the

following year after her twenty-first birthday. But Paola didn’t want to wait

another whole twelve months. In fact Paola wasn’t sure if she could.

Already she was wondering how she might go about changing the course of

events. No one was receptive to her suggestions that perhaps they could

speed up the process. Everyone including Alan himself seemed prepared to

wait until she was twenty-one. ‘I promised your father,’ Alan would say,

albeit reluctantly, and she would spend hours lying in her sleepless bed

staring into the black hole of night, pondering a course of action. She must

be bold, she knew that much.

She decided to carry out her plan on the Saturday following his baptism

and Communion, which marked his official acceptance into the Catholic

Church. The timing seemed right, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

‘Let’s go to Bargara this Saturday afternoon,’ she said lingering over the

second half of her curried egg sandwich (he’d already scoffed his down and

was back at his workbench). ‘I could make us up a picnic lunch.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you’d like – sounds good to me.’

‘Don’t come and collect me though,’ she said, ‘I’ll get the bus into

town. It’ll save time.’ Paola had Saturdays off, but Alan always worked

through until at least midday.

‘Rightio, but don’t bother packing picnic stuff, we’ll grab some fish and

chips, easier that way.’

She arrived carrying a shoulder bag stuffed with swimming togs, hat,

beach towel, after-swim robe and a miscellany of other items that from the

size of the bag appeared quite unnecessary.

‘Crikey, you’ve come prepared,’ he said. Alan had his togs on under his

shorts and a towel slung over his shoulder.

‘It’s the girl scout in me.’ She gave a disarming grin. ‘Well, no,’ she

admitted, ‘it’s probably just the girl.’

The weather was glorious, November but not yet scorching, and they

drove with the windows down as usual, the wind whipping at Paola’s hair

until with her customary deftness she tied it up in a knot.

Once at Bargara they headed directly for The Basin, where they cooled

off among the families and young children wallowing in the shallows.

‘Let’s go to the surf beach,’ she suggested as they lay side by side on the

sand soaking up the sun.

‘Why?’

‘So you can catch some waves of course – this is far too tame for you.

I’m happy to watch.’

‘Nah, can’t be bothered.’ Propping on an elbow he leant down and

kissed her. ‘Besides I don’t want to let you out of my sight.’ It was true, he

didn’t. She looked glorious in the bright red one-piece costume that set off

the silky-olive of her skin and the raven-black of her hair. ‘Anyway I’m

starving,’ he jumped to his feet, ‘come on,’ he said, offering her his hand,

‘fish and chips time.’

They bought their fish and chips wrapped up in newspaper and drove to

the surf club, where they sat on the grass and looked out at the beach. From

somewhere nearby came the sound of a transistor radio. Frank Sinatra was

building to the final crescendo of ‘My Way’.

‘This is where I fell in love with you,’ she said matter-of-factly, blowing

on a chip that, fresh from the vat was still blisteringly hot, ‘right there.’ She

waved the chip at the vast expanse of beach. ‘That very spot.’

Alan laughed at the incongruity. ‘That very spot, eh?’ he said wolfing

down a steaming mouthful of fish.

‘Absolutely, I swear it. I can still see the dent in the sand. You told me I

looked like Natalie Wood, don’t you remember?’

‘Of course I remember.’

She bit into the chip. ‘I was fifteen years old,’ she said looking down at

the engagement ring no longer kept hidden but living permanently on her

finger, ‘and I knew right then that I wanted to marry you.’

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I felt exactly the same way.’

They kissed, tasting the salt and the oil of each other’s mouths. Nearby,

the transistor radio was no longer playing Frank Sinatra but Stevie Wonder,

who was singing, rather aptly ‘My Cherie Amour’.

After demolishing the fish and chips, they sunbaked and had another

swim, Alan catching a few waves while Paola dabbled near the shore, and

then they drove back to the flat at East Bundaberg, where she made them a

pot of tea.

‘Do you mind if I have a shower before you take me home?’ she said.

‘I’m all sandy.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’ He fetched a fresh towel for her and sat in the

kitchen finishing his tea.

‘Oh my God,’ he said when she reappeared to stand before him fifteen

minutes later. He rose and stared at her in shock, mesmerised by the sight.

She was wearing a knee-length cream-coloured nightdress, lace-trimmed

and of the sheerest silk. With shoe-string shoulder-straps and a deep

décolletage nothing was left to the imagination and, although the fabric was

not altogether transparent, from the way it caressed her skin she was clearly

naked beneath. He remained speechless, unable to do anything but drink in

the sight of her.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, but went on without waiting for an answer.

‘It’s a nightie, but the lady in the shop called it a chemise – it’s French. I

told her I was buying it for my trousseau and she said it was exactly the

right thing for a bride on her wedding night.’

