Chapter Nineteen

 

Kate sat in the breakfast room with a cup of coffee awaiting her father’s

reaction, unsure what to expect, but presuming he would seek her out after

reading Ellie’s confession. An hour passed, however, and he didn’t appear.

Good, she thought, he’s decided to read the diaries in their entirety: much

better he learns the whole truth in one hit even if it takes him all night – and

it probably will.

While waiting, she’d looked through the final ledger that she’d brought

with her from the study, re-reading the words in their original French. She’d

often wondered in the past why Ellie had not destroyed the diaries as had

been her intention. There’d been plenty of time in which to do so. Ellie had

lived a further twenty years, and death had not caught her by surprise:

according to all accounts she’d known she was dying for some time.

Furthermore, she’d had her wits about her right to the end, so she would not

have forgotten of the diaries’ existence.

Kate had come to only one conclusion, the simplest explanation of all.

Ellie had wanted the diaries discovered. In the last stages of her life she’d

made a conscious decision. She’d packed the ledgers away herself beneath

her precious books or, if in a weakened state, she’d ordered their packing

and storage. The diaries were meant to be found. Perhaps well into the

future, perhaps generations on, but one day, when the family was safe from

the threat of Big Jim’s vengeance, the truth was to be known. And Ellie had

been right, Kate thought. The truth needed to be told.

‘Hello, my darling, how unusual to see you cooped up inside.’

Hilda appeared at the door. Following her customary nap, she’d come

downstairs to take her late afternoon tea in the front drawing room. ‘Are

you not feeling well?’ she asked concerned. At this time of day, Kate was

usually out walking with the dog or swimming in the dam.

‘I’m fine, Marmee, absolutely fine, thank you.’

‘Oh I am glad.’ Hilda beamed. ‘Would you care to take afternoon tea

with me? Do say yes, dear,’ she urged, ‘I would so enjoy your company.’

‘Yes, I’d very much like to.’ Kate decided in that instant to prepare her

mother for the worst. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s something I want to show

you, something of great importance.’

‘How terribly exciting. Pop into the kitchen and tell Ivy we’ll need two

cups, there’s a dear. I’ll see you in the drawing room.’ Hilda sailed away.

Kate joined her a minute or so later and pulling up a hardback chair

beside her mother’s she placed the ledger on the coffee table in front of

them.

Hilda looked down at it in surprise. Hardly an item of great importance,

she thought, book-keeping held little interest for her. ‘This is what you have

to show me?’ she asked, her disappointment readable.

‘Yes. I found a whole pile of these under Elianne House when I was

clearing out Grandmother Ellie’s books.’

‘Really?’ The reaction was instantaneous, the mere mention of Elianne

House and Grandmother Ellie enough to garner Hilda’s rapt attention.

‘They’re her diaries.’ Kate opened the ledger.

‘Oh. Oh my goodness.’ A hand fluttering to her chest, Hilda gazed

down at the page. ‘Her diaries,’ she said breathlessly as if any moment she

might have a heart attack. ‘Grandmother Ellie’s diaries,’ she traced her

fingers across the paper with gentle reverence, ‘written in her very own

hand.’

‘That’s right.’

Hilda’s look to her daughter was puzzled, even a little hurt. ‘But Elianne

House was destroyed years ago,’ she said. ‘Why did you not tell me about

the diaries earlier?’

‘It took me a long time to translate each of them, Marmee.’ Kate

answered with care. ‘There were over a dozen ledgers and I wanted to –’

‘Of course, my darling, of course, you wanted to surprise me. I’m sorry

if I sounded in any way accusatory, how shockingly ungrateful of me,’ Hilda’s eyes sparkled with excitement, ‘and how wonderful that you’ve

gone to the trouble of translating them. I shall be able to read them all to

myself.’ She glanced down at the open page, once again tracing a finger

over the words. ‘I wonder why she chose to write in French – that’s most

mysterious, don’t you think?’

‘No, it’s not actually, she had very good reason.’

‘Oh?’

‘Grandmother Ellie wrote intimately, about quite a lot of things that she

didn’t want others to read.’

‘My goodness, how riveting.’ Hilda clapped her hands in delight. ‘But

where are your translations, my darling? I can’t wait.’

‘Dad has them in his study, I gave them to him an hour or so ago.’

Ivy had arrived with the tea tray and was about to set it down on the

coffee table beside the open book.

‘Careful, Ivy, careful.’ Hilda snatched up the ledger and closing it with

care clutched it to her chest. ‘I’ll pour thank you, dear,’ she said and the

maid left the room.

Passing the ledger to Kate, Hilda started to pour. ‘When we’ve had our

tea, I shall join Stanley in his study,’ she said. ‘We can read the diaries

together.’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Marmee.’

‘Oh your father won’t mind, my darling,’ Hilda gave a light laugh. ‘I

virtually worshipped his grandmother, as everyone well knows. Stanley

won’t find my interest at all intrusive.’ She passed Kate a cup of tea and

started pouring her own. ‘In fact I believe this could prove the perfect bond,

something the two of us can share.’

