Chapter Seventeen

 

Perhaps it was Cobber’s death, perhaps it was the fact that wedding

fever had subsided, or perhaps it was simply Kate’s presence in the old

family home, but over the next several days Stanley Durham was less

belligerent and the atmosphere in The Big House noticeably more relaxed.

‘What a pity Frank couldn’t stay on a little longer,’ Hilda said over

breakfast one morning, ‘he could have spent Christmas with us. A guest

would have added to the festivity.’

‘Oh I think he would rather spend Christmas with his father, Marmee,’

Kate said, ‘they’re very close.’ It wasn’t the first time Frank had featured in

Hilda’s conversation. She’d brought his name up on several occasions,

either fishing for information or signalling her approval, Kate wasn’t sure

which, but the reference was never subtle.

‘How nice,’ Hilda said, ‘Christmas should be shared with family. And

with friends too of course, which reminds me, Stanley,’ she added turning

to her husband as she continued seamlessly, ‘I would rather like to invite

some friends to luncheon this Christmas, the Krantzes and several others.’

‘As you wish, my dear,’ Stan said amicably.

Hilda cast a meaningful glance at her daughter and Kate realised that

this time around her mother had been not only subtle, but distinctly

manipulative. The introduction of Frank’s name had been purely in order

for Hilda to steer the conversation towards a Christmas gathering. How

clever, Kate thought, she’s planning a family reunion.

‘Lovely,’ Hilda said. ‘Cook will be so pleased having a party to cater

for, I think around twelve to table would be ideal – it’ll be just like the old days.’

Kate waited for her mother to list the other guests she intended to invite,

presumably Alan, his new wife and his new wife’s immediate family, but

Hilda left things as they were for the moment.

‘More tea, dear?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Stan rose as she poured him a fresh cup. ‘I’ll take it to

my study and leave you girls chatting,’ he said.

When he’d gone, Kate leant in to her mother. ‘Do you think he’ll

agree?’ she asked quietly.

‘We can only hope so, darling. He’s been much more amenable of late. I

shall ask him as soon as Alan and Paola return from their honeymoon. He

must surely see that this schism in the family is so silly and so very

wretched.’

‘We’ll front him together,’ Kate said. ‘He’ll have to give in to the two of

us.’

But as it turned out, even the combined forces of mother and daughter

proved insufficient to budge Stanley Durham, who simply would not accept

his son and his son’s wife and family under his roof.

‘Alan’s made his own bed, let him lie in it,’ Stan said when they

approached him with the suggestion some days later. He was not angered by

their request, but quite adamant in his refusal. ‘The boy’s a Fiorelli now. He

can spend his Christmases with them.’

Kate found her father’s obstinacy infuriating. ‘For goodness sake, Dad,’

she begged, ‘don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re tearing this family

apart! You should embrace the Fiorellis. They were your friends once. They

were like family to us as children – what in God’s name has changed? What

have you got against them?’

‘I have nothing at all against them,’ Stan said, his tone maddeningly

reasonable. ‘I am quite willing to accept them as friends on a professional

basis. I like and respect the brothers and their sons, hard workers every one

of them, and Luigi is immensely gifted, there’s no one in the district with a

greater knowledge of all things mechanical –’

‘Except perhaps Alan,’ Kate interrupted pointedly, but her father

ignored her and went on.

‘Respect and friendship, however, are one thing, Kate; marrying into a

family is something entirely different. Alan is no longer a Durham, he has forfeited the right. He married a Roman Catholic and an Italian one at that,

and such a marriage is a betrayal of his family.’

‘He fell in love!’ Kate fought against the urge to scream. Exasperated

beyond measure, she wanted to physically grab her father and shake some

common sense into him. ‘You can’t choose who you fall in love with!’

‘Perhaps not,’ Stan agreed, ‘but you can most certainly choose who you

marry.’ He smiled benignly at his wife. ‘Look at your mother and me, the

perfect match. Two of a kind from families of like-standing in the

community and we’ve been happy for years.’

The remark, although intended as a compliment, was an extremely

backhanded one and Hilda returned a perfunctory smile in order to keep the

peace. She’d opted out of the argument altogether by this stage. Hilda knew

a lost cause when she saw one.

‘In marriage it’s important to stick to your own kind, Kate,’ Stan

continued, determined to drive his point home. ‘Alan lost sight of that fact a

long time ago, but you haven’t and I hope you never will. Take your friend

Frank, for instance. If Frank were to prove your partner of choice, I would

approve the match. He’s one of us. He may not be from a wealthy family,

but then nor were we in the old days – Big Jim built Elianne from nothing.