Paola was aware she was probably talking too much, but she didn’t dare

risk a pause that might appear like uncertainty. She was not asking a

question, she was making a statement. ‘It’s time, Alan,’ she said, ‘I can’t

wait any longer,’ and she crossed to him, arms outstretched, offering

herself. He was powerless to resist.

As they made love on the little single bed with its threadbare mattress,

Alan tried to be as gentle as possible and, surprisingly enough, despite his

own mounting passion, it did not prove difficult. Looking into her eyes,

watching the wonderment unfold, feeling the response of her body after the

initial pain of penetration, he was lost in his love of her. And even more, he

was lost in her love of him. The touch and texture of her body was as

thrillingly sensual as he remembered a woman to be from his experience in

Brisbane, but this was not like the sex he’d had with the girl whose name

was long forgotten. This was not sex he and Paola were sharing at all: this

was something far greater. The willingness with which she gave herself to

him and the responsibility with which he embraced her trust was a sharing

of love, an exchange of vows.

‘We really are married now,’ she said as they lay naked, her head resting

on his chest.

‘Yes.’ Alan refused to feel guilt, at this stage anyway. He knew that

would come later, and he knew it would hit him hard, but for now he could

live only in this moment. ‘Yes, Paola, we’re married.’

He was surprised when she told him she was staying the night.

‘Of course I am,’ she said with a laugh when he queried the fact. ‘This

is my wedding night. A bride doesn’t go home on her wedding night.’

‘No I mean how have you managed it? What will your parents say?’

‘I told them I was going to a Wyper Brothers pre-Christmas staff picnic

at Bargara,’ she coolly explained. ‘Wypers always have a staff party in

November. And I told them one of my girlfriends at work suggested I stay

overnight at her flat.’

‘And they believed you?’

‘Of course. I said I’d meet them in town for Mass tomorrow morning.’

She smiled at his open incredulity. ‘My church dress and scarf and shoes are

in your wardrobe,’ she said.

‘You really did come prepared, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve had this planned for a fortnight.’

They ate Heinz baked beans on toast for dinner – as this was the

bachelor meal of Alan’s choice there was always a healthy supply of tins in

the kitchen cupboard. Then they made love again. This time, free of any

pain and discomfort, Paola’s response was unrestrained. She was a sensual

girl to whom sex came naturally.

They made love again in the morning, languidly, with no sense of

urgency, luxuriating in each other’s bodies. It was as if they’d been lovers

for years.

‘I like being married,’ she said.

She made them toast and a pot of tea, but as she set breakfast out on the

kitchen table before him, chattering away and glowing like a young wife

serving her husband’s first meal, guilt started to creep over Alan.

‘We’ll have to arrive at the church separately of course,’ she said,

oblivious to his concern as she poured the tea. ‘How exciting that this

morning’s your first Communion service,’ she beamed happily, ‘that’s why

I planned things the way I did. We get married and you get accepted into the

church all at the same time –’

‘But we’re not married, Paola.’ She was halted abruptly by the sternness

of his voice. ‘We’re not married and you know it. I’ve betrayed your

father’s trust. I gave him my word.’

For the first time she recognised his genuine worry. ‘Everything will be

all right,’ she assured him, keen to allay his fears, ‘Papa doesn’t need to

know. We’ll just tell him we want to marry sooner. I’ll tell him myself. I’ll

say, “Papa, I can’t wait any longer, it’s not fair you should ask me to.” He’ll

understand, I promise . . .’

Aware that he was not convinced, Paola went on to tell him a secret.

‘I’ve heard my mother and father over the years, Alan,’ she said. ‘I admit

these past few years I’ve listened. I’ve listened as hard as I could for the

noises, wanting to know what it’s like, imagining it’s you and me. They

think they make no sound, but they do, and the walls in our house are thin. I’ve heard them making love.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘Papa and Mamma

will understand, truly they will.’

‘Ah well,’ he smiled in return, not wishing to worry her, but despite her

worldly confidence he remained dubious, ‘we’ll see.’

Papa and Mamma will probably understand only too well, he thought.

Luigi will anyway, I’ll bet on it. The moment we ask permission to marry

earlier than planned, Luigi will know I’ve betrayed his trust. And what of

the other possibility, what if she’s pregnant? That hasn’t even been

mentioned. We made love three times without protection.

As he sipped his tea Alan made a mental note that first thing tomorrow

he must buy some condoms.

They arrived at the church separately to meet up with the family, kissing

each other on the cheek in greeting as they always did, and upon entering

the church they sat side by side in the pew as usual, although he was aware

that she was snuggling up to him a little closer than normal.

When he rose to take his first Holy Communion, Alfonso and the

brothers patted him on the back as he joined them in the queue, but kneeling

before the priest, Alan was barely aware of receiving the Eucharist, by now

he was so riddled with guilt.