‘It’ll be something you can share all right,’ Kate replied drily, ‘but I

doubt it’ll prove the perfect bond.’

‘That’s rather enigmatic of you, dear,’ there was a mild rebuke in

Hilda’s voice, ‘and a little cynical I might add.’

‘I’m sorry, Marmee, I didn’t mean to be rude.’ Kate very much wanted

to prepare her mother for the inevitable, but she remained circumspect.

There was no point in revealing the truth, far better Hilda should read

Ellie’s own words than be told second hand. ‘It’s just that Grandmother

Ellie unveiled a lot of family secrets, some of which are rather shocking,

I’m afraid.’

But Hilda was in no way disheartened by the prospect of what might lie

ahead. ‘How very intriguing,’ she said and took a sip of her tea. ‘So I shall

just have to wait then, shall I?’

‘Yes, you’ll just have to wait,’ Kate replied firmly, ‘and for some time, I

should think.’

Kate was right. The wait was a long one.

When Stan the Man didn’t appear at the dinner table that night, Hilda

went to his study and knocked on the door, but received no answer. She

tried the handle. The door was locked. She knocked again. ‘Stanley, it’s

me,’ she said.

‘Go away,’ her husband called. ‘I don’t wish to be disturbed.’

‘But Cook has served dinner.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘As you wish.’

Hilda made no argument, although she was a little put out. A well-run

household revolved around meal times and the observance of ritual.

She retired shortly before midnight, a good two hours later than normal,

having waited up for her husband, and before she did she knocked once

again on the study door.

‘Do you intend to stay in there all night, Stanley?’ she demanded.

‘Yes,’ came the brusque reply.

‘Very well.’ Her voice assumed the edge of command. ‘I shall have Ivy

deliver breakfast to you first thing in the morning. If you choose not to open

the door to her, she will leave the tray here on the floor outside. You cannot

be so foolish as to starve yourself. Good night.’ She sailed off without

waiting for an answer, but none came in any event.

The breakfast tray remained untouched the following morning and Stan

the Man remained hidden behind locked doors.

He finally surfaced at lunchtime, just as Hilda and Kate were sitting

down to their chicken salad.

‘Ah there you are,’ Hilda said, as if her husband’s prolonged absence

was perfectly normal, ‘I was about to have Ivy deliver a luncheon tray.’

Stan dumped the armload of folders and their contents unceremoniously

in the centre of the table, where they slithered to a halt among the

condiments and salad servers.

‘Read that lot and discover the truth about your precious Grandmother

Ellie,’ he said to his wife, then without drawing breath he addressed his

daughter. ‘Who else knows?’

‘Only Alan and Frank.’

‘Frank!’ Stan stared at her in dumbfounded amazement. ‘You shared the

Durham family skeletons with a total stranger!’

Kate nodded guiltily, although she couldn’t help thinking it was surely

better she shared their secrets with a stranger than one who knew the family

well. ‘I needed to tell someone.’

‘Why not try your father?’ His voice was icy.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I wanted advice and I turned to Frank. It was Frank

who told me I should –’

‘I don’t give a shit what your boyfriend told you.’ Stan waved a hand at

the offending folders. ‘So you and Alan have known about this since the

destruction of Elianne House nearly six years ago.’

‘I have, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I worked on the translations before I told

Alan. He’s known for two years.’

‘And neither of you said a word to me. You kept the truth to yourselves,

both of you, for two whole years.’ Stan seemed to be suggesting that the

joint silence of his offspring had been some sort of conspiracy.

‘Yes. We were going to tell you, Dad, but . . .’ She tailed off. But Neil

died. Do you remember the state you were in after Neil’s death, Dad? Do

you think you could have handled the truth then? She didn’t say the words

out loud. They remained in her brain as she tried desperately to fathom her

father’s mood. He was scathing certainly, cold and disdainful, but she had

no idea what he was truly feeling. Is he angry about the lies he’s been fed

all his life? she wondered. Is he hurting at the discovery, is the truth as

painful as Alan and I feared it might be? Kate found it impossible to

decipher what might be going on in her father’s mind.

‘Do sit down, Stanley,’ Hilda insisted, ‘and have some lunch, you

haven’t eaten for –’

‘Read that,’ he interrupted brusquely indicating the folders. ‘When you

have, we’ll talk together as a family and decide what action we take. I’m

going into town. Be close at hand for your mother, Kate,’ he added

caustically, ‘she may well need your support.’

They didn’t see Stan for the rest of that day. He headed directly to the

Burnett Club, where he sat in a haze of Scotch and fractured thoughts,

chatting with old friends, wondering what they would say if they knew even

a shadow of the truth. His daughter was not alone in her inability to fathom

his mood. Stanley Durham was having trouble deciphering his own

feelings. The one thing of which he could be sure was the fact that the

world he had known for the whole of his life would never be the same.