Frank’s done well for himself and I admire a man like that. I’m prepared to

be flexible, as you can see, Kate, but there are certain barriers which should

never be crossed.’

Kate decided that now would probably not be a good time to tell her

father Frank was black. It would ruin Christmas for them all, so following

her mother’s example she opted for silence.

Stan, however, demanded a response. ‘You do get my point, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes, I get your point, Dad, I get it loud and clear.’

‘Good. Enough said then.’

Christmas luncheon proved abysmal. The Krantzes were there, mother,

father and son, Ivan with his recently acquired arrogance and Henry as

pompous as ever. To flesh out the numbers, Hilda had offered a last-minute

invitation to her bridge partner, Barbara Woodley, together with Barbara’s

husband Kenneth and daughter Susan. The Woodleys didn’t really want to

be there at all; Barbara would have politely reneged on the invitation, but

she’d agreed to alter the family’s Christmas plans upon her husband’s

insistence. Kenneth considered it advantageous that his business acquaintances should know he’d spent the day at Elianne as the guest of

Stanley Durham.

Eighteen-year-old Susan was having the most awful time. Everyone was

ancient. There was no one anywhere near her age at the table. Well there

was Kate who was twenty-three, but Kate might just as well have been

thirty she was so smart! Susan was sulky. She could have been with her

cousins at the family party in Bundy instead of sitting around this stuffy

table being waited on by servants and having to watch her manners every

second.

Hilda, mindful of all about her and aware the day was proving a failure,

dived into the Dom Perignon and as the luncheon progressed became overly

gay in her determination that the festivity of the occasion should not be lost.

‘To families and friendship . . .’ she said. Her first toast, and then ten

minutes later, ‘To Christmas and the spirit of peace and good will . . .’ The

toasts went desperately on.

Hilda’s guests presumed their hostess’s performance normal, she was

after all the mistress of Elianne and they were dining at The Big House, but

Kate knew otherwise. Kate realised that this was the first time she’d

actually seen her mother drunk. Hilda Durham had been in the grip of

alcohol for years certainly, but never had the effects been so markedly

evident. Poor Marmee, Kate thought, poor dear Marmee.

The agonising lunch eventually came to an end and Hilda farewelled her

guests, propped up against the sideboard for support, seeing them out with a

gracious kiss on the cheek or a shake of the hand like royalty, which was

eminently acceptable to all who had no idea of her condition. Then when

they’d gone she made her way upstairs for her customary afternoon lie-

down with slow, measured step and a firm grip on the railings. Kate

accompanied her, although she did not offer any physical support; Hilda

was obviously determined to manage on her own.

‘Thank you for being my daughter,’ she said as she lay back on the bed

and allowed Kate to take off her shoes.

‘Thank you for being my mother,’ Kate replied pulling up the coverlet.

Hilda was gently snoring as Kate closed the door behind her.

Stan had retired to his study, Max and Ivy were cleaning up in the

dining room and Cook was scrubbing pots and pans in the kitchen when

Kate returned downstairs. She took a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon from one of the ice buckets on the sideboard and walked out onto the front

verandah where Ben was curled up half asleep.

‘Stay,’ she said as the dog rose and stretched in preparation for their

customary walk

Ben sat watching dejectedly while she went down the stairs and, in the

still-scorching heat of late afternoon, set off up the road towards South Mill

Row.

She could hear the music from some distance away, a piano accordion

and a male voice singing ‘Viva Las Vegas’, and upon arriving at Luigi’s

house she walked around to the rear to discover the back door open, the

kitchen packed and the party in full swing, as she’d known it would be. The

Fiorelli Family Band wasn’t playing, but Georgio was pumping away at his

piano accordion while Gio gave an excellent impression of Elvis Presley

and the other cousins clapped along in time to the beat. Georgio and Gio,

both devout Elvis fans, knew every one of ‘The King’s’ hits and regularly

teamed up as a duo.

‘Kate’s here,’ someone called and Alan instantly appeared at the back

door.

‘Mind if I join the party?’ She held up the bottle of champagne as an

offering.

‘That was the plan, wasn’t it?’ Alan had asked her to come along after

the luncheon at The Big House. ‘It’ll be a damn sight more fun than the

Krantzes,’ he’d promised. ‘Merry Christmas, Kate,’ he said.