Throughout the service he’d been unable to meet Luigi’s eyes, which he

knew were upon him and had been from the moment they’d entered the

church. He felt wretched and now that he was taking Communion doubly

so. Not only was he a liar who had broken an oath sworn to the man who’d

saved his life, he was a fraud. How dare he pose as a Catholic, what right

did he have to deceive these good people?

As young Alan Durham went through the motions, accepting the body

and blood of Christ, he didn’t know where to look or how to hide his

shame.

Luigi and Maria had recognised the signs. Maria particularly had known

in an instant and she’d nudged her husband, whispering in his ear. Alan’s

guilt had been readable from the outset, but Paola’s boldness had been the

true giveaway. Paola had met her parents’ eyes with a defiance that was

undeniable, an expression even of triumph. It was obvious to them both

who had been the true seducer.

At the conclusion of the service, when the families filed out of the

church and were heading for their respective vehicles, Paola accompanying her parents, Luigi waved Alan over.

‘You will come back to the house?’ He posed it as a question, but Alan

rightfully took it as a command.

‘Of course,’ he agreed, and he followed them to Elianne in his Holden.

When they were gathered in the Fiorellis’ kitchen, Georgio once again

discreetly absent, Luigi, Paola and Alan sat at the large wooden table while

Maria brewed the coffee.

Luigi solemnly addressed the young couple. ‘There is something you

wish to say to me?’

‘There is, Papa.’ Paola took it upon herself to answer, coming out with

her prepared response. ‘I don’t want to wait a whole year before I marry,’

she said rebelliously. ‘It’s not fair you should ask me to. Alan and I wish to

marry as soon as possible.’

‘Yes,’ Luigi’s reply was not directed to his daughter, but to his future

son-in-law, ‘I believe that you should.’ His wife nodded agreement as she

set the coffee pot on the table.

Alan couldn’t believe things had been resolved so simply. It appeared

Paola had been right: Luigi and Maria really did understand.

Stanley Durham, however, did not. How could such a situation have

come about without his knowledge, he demanded when his wife informed

him of the news. The world had gone quite mad.

‘You’ve had your head in the sand, Stanley,’ Hilda said with her

newfound confidence, ‘everyone knows Alan and Paola have been officially

engaged for some time, and with her parents’ approval.’

‘I thought that nonsense had been long forgotten.’

‘No, you just wished that it had.’ Hilda’s confidence occasionally

bordered on courage.

‘Is that right? Well how the hell are they going to get married when

she’s a bloody Mick?’ Stan growled triumphantly, ‘you tell me that!’

‘Alan has converted to Catholicism, or so he has confided to me – rather

difficult to believe, I know, but there we are.’

Stan, rendered speechless and already maddened by his wife’s

complacency, left the room.

He did not go to the wedding, which was held a month later, refusing to

set foot in the Catholic Church. But Kate did. Kate flew up from Sydney.

And she brought Frank Madigan with her.

‘Would you mind an extra house guest for a few days, Marmee?’ Her

query over the phone had been deliberately casual. ‘Frank’s a good friend

and I’ve told him so much about Elianne. I’d love him to see the place for

himself.’

‘Of course, darling,’ Hilda had replied, ‘any friend of yours is most

welcome, as you well know. And Cook will be overjoyed. With Alan now

living in town and your father at his club more often than not, she has no

one to cater to these days.’ Hilda had been most intrigued. ‘I look forward

very much to meeting your friend.’ So Kate is bringing a young man home,

she thought, surely that must mean something.

Kate had been far less circumspect when she’d telephoned Alan. ‘Mind

if I bring a friend to your wedding?’ she’d asked.

‘Someone special, I take it?’

‘Yes. Someone very, very special.’

Kate and Frank were lovers and had been for six months. They both

agreed that their affair had been a foregone conclusion ever since Planet of

the Apes and their first kiss, although in Kate’s personal opinion it had been

eminently predictable for quite some time before that.

The affair itself may indeed have been predictable, but the strength of

their love and the speed of its growth neither could possibly have

anticipated. Very early on, when Frank had voiced his concern about their

different backgrounds and the reaction their relationship would arouse in

others, Kate had been instantly dismissive. She cared nothing for public

opinion, she told him. And then she’d talked. She’d talked with a passion

that to Frank was revelatory. She’d held nothing back. And after that, nor

had he. The two had continued to share their most intimate secrets and

innermost feelings, developing a trust and understanding both knew could

weather any storm that might confront them.

Nevertheless, Frank was surprised by her suggestion he should come to

Elianne.

‘Really?’ he said as they languished in bed one Sunday morning.

Sometimes they spent the weekend at his Surry Hills terrace and sometimes

at the little house in Campbell Street; today it was Surry Hills. ‘Meet the

parents?’ He raised a deliberately comical eyebrow. ‘Already?’

‘Why not? I’d say you’re going to have to face that ordeal at some

stage, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He kissed her lightly. ‘I would say so, most definitely.’