Hilda spent the entire afternoon and quite a deal of the night in the front

drawing room, having retired with the armload of folders that Kate had

carried there for her.

‘Call me if you need me,’ Kate had said, but as the day wore on she’d

received no summons.

It was well beyond midnight when Hilda finished reading the last of the

diaries, after which she crept upstairs and into bed beside her husband, who

had returned from town less than half an hour earlier. She could smell the

alcohol on him even though his back was turned to her and as he wasn’t

snoring she wondered if he might be awake.

Stan was. He’d felt her slip quietly in between the sheets. But as they

lay there in the dark, their thoughts simultaneously racing, neither said one

word to the other.

Kate had rung Alan during the afternoon.

‘Dad’s read the diaries,’ she said bluntly, ‘I gave them to him yesterday

and he stayed up all night.’

‘Oh hell. What was his reaction?’

‘I have no idea. He’s keeping things to himself, so it’s impossible to tell.

I think he might be in a state of shock.’

‘Yep, I’d bet on it. How about Mum?’

‘She’s reading them as we speak.’

Alan sensed his sister’s concern. ‘Don’t worry about Mum, Kate,’ he

said, ‘she’s much tougher than you think. Mum’s a true survivor. Dad’s the

one who’ll go under.’

‘I think you should come around tomorrow, Al.’

There was a pause. ‘You reckon that’s wise?’

‘Dad knows you’ve read the diaries. He said when Mum had read them

we should talk together as a family. And family includes you.’

‘Did he say that?’

‘No, but he should have.’

‘My coming around is a bold choice.’ Alan’s voice sounded a warning.

‘I know.’ Kate had given the matter a great deal of thought. ‘But the

diaries are such a leveller, Al. They put a different perspective on our entire

world – Dad must see that. This is an opportunity to reunite the family,’ she

urged. ‘We’ve all been fed lies, every one of us. We should face the truth

together and support each other. We’ll be stronger for it if we do.’

‘Yes, we need to front the old man,’ Alan said, which was surprising,

for he’d made a point of avoiding confrontation the whole of his life. ‘It’ll

be a make or break situation, but even if it severs any bond I might still

have with him at least I’ll know where I stand. Anything’s better than this

endless, bloody stalemate.’

‘I agree.’ Kate too was relieved the situation was to be brought to a

head. ‘Let’s hope things go our way.’

‘What time will I turn up? I’ll take the morning off if you like.’

‘No need; around midday will do. That’ll give Mum and Dad time to

talk. I’ll tell Dad you’re coming, we won’t spring a surprise.’

‘Good thinking, 99,’ he replied, one of his favourite catchphrases, and

Kate could hear the wry smile in his voice as he added, ‘Given some

warning the old man can shoot through if he wants to.’

The talk that Kate had presumed would take place between her parents

proved remarkably brief.

Hilda awoke to an empty bed the following morning, her husband

having risen early to take himself off to his study, but he made an

appearance at the breakfast table an hour or so later. Stan obviously chose to

confer with his wife in the presence of their daughter, a fact which rather

surprised Kate, who had assumed her parents would have a private talk

before the subject was introduced for general family discussion.

‘Nothing, thank you,’ he said to Cook, who was serving Hilda’s cheese

omelette. Cook herself was waiting table. Ivy had every second weekend off

and was currently being driven to the station by Max, where she would

catch the train to Brisbane to stay with her sister.

‘A piece of toast at least, Stanley,’ Hilda insisted, ‘you haven’t eaten for

–’

‘Yes, yes, very well, very well,’ Stan said tetchily and he took a slice

from the rack on the table. He helped himself to a pat of butter and spread it on the toast, wondering why he was being forced to perform such a trivial

action when his world was disintegrating about him, and wondering also

how his wife could sit there calmly eating a cheese omelette. The sight

irritated him intensely.

‘So,’ he said when Cook had returned to the kitchen, ‘I take it you’ve

read these “diaries” as Kate calls them?’

‘I have,’ Hilda replied.

‘And what was your reaction to their many revelations?’

Hilda put down her knife and fork. ‘I was shocked.’ She dabbed at the

corners of her mouth with her linen napkin. ‘I was deeply shocked, I must

admit.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ he said drily.

‘To think that for all those years the great love shared between

Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim was a lie . . .’ Hilda shook her head,

perplexed. ‘Who could have dreamt such a thing possible?’

‘I see.’ Stan studied his wife with disdain, as if she was some form of

sub-human species. ‘And this revelation proved a greater shock than the

discovery that you’d married into a family with black blood in its veins?’

Hilda knew that she’d come up with the wrong answer, but in the face

of her husband’s derision she remained surprisingly unflustered. She had

formed her own conclusions and refused to stray from her path.