‘Merry Christmas, Al.’ They hugged each other then he ushered her

inside, where she was warmly welcomed by all, and for the first time that

day she felt it actually was Christmas.

‘Champagne?’ He raised his voice above the cacophony and was about

to open the bottle, but she stopped him.

‘No thanks, Al, leave it for the others, I’m a bit champagned out.’ She

glanced at the carafes of red wine that sat on the table. ‘I’d much rather go a

red if that’s OK.’

‘Red it is.’ He fetched a fresh glass and poured her a wine.

The family meal was over. The wives were at the sink in the corner

washing and drying dishes, while the brothers were seated on the wooden

bench against the wall, puffing away at their Christmas cigars. Baskets of

bread and platters of cheese and fruit remained on the huge wooden dining table, which was never left devoid of food and drink at any family

gathering, but the table itself had now been dragged to one side to make

room for the younger ones who wanted to dance.

And dance they did. At the conclusion of ‘Viva Las Vegas’, Georgio

launched into ‘Jailhouse Rock’, Gio grabbed his cousin Paola and along

with several of the others they started jiving while the onlookers belted out

the lyrics.

Alan nudged Kate, indicating they should go outside where they could

talk and, looking across at Paola, he pointed to the back door. Without

breaking rhythm for one second, she smiled and nodded and blew him a

kiss.

Brother and sister wandered out into the modest backyard, which was

mostly taken up by a healthy vegetable garden either side with a path down

the middle. Maria grew nearly all of the produce the family consumed.

They walked down to the far end where a small bench looked out across the

railway track that led from the pumping station to the mill, beyond which

lay the ever-present expanse of cane.

The music followed them as they sat with their glasses of red wine –

‘Jailhouse Rock’ had become ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’ – but at least it was

quiet enough that they could hear one another speak.

‘Was it as bad as you thought it’d be?’ Alan asked.

‘Worse. Poor Marmee got drunk – I’ve never seen her like that.’

‘Oh.’ Alan’s face clouded. ‘That’s sad.’

‘Yes, I found it sad. I don’t think anyone else realised, strangely enough,

except maybe Dad, but he didn’t care. He just couldn’t wait for everyone to

leave, and I must admit neither could I.’

‘What a bugger. Poor Kate.’ Alan raised his glass to her. ‘Thanks for

giving it a burl anyway. I suppose it was worth a try.’

‘Thanks for giving what a burl?’

‘The attempt at a family reunion.’

‘Oh, that was Marmee’s idea, I can’t take any credit; although as I told

you I did go into bat pretty hard.’ She took a swig of her wine and shook

her head in frustration. ‘God, he’s an obstinate bastard, he won’t listen to

sense at all. You’ve switched alliances and you’re a Fiorelli, to Dad it’s that

simple.’

‘Perhaps he’s right.’ A hard note crept into Alan’s voice. ‘Perhaps I

have switched alliances and perhaps I am a Fiorelli. I can tell you one thing,

being a Fiorelli’s a damn sight easier than being a Durham.’

‘Oh Al, don’t give up on us. Please!’ Sensing a distance in her brother,

Kate felt suddenly desperate. ‘We’re still a family. A dysfunctional one, I

grant you, but you’re still my brother and I don’t want to lose you.’

‘You’ll never lose me, Kitty-Kat.’ He grinned to put her at her ease.

‘Hell, you’re the only sister I’ve got. I’m never going to let you go. That’s a

promise,’ he added seriously, once again raising his glass.

They clinked and drank a silent toast to each other.

‘Hey, there’s something I didn’t tell you,’ Kate said with a smile. ‘Dad

thinks Frank’s the ideal man for me.’ She punched the air theatrically and

growled an imitation of her father. ‘“He’s one of us!” That’s what Dad

reckons.’

Alan laughed outright. He knew of Frank’s background; she’d told him

some time ago. ‘Crikey, that’s a turn-up for the books.’

‘Yes it is rather, isn’t it?’ There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as

she added, ‘I thought about dropping the bombshell that he’s black, but

decided it probably wouldn’t be a good idea.’

‘It’d be only one of many bombshells you could drop on the old man,’

Alan said laconically. ‘Come on,’ he rose from the bench, ‘let’s go back

inside, I need another red.’

She drained her glass and stood. ‘Me too.’

‘What are you doing New Year’s Eve?’ he asked as they walked down

the path.

‘No idea.’ Her glance to him was wry. ‘Something wildly exciting at

The Big House, I should think.’