Marriage had not once been mentioned, nor as yet even contemplated by

either, but there was a recognition their relationship was destined to last.

‘Besides, I’d like you to see Elianne,’ she said, ‘and Alan’s wedding is

the perfect opportunity.’ She added wryly, ‘Even though Dad’s boycotting

the whole thing. Al told me he’s refused to set foot in the church. He’s

locked himself away in a world of his own and won’t even acknowledge

that the wedding’s happening. No one can get through to him. He really has

turned into the most terrible ogre.’

Frank ran his fingers lazily over her right breast. ‘If your father’s so

incensed by his son’s marriage to an Italian what on earth will he have to

say about us as a couple?’

‘Nothing,’ she replied, ‘not yet anyway. As far as my parents are

concerned you’re just a good friend. Shall I get the coffee?’ She was about

to sit up, but he stopped her.

‘Later,’ he said, ‘much later.’

She was only too willing to acquiesce. ‘There’ll be none of this at

Elianne though,’ she warned him regretfully. ‘Dad’d blow a gasket if he

found out we’d slept in the same room.’

‘Then we’d better make the most of things while we can,’ he murmured.

Frank proved an instant hit with Kate’s parents, despite, or perhaps

surprisingly because of the uncomfortable circumstances surrounding

Alan’s impending nuptials. The atmosphere that pervaded The Big House

was certainly strange. Stanley Durham refused to mention his son’s

wedding, now only two days away, and he turned sullen if anyone else did,

which meant that his wife also avoided the topic, although in fact she was

most excited by the prospect. The arrival of a stranger in their midst brought

about a whole new range of conversation that was eagerly embraced,

particularly by Hilda, who loathed any form of social awkwardness.

‘Kate tells me you have a plumbing business, Frank,’ she said as Stan

carved the roast lamb that Cook had delivered to the table and Ivy arrived

with the platter of vegetables. How splendid, Hilda thought, to feel like a

family again. ‘She says it’s in the very heart of Sydney and that it’s highly

successful.’

‘The business is in the heart of Sydney, yes,’ Frank said, ‘but I can’t

take any credit for its success I’m afraid. That I owe to my father.’

‘Who is Irish, I believe.’ Stan passed a plate of lamb to his wife.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’re a Catholic.’

Frank registered the hint of accusation in Stanley Durham’s tone and at

the same time felt Kate’s eyes on him from across the table, but he did not

return her gaze, choosing to answer the man directly instead.

‘I must admit to being nothing in particular, Mr Durham,’ he said. ‘I

align myself to no specific religion.’

The answer went down exceedingly well with Stan who, apart from a

distinct aversion to the Roman Catholic faith, cared little for the church in

any form. ‘A man after my own heart,’ he said passing a plate of sliced

lamb to Frank, ‘too much bloodshed and strife brought about by religion –’

‘Do help yourself to vegetables, Frank,’ Hilda said before the diatribe

could begin. She pushed the platter his way and started serving herself from

the bowl of roast potatoes. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here, dear.’

The evening progressed very smoothly after that. Upon Hilda’s enquiry

they talked about the theatre and the concerts Frank and Kate had recently

attended in Sydney, after which the two men discovered their mutual love

of rugby union football and then the conversation turned to the obsession

they shared, like most Australian males, with all forms of sport.

To Hilda, Frank Madigan presented a romantic figure with his black hair

and piercingly grey-blue eyes. Such an intriguing-looking fellow, she

thought, and impressively tall. I do hope Kate is in love with him, they

make a handsome couple.

To Stan, Frank Madigan was a man’s man. You’d never pick him for a

Southerner, Stan thought, he’s more like one of us. If this is Kate’s choice

then she’s done very well for herself. An excellent match indeed.

The following day Kate took Frank on a long walk around the estate.

Cobber plodded along behind, not attempting to match their pace, just

hoping to keep them in sight, and on the occasions when they slowed down

Ben rounded them up in his customary Cattle Dog fashion with a mock nip

to the heels, but it was habit only. At nine years of age, Ben too was less

active than he’d once been.

As they went, she gave him the full guided tour explaining the history of

Elianne, but in a way she’d never done before, so much now relating to her

personal knowledge of Ellie and Big Jim. She had told him all about the diaries and how they had so dramatically changed her life. Kate found it

extraordinarily liberating to talk so freely of her family and the past.

They finished up at the mill, standing in its eerie stillness, the toffee

smell clinging to the air, no sound from the giant machines but the metallic

clink here and there of a maintenance mechanic’s tools. Frank was in awe:

he’d never seen a sugar mill.

‘You should be here during the crushing season,’ she told him.

She introduced him to Luigi, who was working alongside the several

others.

‘You come to my daughter’s wedding tomorrow, is good,’ Luigi said,

shaking Frank’s hand enthusiastically, pleased to meet Kate’s new friend.