‘Naturally, the relationship with Pavi Salet and its outcome is the

greatest shock of all, Stanley,’ she said. ‘I understand the ramifications that

this entails for the family. But I cannot personally find Grandmother Ellie’s

actions reprehensible. She was lost and alone, cast adrift after the death of

her daughter –’

‘That’s enough,’ Stan barked and Hilda lapsed into silence, aware that

she was being judged, but not particularly caring. Stanley had never

understood matters of the heart. Most men don’t, she thought as she picked

up her knife and fork and re-addressed her omelette.

Kate had found her parents’ exchange fascinating. She understood her

father’s reaction to his wife’s apparent superficiality, for her mother’s

fixation with romance could indeed be irritating. But something in their

brief dialogue, and particularly in Hilda’s response to her husband’s

contempt, had changed the views of a lifetime. In the past, Kate had

considered her mother’s fey other-worldliness a sign of weakness, a trait that left Hilda vulnerable and prone to ridicule. She realised now how

wrong she’d been. Hilda’s ability to romanticise was her greatest strength.

Just look at you Marmee, Kate thought, studying her mother, whose

focus was now solely upon the omelette before her, you’ve provided

yourself with the perfect escape. Alan’s quite right. You’re a survivor. More

than a survivor, you’re indestructible.

Stan wanted to hurl something at his wife. Watching her eat, so

imperturbably and with her perfect table manners, he wanted to upend the

impeccably laid table and send things crashing to the floor. But what was

the point? He looked down at his buttered toast, knowing that if he

attempted to eat it he’d choke.

He stood. ‘I’m going into town,’ he said and walked out of the room.

Kate jumped up and ran after him, cornering him before he got to the

front door.

‘Don’t go, Dad,’ she begged, ‘please don’t go, we need to talk.’ She

stood between him and the door as if her mere presence could prevent him

from leaving.

‘Why? What is there to talk about? No one seems to know what’s

happened to this family.’

‘I do. Alan does. He’s coming around. He’ll be here at midday.’

Her father said nothing, his reaction unreadable.

‘Please, Dad, please, I’m begging you. We have to talk! You said so

yourself, we have to talk as a family and decide what action we take –’

‘What action is there to take? We burn the diaries and pretend this

whole thing never happened. We go back to the way we were: that’s what

action we take.’

‘We can’t and you know it.’ She fronted him boldly, calling his bluff.

‘We can’t bury the past, Dad. We need to confront it and accept the truth, all

of us. You know we do. Stay and talk to Alan. Please.’

Kate saw a flicker of something in her father’s eyes, something that

appeared to her like recognition. He knows I’m right, she thought, he knows

the truth has to be faced. Then the eyes went dark and the wall was up

again.

‘I’ll be in my study,’ Stan said, ‘tell me when he gets here.’

He walked off. It was a little after nine in the morning, but Stan felt in

need of a Scotch.

Alan arrived at ten past twelve. He’d dropped Paola off at her parents’

house, where he would join her later.

‘You’re late,’ Stan called as his son climbed from the gleaming new

Belmont utility.

‘G’day, Dad. G’day, Kate.’

Alan patted the dog that had trotted down to meet him then climbed the

stairs, Ben following, to where his father and sister were sitting waiting on

the front verandah.

‘She told me you’d be here at midday,’ Stan said with a jerk of his head

to Kate.

‘Yeah, give or take a few minutes.’

Alan wasn’t sure whether his father was joking or not. Stan was

lounging comfortably in one of the wicker armchairs and seemed relaxed,

but Kate didn’t look comfortable at all. He noted the half-empty bottle of

Scotch on the table, and the quick look he exchanged with his sister told

him yes Stan had been drinking. As usual, it was difficult to tell whether or

not he was drunk though – Stan held his liquor well.

There was an awkward moment as Alan stood before his father waiting

to see if a hand would be offered. It wasn’t, so he pulled up a wicker chair

and sat.

‘New ute,’ Stan said.

‘Yep. Bought it for work; won’t stay shiny for long, you can bet on

that.’

‘The sprocket business must be booming.’

‘Yes, yes it is thanks, Dad,’ Alan chose to ignore the sneer in his

father’s tone, ‘business is going exceptionally well all round.’

‘Good on you, Al, that’s great news,’ Kate interjected before Stan could

respond with another barbed comment. She wished her father would be a

little more welcoming. ‘I adore the ute, can I have a drive later?’

‘Course you can.’

‘Hello, darling.’

The door had opened and Hilda stood there; she’d been watching from

the front drawing room for her son’s appearance. Alan stood and kissed his

mother.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘No thanks, Mum, I’m fine.’

She was about to offer him a coffee or a soft drink, but Stan the Man got

in first.

‘Perhaps you’d like something stronger,’ he said, indicating the Scotch

bottle.

Alan shook his head. ‘Not for me thanks, Dad, bit too early in the day.’

The moment the words were out he realised they sounded wrong and that

his father would probably take it as a criticism.

‘Suit yourself.’ Stan leant forwards and topped up his glass. He was

drinking his whisky neat.