‘Come into town and spend the night with Paola and me. We’re going to

a party at Charlie Watford’s, there’ll be heaps of people you know.’ She

appeared hesitant so he added, ‘You can get as drunk as you like, there’s a

spare room at the flat.’

‘Well that makes the offer irresistible,’ Kate replied, ‘I would naturally

intend to obliterate myself.’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘I want you to spend time with us,

Kate. We both do, Paola and me. You don’t have to stay locked out here at

Elianne – come into town and see us.’

‘Thanks, Al, I will.’

New Year’s Eve proved most enjoyable and over the week that followed

Kate took Alan up on his offer, regularly driving into Bundaberg to spend

time with him and Paola. Not wishing to disappoint her mother, she had

resigned herself to staying on at Elianne until mid-January as planned, but

she was thankful to escape The Big House, which had become increasingly

oppressive, even prison-like, its atmosphere tense and laden with things

unspoken. She missed Frank and longed to be in Sydney with him, sharing

the freedom of their existence.

How strange, Kate thought. Elianne’s vast landscape and grand house

and clear, unpolluted air had always embodied to her the very essence of

freedom and yet here she was longing for the grubby city with its lines of

poky little terraces. Prison came in many forms, she supposed.

She spoke regularly to Frank. Each telephoned often simply in order to

hear the other’s voice. He missed her as much as she did him.

‘Happy 1970,’ he said when he phoned several days into the New Year.

They exchanged New Year greetings and then he asked, very casually, ‘Said

anything to your dad yet?’ It was the first time he’d made the enquiry, being

careful not to nag her.

Gentle though his query was, Kate was nonetheless confronted. ‘No,’

she said guiltily, ‘somehow I haven’t been able to find the right –’

‘Don’t worry, Kate,’ he assured her. ‘Like I said at the airport, you’ll

know when the time’s right, don’t worry.’ Frank resolved not to ask the

question again. ‘Now tell me what you got up to on New Year’s Eve.’

Things came to a head in the second week of January, just when Kate

was finally starting to count the days.

‘G’day, Stan, haven’t seen you for a while.’

It was a Wednesday afternoon. Stan had gone into Bundy to buy some

supplies and had stopped off at the Burnett Club for a beer on the way

home.

‘Hello, Albert,’ he said, reluctantly joining the man lounging at the bar

near the door; Albert wasn’t his favourite of the Club’s members. ‘No I

haven’t been around, been a bit busy lately.’ He’d avoided the club since

early December; he’d got heartily sick of the constant references to his

son’s impending wedding.

‘Heard the wedding went well,’ Albert said. Albert wouldn’t step foot

inside a Catholic Church himself, but that hadn’t prevented his son, an

Apex mate of Alan’s, going. ‘Craig reckoned the reception was a real

beauty.’

‘So I believe.’ Stan gritted his teeth and signalled the barman, who was

serving a group at the far end of the bar. He’d grab a beer and find someone

else to talk to, Albert Atherton got on his nerves at the best of times. He was

a fussy old fart who gossiped like a woman.

‘Heard Kate had a bloke from Sydney in tow,’ Albert said, ‘fella called

Frank Madigan. A friend of hers, is he?’

Stan resisted the urge to say, What bloody business is it of yours, you

nosy prick?, but his irritation showed nonetheless. ‘If she had him in tow

he’d obviously be a friend of hers, wouldn’t he?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, of course he would.’ Albert was quick to back

down. It wasn’t wise to antagonise Stanley Durham. ‘I was just a bit

surprised, that’s all. Hadn’t thought he’d be the sort of bloke you’d want

Kate hanging around with.’

‘Oh? And why would you think that, Albert?’ The stupid old fart’s

determined to dig a hole for himself, Stan thought, I’ll deck him any

minute.

‘Well, you know . . .’ Albert hesitated as if trying to find a delicate way

of putting it ‘. . . him being a half-caste and all that.’

‘A what?’ Stan looked at the man as if he was mad.

Albert Atherton was pleased to discover he was right. He’d been sure

that Stan couldn’t possibly know, and it was only proper he should be told,

a person of Stanley Durham’s standing certainly wouldn’t want his daughter

going around with a boong.

‘Oh yes, he’s an Abo all right.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? The man’s as white as you and

me.’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what Craig said, he reckons you’d never know.’

‘You’re spouting a load of rubbish, Albert.’ Stan ignored him and

looked about the bar for whoever else he might gravitate to when his beer

arrived. ‘For your information, the bloke’s parents are bloody Irish.’