‘Yes, I’m very much looking forward to it: thank you for inviting me,

Mr Fiorelli –’

‘Luigi, Luigi . . .’ The Italian turned to Kate, arms outstretched in a

typically flamboyant gesture. ‘Who call me Mr Fiorelli, eh? Who call me

Mr Fiorelli?’

Frank grinned. ‘Thank you, Luigi.’

‘Yes, yes, you come, you come. After we have big party at my brother’s

home, much singing, much dancing, is big day tomorrow.’ Luigi was

excited beyond measure at the prospect of his daughter’s wedding.

The next morning, Stanley Durham stood on the front verandah,

watching the exodus. Look at them, he thought, all deserting me, the whole

bloody household, and probably every staff member and worker as well. He

had made no complaint about the fact, however, even allowing Max the use

of his Mercedes. But he’d refused to acknowledge the occasion. They might

just as well have been heading off for a picnic at Bargara. Stubborn to the

end, Stan the Man was making a statement with his silence.

Max opened the passenger door for Hilda while his wife, Maude the

cook, and young Ivy, both dressed in their Sunday best, piled into the back

seat. Frank was driving one of the mill’s Land Rovers, which he and Kate

had collected from the garage the preceding day, and he climbed into the

driver’s side, leaving Kate to linger on the verandah as he knew she wished.

‘You could still change your mind, Dad,’ she whispered in her father’s

ear.

Stan ignored her. ‘Have a pleasant time,’ he called loudly for the benefit

of all, and Kate gave up. She pecked him on the cheek. ‘See you later,’ she said and started down the steps.

Ben bounded ahead, presuming he was coming along for the ride.

‘Stay,’ she ordered, and the dog dropped, dejected but obedient. ‘Where’s

Cobber?’ The Labrador was nowhere to be seen. She looked up at her

father. ‘Where’s Cobber?’ she asked.

‘No idea,’ Stan said. ‘Go on now.’ He shooed the whole lot of them

away with an annoyed wave of his hand as if they were insects. ‘I’ll find the

dog, Kate, go on now, go on.’ And he walked off into the house.

The church was crowded not only with family and friends of the bride:

the groom’s party too was well represented, for Stanley Durham was alone

in boycotting the event. His friends did not shy from attending a Catholic

wedding. A host of Elianne employees was there alongside the Krantzes

and many business acquaintances of Stan’s who now had dealings with his

son. And the young Apex Club members were of course present in force,

led by Alan’s closest mate Charles Watford, who had accepted the role of

best man.

‘You sly bastard,’ he’d remarked when Alan had asked him, ‘you never

said a bloody word. Why didn’t you tell us?’

Alan had shrugged off the enquiry with his customary nonchalance.

‘Didn’t think it was necessary, Charlie.’

‘You were scared we’d take the mickey out of you being a Mick, I’ll bet

that was it.’

‘Yep, something like that.’

Following the wedding, the bride’s party, beribboned limousine to the

fore, led the troops to Alfonso’s home where the reception was to be held al

fresco in the rambling grounds surrounded by cane fields. The gathering

was once again eclectic, but with a flavour purely Italian.

Volare oh oh

Cantare oh oh oh oh

Cousins Lucia and Gio were the featured vocalists of the so-called

‘Fiorelli Family Band’ but whenever a favourite song was played no one

could stop the whole clan from joining in and, ‘Volare’ being a favourite,

Gio’s solo performance was rather lost in the sea of boisterous voices.

The huge backyard of Alfonso’s house was festooned with white. The

magnificent giant fig in the western corner was swathed in white streamers,

Gio having climbed to the top to fling them about with gay abandon; white satin bows hung like unripened fruit alongside the lush orange spheres of

the mango tree; the bushes and shrubs that lined the yard’s perimeter were

draped with satin ribbons, some artistically, some haphazardly, depending

upon the personality of the family member who had draped them; and in

pride of place on each of the white-clothed trestle tables set up to

accommodate a hundred guests was a massive floral decoration of

Christmas lilies. Alfonso had certainly succeeded in his determination to do

his younger brother proud.

The Fiorelli family had agreed that, given Stanley Durham’s antipathy

to the marriage, it was advisable the reception be held at Alfonso’s house

rather than Luigi’s, which was part of the Elianne estate, but the choice of

venue had proved advantageous. Popular as Luigi’s home was for family

gatherings it could never have accommodated such numbers.

The band segued on to ‘Ciao Ciao Bambina’ at Alfonso’s insistence,

Domenico Modugno being a personal favourite. Lucia sang the lyrics in

Connie Francis fashion, but she too was drowned out by the other clan

members, ‘Ciao Ciao Bambina’ being another family favourite.