‘Well if there’s anything you want I’ll be in the front drawing room,’

Hilda said brightly. ‘Just give me a call.’

‘Rightio, thanks Mum.’ Alan plonked himself back in his chair.

Hilda smiled at the sight of the three gathered around the table: her

family was finally together. She wished Stanley didn’t look quite so

grumpy, but at least he’d agreed to meet with his son.

‘Your father was so keen to see you he’s been waiting out here on the

verandah for over half an hour,’ she said with the intention of getting things

off to an amiable start, ‘isn’t that so, Stanley?’ She beamed directly at her

husband, who made no reply, taking a swig of his Scotch instead, so she

spread the radiance of her smile around the table in general. ‘I’ll leave you

to it then. Have a nice chat.’

Closing the door behind her, Hilda retired to the front drawing room

where, although not privy to their conversation, she would at least be able

to see them through the windows that looked out over the verandah.

Stan had barred his wife from the family discussion. She had nothing to

offer but romantic claptrap he said and they didn’t need any of that bullshit.

‘Besides,’ he’d added, ‘this doesn’t concern you. You’re not a Durham.’

Hilda had refused to take umbrage. She hadn’t even bothered countering

with the fact that she’d borne him three Durham children. When Stan dug

his heels in like this there was no getting through to him and if the

discussion were to turn unpleasant she didn’t want to be part of it anyway.

With the departure of his wife, Stan turned his full focus upon his son.

‘So,’ he said, lounging back in his armchair, tumbler of Scotch in hand,

‘what are your thoughts on all this? I know your sister’s, but how do you

feel?’

‘About the diaries you mean?’

‘Jesus Christ, boy, I don’t mean about the bloody weather.’

Alan and Kate shared another look. They could both see that their

father’s aggression was fuelled by more than alcohol. Something else had

triggered a rage that seemed to be simmering beneath the surface. Kate gave

the slightest shrug, signalling to her brother she had no idea what had

brought about this black mood. She knew it had not been Alan’s

appearance, for she’d seen a difference in her father the moment he’d

emerged from his study. Over two hours of drinking and thinking had

proved a potent combination and something was stewing in Stan’s brain.

‘Where is he?’ he’d demanded. ‘Where’s your brother?’

‘It’s only half past eleven, Dad, he won’t be here until twelve.’

‘I’ll wait on the verandah. I need some air.’

When Stan had gone back to his study for the Scotch, Hilda had

suggested, diplomatically, that they should have tea and scones on the front

verandah as soon as Alan arrived.

‘With Ivy away I shall serve it up myself,’ she’d said, the prospect

pleasing her, ‘a real family affair.’

‘No tea,’ Stan had flatly announced and then he’d informed her she was

banned from the discussion.

To Kate, things had not appeared promising. ‘I’ll wait with you, Dad,’

she’d said, and the two had sat in stony silence.

Ignoring his father’s brief outburst, Alan answered with positivity. ‘I

think it’s a good thing the diaries have come to light.’

‘You do, do you? Why?’

‘Because it’s high time the truth was revealed. In fact the truth’s been

hidden for far too long: we should have known all this years ago.’

‘So like your sister you believe we shouldn’t destroy the diaries. That

we shouldn’t pretend they never existed and go back to the way we were.’

‘We can’t, Dad.’ Alan was amazed his father could even suggest such a

thing. ‘We can’t go back to living a lie.’

Stan made no reply, but gazed steadfastly at his son, his expression

unfathomable.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Alan protested. Still no reply . . . ‘We’ve been

living a lie for the whole of our lives, Dad,’ he argued, ‘every single one of

us. For four generations! The Durham legend is a myth. We’re not the people we thought we were. Everything’s been a tissue of lies right from the

start.’

‘I know this,’ Stan snapped, ‘do you think I don’t know this? I know

also that you’ve been aware of these lies for the past two years and that you

and your sister have been hiding the truth from me.’ He cast a cursory

glance at Kate. ‘Your sister may perhaps have been attempting to protect

her mother or her mother’s misguided view of the world,’ he said

scathingly, ‘but what’s your excuse? You’re my son, damn it! You’re my

son! You should have told me!’

Alan felt a surge of irritation so intense it bordered on anger. Oh, I’m

your son now, am I? he thought. Since when did that come about?

‘He was trying to protect you, Dad.’ Kate found her father’s accusation

so unjust she jumped in before her brother could answer.

‘Protect me from precisely what?’ Stan demanded.

‘Neil had just died and you were vulnerable . . .’ Kate’s reply was wary:

they were approaching tricky ground. ‘Al thought you might have trouble

handling the truth.’

‘The truth about my slut of a grandmother, you mean?’ Stan knocked

back his Scotch in one hit. ‘The truth that there’s black blood in the Durham

veins.’

‘No.’ Alan didn’t need his sister to answer for him, nor did he feel the

need to tread warily, better to have it all out in the open, he thought. ‘The

truth about Big Jim being a dreadful human being,’ he said.