‘One of them may well be,’ Albert’s tone held an irritating edge of

superiority, ‘but it doesn’t stop him being some sort of half-caste throwback, does it? He’s an Aboriginal activist, that’s what Craig told me.’

The barman had arrived to take his order, but Stan waved him away.

The words ‘Aboriginal activist’ held a ring of truth. Propping against the

bar, he turned to Albert, his full focus trained upon the man. ‘And how

exactly would Craig come to know this fact?’

Albert basked in the knowledge that he now had Stanley Durham’s

undivided attention. ‘It was back in 1967,’ he explained, prepared to make a

meal of the story, ‘when Craig was in Sydney playing for the South Sydney

Rabbitohs . . .’ Albert Atherton boasted endlessly to all and sundry about

his youngest son, a talented rugby league player who’d been signed up by

South Sydney, but this time he didn’t get very far.

‘Craig didn’t play for the side at all,’ Stan barked, ‘he played in the

reserves for a year and then they dumped him. Get to the bloody point.’

How rude, Albert thought, rude and ungrateful. He was offering

valuable information that could only serve Stanley Durham’s best interests

and the man chose to insult him. ‘There was a national referendum on

Aboriginal rights that year,’ he said waspishly.

Stan nodded. ‘1967, that’s right.’ The referendum to which Kate had

been so committed, he recalled. Albert once again had his full attention.

‘Go on.’

‘Frank Madigan was a high-profile campaigner on the referendum,’

Albert continued, his tone peevish, ‘there was an article about him in the

Sydney newspaper and a picture of him with another black activist Charlie

Perkins. Craig said Madigan was quite famous at the time.’

Albert had intended to elaborate a great deal further about his son’s

surprise upon seeing Frank Madigan at the wedding with Kate, but still

piqued, he stopped there.

‘I see.’ Irritating though the garrulous old fart was, he’d proved useful,

Stan thought; the facts certainly rang true. ‘Well, I must thank you, Albert,’

he said. ‘I’m most grateful for this piece of information.’

Albert, pride salved, was instantly mollified and forgave the insult. ‘Yes

I thought you would be, Stan. I naturally considered it my duty to let you

know. I mean you wouldn’t want to see Kate take up with a man like that,

would you?’

A dark cloud passed over Stanley Durham’s face and Albert once again

beat a hasty retreat. ‘Oh not that I’m insinuating anything of course, the relationship is quite innocent I’m sure, but even as a friend –’

‘The relationship is most certainly innocent, Albert, my daughter does

not “take up” with men, be they black, white or brindle.’ Stan ceased to

prop against the bar and, drawing himself to full height, towered

threateningly over Albert Atherton. ‘I’ll tell you something else you should

know about my daughter, Albert. She’s an extremely intelligent, highly

qualified young woman devoted to her academic studies and to the many

social justice causes she embraces as an activist, particularly the issue of

Aboriginal rights. It is only natural she should form an alliance with a man

like Frank Madigan. Kate has my full support and I’m proud of her. I’m

proud of her stand for human rights and I’m proud to be her father.’

Stan was aware that his speech in his daughter’s defence contained an

element of double standards, if not an outright lie. He was indeed proud of

Kate, but he’d never supported her causes. In fact he’d been scathing of her

activism on many an occasion, but he would not have his daughter

maligned by the likes of Albert Atherton.

Good heavens, Albert thought, he’d obviously misread Stanley Durham

– the man appeared to have extremely liberal views. Albert did not at all

approve, as he was sure most wouldn’t, but he didn’t dare say anything.

Stan leant down, his face close to Albert’s, his eyes glittering

dangerously.

‘So you feel free to chatter all you like about Kate and Frank Madigan,

Albert, as I have no doubt you will,’ he said, his voice low and menacing.

‘But get your facts right, mate, because if I hear the slightest smutty

innuendo your life won’t be worth living.’

Albert made an attempt to stammer his assurance, but in vain. Stan the

Man was already striding out of the bar.

‘What’s going on between you and this bloody half-caste?!’

Stan’s approach was altogether different forty minutes later when he

confronted his daughter. He’d sought her out as soon as he’d arrived back at

The Big House and called her into his study.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Kate replied coldly. She’d known there

was going to be a showdown the moment she’d seen him.

‘You know bloody well what I mean: you and your Abo mate, Frank

bloody Madigan. Why didn’t you tell me he was a half-caste?’