The five-piece band consisting of drum kit, bass and rhythm guitars,

piano accordion and violin, was set up on the verandah. The Fiorelli cousins

were not untalented and played regularly at family functions, Alfonso often

joining in on his harmonica and his brother Enzo occasionally featuring on

the mandolin. The five younger members were in particularly fine form on

this most auspicious of occasions, having been diligently practising for

weeks.

Paola and Alan were not joining in the family sing-along. They were on

the dance floor that had been laid out on the grass beside the verandah,

swaying gently in time to the music, oblivious to anything but each other,

Paola the picture of bridal beauty in her classical lace wedding gown. Never

had she been happier and never had Alan seen her more radiant. He’d been

greatly relieved when she’d announced two weeks previously that she was

not pregnant, although she’d boldly added that she wouldn’t have cared in

the least if she were.

‘Canzone Napolitana,’ Maria called out when ‘Ciao Ciao Bambina’

came to an end. She and the other wives were mingling about with trays of

hors d’oeuvres prior to serving the main meal, while Luigi and Alfonso

stood at the drinks table refilling glasses of beer and red wine.

Alfonso’s wife Claudia took up the call. ‘Si, si,’ she cried, ‘Canzone

Napolitana.’

Young Georgio who was on the piano accordion obligingly struck up

with ‘O Sole Mio’ and the other members of the band joined in. No Italian

wedding was complete without a bracket of Neapolitan songs, certainly no

Fiorelli wedding anyway.

Several songs later, after ‘Santa Lucia’, the band took a break, the wives

and daughters disappearing into the house to fetch the food while several of

the younger men cleared the floral arrangements from the tables.

Paola automatically joined the women as they set off for the kitchen, but

her mother waved her away, telling her to mingle with her guests.

‘A bride does not serve food,’ she said.

Alan also mingled, finding himself at one stage chatting to Ivan Krantz,

who was uncharacteristically open in expressing himself.

‘Your father will come to his senses before long, Alan,’ he said. ‘Stan

can’t keep closing himself off the way he has since Neil’s death. He needs

you.’

Alan was surprised by Ivan’s show of concern, although as usual he

gave away very little himself. ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ he said, ‘I personally

doubt he needs me at all, but there’s not much I can do about it anyway.’

‘You can be there for him when he finds out he’s no longer cock of the

yard,’ Ivan said, ‘I’ve a feeling it might come as a bit of a shock.’

Alan found the remark jarring. He’d presumed the man’s concern had

been directed towards him, but he’d obviously been wrong: Ivan’s show of

sympathy had been intended for his old friend Stan Durham. His manner

and choice of expression, however, seemed unnecessarily arrogant. Ivan

Krantz has certainly changed over the past year or so, Alan thought.

‘Sure, I’ll be there for him,’ he replied with a shrug that said why should

I? If upon Ivan’s advice Stan chooses to sign the estate away to investors,

then let him, Alan thought. Elianne was Stan the Man’s to do with as he

wished. And if Stan the Man remained ignorant of the fact that he was

losing control, then that too was his choice. Any warning he’d been offered

had long gone unheeded – Stanley Durham had been living in the past for

years.

‘If my father ever decides to talk to me again, Ivan, I’ll certainly be

there for him,’ he said, ‘in the meantime . . .’ Another shrug sufficed and he wandered off to mingle elsewhere.

The women brought out the food – giant platters of meat, bowls of

steaming pastas, salads and breads, wave upon wave – the guests were

called to table and the feast began.

The speeches were as abundant as the food, and the wine also flowed

freely. Bottles and dishes were unceremoniously handed around tables,

fresh supplies fetched regularly by those members of the family elected to

keep an eye on the proceedings and the afternoon grew progressively

raucous.

Toast after toast was made from the bridal table, and following dessert

when the speeches had finally run out and the meal was drawing to an end,

the young band members leapt for the verandah to start up afresh, this time

with a tarantella.

Alan and Paola were once again first on the dance floor, others quickly

joining them and Luigi, prompted by a nudge from his wife, rose and

offered his arm to the mother of the groom.

‘You would like to dance, Mrs Durham?’ he asked.

‘Why thank you, Luigi.’

Hilda was having a splendid time. She would have preferred champagne

to red wine herself and, unaccustomed as she was to the style of food

served, she’d initially found it all a little rich. But as the day had worn on,

she’d realised that everything seemed to go very well together and that the

lack of table service at a function she’d assumed should have a formal tone

didn’t matter in the least, in fact it contributed to the freedom of the

atmosphere. Even the raucousness, of which she’d been somewhat critical

to start with, was a display of affection, she’d decided, and really quite

uplifting.

‘What a lovely reception, Luigi,’ she said as they danced. Hilda had

always loved to dance although it seemed such a long time since she’d last

stepped on to a dance floor. The Italian was light on his feet, she noted, and

led well: he was a good dancer.