Stan the Man’s eyes locked with his son’s and his very silence seemed

to hold a challenge.

It was a challenge his son took up willingly. ‘We all know how much

you idolised Big Jim, Dad.’ Alan’s response was reasonable, his tone calm

but firm; he’d controlled his irritation. ‘Everyone knows. Hell not just the

family, the town, the region, the whole sugar industry. Big Jim was your

lifetime hero. You modelled yourself on the man. Discovering the truth was

bound to shatter you – Kate and I both knew that.’

Kate wondered momentarily whether Alan might be taking the wrong

tack, she would not have pushed the Big Jim issue herself. But neither she

nor her brother could have foreseen the reaction that followed.

‘You should have told me,’ Stan roared at the top of his voice. ‘You

should have told me!’ He stood and hurled the whisky tumbler over the verandah railings with all the force he could muster; it shattered against the

side of the brand-new Belmont.

Alan and Kate both sprang to their feet. Had their father gone insane?

‘What kind of a son are you,’ Stan yelled. ‘You knew the truth and you

kept it from me! You knew that my life had been made a mockery and you

said nothing! What kind of a goddamn son are you!’

‘I’m a damn sight better son to you than you ever were to your father!’

Alan stood his ground. Normally he would have turned and walked away,

but not this time. This time he needed to hit back. He didn’t even care that

his father’s lunatic rage was not directed at him at all, but at Big Jim. Alan

had had enough.

‘You’re right, Dad,’ he said cuttingly, ‘you’re dead bloody right. Your

whole life’s been a mockery. You modelled yourself on a hideous man! You

lauded him to the skies! “Big Jim built Elianne from nothing”, how many

times did we hear that as kids. “Big Jim created this empire!” Well bugger

that! Your father made Elianne, and what thanks did he get from either Big

Jim or you?!’ Alan, who never lost his temper, was now angry.

‘Bartholomew saved Elianne from ruin through two world wars and you

ignored him the whole of your life because you were so busy worshipping

Big bloody Jim!’

‘Get out,’ Stan roared, ‘get out of my house!’

‘You idolised the wrong man, Dad! Well I’m glad you know what a

bastard your hero was! I hope the truth hurts! I hope it hurts like hell!’

‘Get out of my house!’ Any minute Stan would launch himself at his

son. ‘Get off my property!’

Alan’s anger was spent. ‘Willingly,’ he said and as he turned to go, he

saw for the first time the group huddled at the open front door, his mother,

together with the two household staff. Max had a protective arm around

both Hilda and his wife, Maude the cook, prepared to usher the women out

of harm’s way should the situation turn violent, as it certainly threatened to.

‘And don’t you ever come back to Elianne again,’ Stan yelled, ‘you hear

me? Don’t you ever set foot on my land again!’

‘That’s perhaps something else you should know, Dad.’ Alan turned

back to his father. ‘This isn’t your land. It hasn’t been for some time. You

don’t own Elianne. The investors do. A bunch of businessmen in

Amsterdam hold the majority of shares – former Dutch East-Indies traders, I believe.’ Stan stared blankly at his son. ‘You’re not even aware of that, are

you?’ Alan continued, not maliciously, but in the knowledge he was

twisting the knife. ‘You’ve been selling off shares in Elianne for years. This

land is no longer the exclusive property of the Durham family. In fact,

except for this house, nothing belongs to you. You’re no more than a

glorified manager.’

‘You’re lying.’ Stan continued to stare at his son in disbelief. ‘You’re

lying, you bastard.’

Alan shook his head. ‘You should have checked all those papers Ivan

gave you to sign. He asked you often enough, we all did. But you preferred

to let the minions do the work while you played Lord of the Manor. Just like

the old days. Just like Big Jim. Crikey, Dad, you accuse Mum of living in a

world of her own making – look at you! You’re a dinosaur. You’ve been

living in the past for years.’

Stan finally erupted. He grabbed the heavy wooden table and hurled it

across the verandah, sending the dog scuttling down the stairs, the bottle of

Scotch smashing and chairs crashing to the floor.

‘Get out! Get out all of you,’ he roared as he caught sight of the group

huddled in the doorway. He picked up one of the chairs as if he was going

to hurl it at them. ‘Get out of my house!’

Alan grabbed his mother’s hand. ‘Come on, Mum,’ he said, and they set

off down the stairs. ‘You don’t need to be here if he’s going to smash the

place up. Come on, Kate,’ he called, ‘we’ll go to Luigi’s.’

They piled into the cabin of the utility, Alan hefting Ben into the tray.

‘You can come too, mate,’ he said.

As the car drove away, Stan dumped the chair he was holding and

turned to see Max still hovering in the doorway, shielding his wife but

uncertain what was required of him.

‘Piss off, Max,’ Stan growled. ‘Take the Land Rover, go for a drive,

take your wife into town, I don’t care what you do, but piss off both of you

and leave me alone.’

He pushed past them on his way to the study and another bottle of

Scotch.