They stood facing each other across his desk, their eyes locked like

combatants about to do battle.

‘He is not a half-caste,’ she said scathingly. ‘His grandmother was a

Wiradjuri woman.’

‘That makes him a bloody half-caste in my book. So what’s going on

between you?’

Kate refused to lose her temper, attempting to reason instead. ‘Since

when did you become such a racist, Dad?’ she asked, her tone not

aggressive but genuinely seeking contact. ‘You have Kanaka friends here at

Elianne. You’ve always been proud of your relationship with your black

workers. Why do you feel the need to degrade Frank?’

‘You’re buying time, Kate, and you know it. Tell me the truth. Are you

two having an affair?’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t flinch for one second. ‘Frank and I love each other as

much as I believe it’s humanly possible to love.’ From his stunned reaction

she might just as well have struck him a physical blow. ‘And I’m afraid

there’s not one thing you can do about it, Dad,’ she said, again without

aggression, simply stating her case. ‘You can disown me as you have Alan

if that’s what you want, but I promise it won’t make a shred of difference.’

He stared back at her and she met his gaze directly, expecting him to

fight on, but he didn’t. He sank into his chair instead.

‘What’s happening to this family?’ he said shaking his head,

bewildered. ‘Everything’s falling apart . . . things are not as they should be .

. . not as they were ever intended to be.’

He appeared to be talking to himself as much as to her, and he looked so

lost that Kate felt a rush of sympathy.

‘Times have changed, Dad.’ She sat in the chair opposite and leant

forward hands on the desk, still trying as best she could to make some form

of connection. ‘You’re right, things are not as they were, but they’re not

meant to be. Times are changing more as each year passes. The post-war

immigration, the breakdown of the White Australia Policy, the Vietnam War

– we’re not the isolated country we once were. People are becoming more

tolerant.’

‘Not this tolerant,’ Stan continued to shake his head helplessly. ‘They

haven’t become this tolerant, Kate. I mean you and Frank . . .’ He halted as

if further words were unnecessary.

‘You liked him. You liked him a lot.’

‘I did, yes I did. But he’s black.’

Now was the right moment, Kate realised. Frank himself seemed to be

pointing the way. She could hear his voice; he might as well have been in

the room, right beside her.

She stood. ‘There’s something I have to show you, Dad. Don’t go

away.’

Stan had no intention of going away, he had no intention of doing

anything, and when his daughter returned five minutes later with an

armload of paperwork he was still staring blankly into space.

Along with the folders containing her typewritten translations Kate had

also brought one of the original ledgers, and circling the desk she placed it

before her father. It was the last of Ellie’s diaries, the one that was only half

filled before Ellie had put down her pen, never to write again. The rest of

the ledgers Kate had left in the suitcase under her bed, where they’d

remained since she’d brought them home to show Alan.

She placed the stack of folders on the desk too, all but the final one,

which she retained, and then she opened the ledger.

‘I found over a dozen of these under Elianne House before it was

destroyed,’ she said. ‘They’re Grandmother Ellie’s diaries, or rather her

scribblings, as she preferred to call them; this is the last one.’

Stan looked down at the open page, which was utterly unintelligible to

him. ‘It’s written in French,’ he said.

‘Yes. I spent nearly two years on the translations.’ She tapped the pile of

folders. ‘You need to read them in their entirety, Dad, but start with this

one.’ She picked the ledger up from the table, tucked it under her arm, and

replaced it with the final folder.

‘Why?’ A touch of the old belligerence returned. ‘Why should I?’

‘In order to learn the truth.’

‘What truth?’

‘The brooding Durham look that Marmee’s always been so proud of,

Dad, that truth. You and Frank have more in common than you think.’

Stan gazed blankly up at her.

‘Look at your eyes, look at your skin and your hair,’ she said. ‘Look at

the eyes and the skin of your sons, look at me. I may have the eyes of

Grandmother Ellie, but look at my skin. I never burn from the sun, my tan never fades.’ Kate smiled to soften the blow. ‘We all have black blood in us,

Dad.’

‘What the hell is this bullshit?’ Stan countered angrily. ‘What kind of

cock and bull nonsense are you trying to tell me?’

‘I’m trying to tell you that your father was the son of an islander.’

He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘I’m saying your grandfather was a Kanaka, Dad. A man of New

Hebridean and French blood called Pavi Salet.’ Kate opened the folder.

‘Read for yourself,’ she said and left the room.

 

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