‘Si si,’ Luigi happily agreed, ‘much food, much music, Italian wedding

is good.’ He glanced at the newlyweds nearby and when he looked back at

her his expression was serious. ‘I am proud that my daughter she marry

your son, Mrs Durham,’ he said. ‘Your son he is a good boy.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Hilda smiled. ‘I am proud too that my son is marrying your

daughter, Luigi. Paola is a fine young woman. And from now on as your

daughter’s mother-in-law I insist you call me Hilda.’

Luigi gave one of his irrepressible grins. ‘Very good, Hilda.’ He twirled

her under his arm and passed her along to Alan. ‘Now we swap – you dance

with your son,’ he said breaking up the couple and gathering his daughter in

his arms.

It was mid-afternoon when the newlyweds left, Paola in her pretty,

floral going-away dress waving out of the open car window as Alan drove

off, the tin cans that Charlie and the Apex boys had tied to the Holden’s rear

bumper bar rattling away noisily. Alan laughed at the racket and gave

Charlie a wave, but he would rid himself of the cans before reaching the

main road for there was a five-hour drive ahead. Not that that in the least

daunted him. Alan loved driving.

‘See you at Christmas,’ the Fiorelli cousins called after them.

Alan and Paola were off to the Gold Coast for a one-week honeymoon

at the Surfers Paradise Hotel and would return several days before

Christmas in time for the family festivities.

After the couple’s departure, many of the older guests left, including

Hilda, whom Max drove home to Elianne together with his wife Maude and

young Ivy. Ivy was most reluctant to leave. She’d danced at least a half a

dozen times with Gio Fiorelli and could have gone on all night, he was by

far the best partner she’d ever danced with, and Ivy was an excellent dancer.

He’d said he was going to the Palais on Saturday night, however, and had

suggested they meet there, a proposition which Ivy had graciously deigned

to consider, although in truth the prospect excited her no end.

Kate and Frank, who had also danced themselves into a state of near

exhaustion, made their farewells towards the end of the afternoon. The

numbers had by then halved, but the party was still in full swing, the

younger set clearly intending to go on until all hours.

They arrived home at The Big House as dusk was falling to discover

Stan the Man seated in one of the cane armchairs on the front verandah with

Ben curled up asleep at his feet. Kate was most surprised to see her father

apparently waiting for them, but she took it as a good omen.

‘Hello, Dad,’ she greeted him as she trotted up the stairs. Ben rose to

meet her at the top, tail wagging, but in a rather subdued mood. ‘We had a marvellous time –’

‘Your dog’s dead,’ he said tersely.

‘What?’ She halted before him.

‘Your dog’s dead. I shot him.’

Halfway up the stairs behind her, Frank also halted. Is this some sort of

sick joke? he wondered. Stanley Durham was a tyrant given to unreasonable

behaviour, that much was plain, but the man surely hadn’t shot his

daughter’s dog in some act of malice.

‘You shot Cobber?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Nothing else I could do.’ Her father’s shrug appeared careless. ‘I

looked for him as soon as you’d gone. He was down in the bushes outside

the laundry, still alive but paralysed – had to be a snake.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘On the floor in the laundry,’ Stan said. ‘I knew you’d want to examine

him.’ As she turned to go, her father reached down and grasped Ben’s collar

in order to prevent the Heeler following her.

Kate glanced at Frank as she went back down the stairs and he

accompanied her around to the rear of the house where the laundry was

situated.

She turned on the lights and they stepped inside to where Cobber lay

covered by a tarpaulin.

They both knelt and Frank watched as she lifted aside the tarpaulin and

examined the body. The dog had been neatly shot through the brain.

She inspected the snakebite wound high on the right shoulder. ‘An

Eastern Brown, I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘Browns can be aggressive and

they hold their necks high when they strike.’ She stroked the dog tenderly.

‘Poor old Cobber,’ she murmured, ‘good old boy, I hope you didn’t suffer

too much. I’m glad Dad found you.’

Frank watched as she crooned to the animal who had been her

companion since childhood days. ‘Good old boy,’ she said continuing to

stroke him, ‘good boy Cobber.’ He could tell she was moved and waited for

the tears, intending to comfort her when they came. But they didn’t.

‘Goodbye, old friend.’ She gave the dog one final caress, replaced the

tarpaulin and rose to her feet. ‘Well, he had a fine innings,’ she said as Frank rose to stand beside her. ‘Thirteen years – you can’t complain about

that.’

‘It’s sad though,’ he said, ‘it’s very sad.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘it’s sad.’ Kate sensed he was expecting her to shed a

tear, and she could have if she’d wished, Cobber’s death was indeed

moving, but a rebellious voice inside was saying, We’re tougher than that

up here, mate, we’re Queenslanders. ‘At least I didn’t have to shoot him

myself,’ she said, ‘it’s painful when you have to kill your own dog. At least

Dad saved me that.’