‘Get your handbag, Maude,’ Max muttered.

The Fiorellis were having lunch when the Durhams arrived, Maria and

Paola busily dishing out huge bowls of ravioli to three hungry men. Young Georgio and his cousin Gio had just returned from Saturday-morning footie

practice in South Kolan and Luigi had come home from the mill for his

midday meal break, as he always did during the slack season.

Places were immediately set for Alan and his mother and sister, who

were welcomed to the table, although none of the three felt in the least like

food.

Hilda shook her head apologetically as Maria tried to ply her with a

bowl of ravioli. ‘I’m so sorry, Maria, but really I couldn’t.’

‘Is no matter,’ Maria said in her broken English, ‘you is no hungry, I

understand.’ Maria could see Hilda Durham was upset. She wondered what

had happened, but tactfully did not enquire and would have signalled the

men to do likewise, except the men had not noticed anything amiss. The

men were too busy shovelling down their food. ‘I make you tea, yes?’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ Hilda nodded gratefully.

Paola had known the instant she’d seen them that Alan’s meeting with

his father had been disastrous. They had discussed the possibility that it

well might.

‘Things didn’t go as you and Kate had hoped,’ she murmured, serving

up his bowl of ravioli and edging in beside him on the communal wooden

bench.

‘Understatement of the year,’ he muttered. ‘Dad went berserk.’

‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’ Paola cast a sympathetic glance across the table to

Kate, who nodded and gave a helpless shrug. She squeezed her husband’s

hand reassuringly. ‘You did all you could, Alan,’ she said, ‘at least you

tried.’

Paola knew the whole story. Alan had told her about the diaries’

revelations before their marriage, feeling it only fair she should be warned

of his ancestry. ‘Just in case you want to call the whole thing off,’ he’d said,

only half-jokingly. She hadn’t.

Alan gazed vacantly down at his ravioli. Paola’s right, he thought. I

really have done all I can. I’ve given it my best shot. There’s no point in

agonising any further. It’s over. All of a sudden he realised he was

extraordinarily hungry.

‘God, I can’t tell you how good this looks,’ he said, much to Maria’s

delight.

After lunch, Luigi returned to the mill and the women cleared away the

dishes and washed up, Hilda insisting upon drying. The young men went

outside into the back garden, where Giorgio and Gio rehearsed the Rolling

Stones bracket they planned to perform at Alfonso’s fifty-fifth birthday in

two weeks’ time. Gio’s father loathed rock and roll, but that didn’t matter,

the younger members of the family all adored the Stones.

Alan sat on the little bench at the end of the garden, looking out at the

cane fields, listening to ‘Honky Tonk Woman’ and feeling the whole

situation was somehow surreal. What should he do next? Would it be safe to

return his mother and sister to The Big House or would his father still be

rampaging about the place like a maddened bull? Should he drive them into

town so they could stay at the flat? The world seemed to have gone insane

and he was unsure about the course of action he should take.

With the kitchen chores out of the way the women too gravitated to the

music and Alan lifted chairs out onto the little back verandah. The question

of what to do was by now fading somewhat; the afternoon had a happily

balmy feel.

It was four o’clock before they knew anything was wrong. Gio was

setting off for home when he saw it. He left via the backyard and the side

gate as the family always did, the Fiorellis’ front door being rarely put to

use, but in walking down the path to the street where his battered old ute

was parked, he saw the smoke. It was coming from The Big House, barely

half a mile away.

He raced back to alert the others. ‘Fire,’ he yelled, ‘fire! It’s your dad’s

place, Alan. The Big House is on fire!’

They all ran out into the street to where they could clearly see the smoke

billowing into the air.

Alan took command. ‘Go to the mill, Gio,’ he ordered, ‘tell Luigi to

bring the fire truck and a team; Georgio, you come with me.’ He caught

sight of his mother’s panic-stricken face and knew she feared for her

husband. ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he said, ‘we’ll get him out safely,’ then in an

aside to his wife, ‘look after her for me, Paola.’

Kate joined her brother as he raced for the utility. ‘I’m coming too,’ she

said and she piled in beside Georgio. Alan raised no protest. He hadn’t

presumed for one minute that Kate would stay behind with the women.

Having decided to burn down The Big House, Stan had set about his

task with methodical precision. The use of the diaries as a prime source of

ignition had seemed to him not only apt, but intensely satisfying.

After the others had gone he’d sat drinking morosely in his study for

some time, his son’s hard-hitting home truths still ringing in his ears. Then

he’d roamed the house, whisky bottle in hand, swigging from its neck,

swinging it about with drunken abandon, sending crystal and fine china

flying from shelves, smashing Hilda’s favourite objets d’art from the

sideboards and mantelpieces of the main lounge and front drawing room

and causing whatever general wreckage he could, his mind all the while

raging. So this is all I own, is it! This house is all that belongs to me? Well

to hell with them! Crash. To hell with the lot of them! Crash. To hell with

Ivan Krantz and his prick of a son! Crash. To hell with my son and my

father! Crash. To hell with Big Jim! Yes, most of all, to hell with Big Jim!