‘All right, I get the message,’ Frank acceded with a smile, ‘you’re tough

and I’m a city slicker.’

She gave a light laugh acknowledging the way he’d read her mind, but

then they always seemed to know what the other was thinking. ‘Exactly,’

she said.

Kate did not know what Frank was thinking, however, when five

minutes later they joined Stan on the front verandah, where he remained

sitting in the gloom, his hand still resting on Ben’s collar.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Kate bent down and kissed her father on the cheek.

‘Said your goodbyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. I’ll have a couple of the boys bury him in the morning.’ Stan

released his hold on the dog’s collar and stood. ‘Go to bed, Ben,’ he ordered

and the Heeler obediently set off down the stairs to the kennel around the

side of the house, the kennel that would now seem so empty without his old

friend.

‘I’m going to my study,’ Stan said, ‘I’ve got work to do. Cook says

she’ll be serving up a light supper at nine.’ He patted his daughter’s arm.

‘He was a good dog, Cobber.’ Then he left the two of them alone on the

front verandah.

Throughout the exchange, Frank had observed the closeness between

father and daughter. They had not articulated their feelings to be sure, but

there’d been no need. This martinet of a man who had alienated his whole

family had waited the entire day to share his daughter’s pain over the loss of

her dog. And his daughter knew it. Surely that signifies something, Frank

thought. The strength of their bond was strong, he could sense it, far stronger than Kate had led him to believe. And perhaps, he thought,

stronger than even Kate herself knows.

After the boisterous festivities at Alfonso’s the solemn air of The Big

House was oppressive and everyone thankfully crept off for an early night

after supper, during which no mention of the wedding had been made. The

omission seemed bizarre to the entire household, both family and staff, but

all continued to tread warily in Stan’s presence.

Things were little better in the morning. Breakfast was a gloomy affair

and as if to compound the misery Ben was fretful. He’d been sniffing at the

laundry door all night and when the workers came to bury Cobber he

followed them. His pining was painful to witness.

An hour or so later, Kate borrowed her father’s Mercedes and drove

Frank to the airport. He was flying back to Sydney that day while she

stayed on at Elianne over Christmas and the New Year period as usual,

although she would far rather have been returning with him.

‘Pity about the gloom and doom,’ she said, trying to sound light-

hearted, although she found it a depressing state of affairs. ‘Not much fun

for you, I’m afraid.’

‘No need to apologise, Kate,’ he said, ‘I feel very sorry for your family.’

‘Yes, so do I.’ She dropped the light-hearted tack, which obviously

hadn’t worked. ‘Elianne used to be such a happy place, particularly for us

kids. Our childhood was so carefree. Now Dad’s bent on destroying

everything we’ve shared. It seems if he can’t be happy, then none of us

can.’

‘I believe you could change that, Kate.’ Frank decided to speak his

mind. ‘In fact I believe you’re the only person who could.’ He was aware

that he’d surprised her. ‘Your mother can’t,’ he went on, ‘and your brother

obviously can’t, but I believe that you’d be able to get through to your

father. You share a bond that might be stronger than you know.’

‘I hardly think so,’ Kate scoffed, ‘we’re at war more often than not.’

‘That’s a bond of sorts, isn’t it? Would you bother to pick an argument

with someone you didn’t respect? He respects and admires you, Kate, and

he loves you very deeply – I sensed that last night. And you did too, didn’t

you?’

Kate nodded and fell silent and Frank did not pursue the subject. There

was no further exchange until they arrived at the airport and pulled up in the car park.

‘Don’t come in to the terminal,’ he said, ‘we’ll say goodbye here.’ He

kissed her as if they were making love and she responded in kind. ‘I

wouldn’t be able to do that in there,’ he added with a smile. ‘God I’m going

to miss you.’

‘Me too,’ she said quietly.

He thought how extraordinarily vulnerable she looked, and he kissed

her again, very gently this time.

‘How do I go about it?’ she asked as they parted. ‘What do I do, Frank?

How do I get through to him?’

‘The truth mightn’t be a bad start,’ he said. He could tell she was

hanging on his every word, as if he might be able to supply the magic

answer. ‘I’m an outsider, Kate, and I’ve probably no right to offer an

opinion, but sometimes an outsider’s view can be valuable. There are so

many secrets and lies in your family. You said that your father’s locked

himself away in a world of his own. Then shock him into the real world.

Tell him the truth. Share the past with him.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’ After all this time the prospect now seemed

more daunting than ever. ‘I wouldn’t know how to begin.’

‘Take your time . . . don’t rush things. You’ll know when the moment’s

right, you’ll sense it. But tell your father the truth, Kate, tell him

everything.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you in Sydney,’ he said

and he climbed out of the car and walked off towards the terminal.

He turned to wave before disappearing through the doors. ‘Good luck,’

he called.

Kate started up the engine and drove back to Elianne.

 

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