But as the image of Big Jim had come into his mind, something had

changed. The need to destroy had taken on a greater significance than the

mere release of pent-up hostility. Everywhere he looked Stan could see his

grandfather’s influence. He was surrounded by the man. This very house

had been built in order to impress Big Jim. At the time he’d pretended it had

been for Hilda, but it hadn’t been at all. He’d wanted to show off to his

hero. He’d wanted to build a home that was bigger and grander than Elianne

House, a home even more opulent than Big Jim’s. And oh the pride he’d felt

upon receiving his hero’s stamp of approval!

‘Well, well, isn’t this grand.’ He could hear Big Jim’s voice still, he

could see him filling the house with his giant presence. ‘A new mansion for

a new generation of Durhams: you’ve done well, Stan my boy. You’ve done

this family proud.’ How he’d basked in his idol’s praise!

The memory, still crystal-clear, had aroused in Stan a potent mix of

hatred and shame. This house was a monument to his worship of Big Jim. It

stood mocking him, a permanent reminder that in emulating a man whose

cruelty had destroyed his family, he’d destroyed his own. This house was a

symbol of his humiliation. He’d decided in that moment that he needed to

do far more than vent his anger at the world. He needed to burn down this

house. He needed to raze it to the ground and obliterate all it stood for.

That was when he’d seen the folders. An armload of the things, piled

high, each thick with the pages of Kate’s translations, sitting right there on the front drawing-room desk where Hilda had left them. Grandmother

Ellie’s diaries . . . How fitting, he’d thought. Indeed how perfect.

He’d felt a great deal calmer having come to his decision and after

gathering the necessary equipment together, everything had gone very much

to plan. He’d scattered the folders and their contents in strategic positions

around the house, beneath curtains and on rattan and wicker chairs,

anything that was likely to prove flammable. Areas that would be more

difficult to ignite, he’d doused with petrol. Then he’d gone from room to

room systematically setting everything alight with a trickle burner, just as

he would the cane.

Now, standing on the verandah watching the blaze grow steadily

stronger, Stan’s anger returned with a vengeance. He wished this could be

Big Jim he was burning . . . Big Jim the man himself . . . he wished he could

see his grandfather among the flames . . .

He looked through the window to the front drawing room, now ablaze,

trying to imagine Big Jim, there inside this house that was his monument.

He tried to see him screaming in agony, begging forgiveness. But Big Jim

wasn’t there. Big Jim was still mocking him.

‘Dad! Dad!’

Stan didn’t hear the utility pull up. He didn’t hear his son calling out to

him. The more intense the flames grew, the more so did his rage. If he

couldn’t burn Big Jim the man then he’d burn all Big Jim stood for. He’d

burn Elianne! He’d burn it all to the ground – the plantation, the mill, the

entire estate. He’d destroy everything Big Jim had created. This house was

just the start.

‘Go around the back, Georgio,’ Alan ordered, ‘there’s a hose by the

laundry.’ He didn’t need to issue orders to his sister. Kate was already

unfurling the hose that serviced the front garden. There would be an

adequate water supply, Alan knew, to have both hoses running at full

strength for some time. The household tanks were always kept well stocked

from the dam. The overall effectiveness of hosing, however, was doubtful,

for the fire had considerable hold. Our only hope, he thought, is to keep the

blaze under control as much as possible until the arrival of Luigi’s team and

the fire truck. In the meantime, what the hell was his father doing on the

front verandah?

‘Dad,’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Dad, get down from there!’

But his father took no notice. He didn’t even appear to hear. His father

seemed to be revelling in the spectacle of the blaze.

The hoses were now on at full force, Giorgio manning the rear of the

house while Kate concentrated on the front.

Alan raced up the stairs to his father, copping a blast from the hose as he

went. He grabbed Stan by the arm.

‘Dad, what the hell are you doing?’ he yelled trying to haul him away.

‘Get off the verandah!’

The arrival of his son meant nothing to Stan, who shook himself free of

Alan’s grasp, staggering drunkenly as he did so, but managing to stay

upright. The jet of water that hit him, however, was a different matter

altogether.

‘No, no,’ he roared angrily, ‘let it burn! Let it burn! Let the whole place

burn!’

Despite the smoke, which was reaching suffocating proportions, Alan

could make out the trickle burner lying on the verandah and realised with a

sense of horror that his father had deliberately lit the fire. Through the

window of the front drawing room he could see the blaze raging inside and

even in that split second the window itself shattered, to be quickly followed

by several others as the heat intensified. The place was becoming an

inferno. The hoses were having no effect. The fire was out of control.

‘She’s going to go up, Dad,’ he yelled as the flames licked hungrily

through the open windows at the verandah’s timber. He made another

desperate grab at his father. ‘Get down the stairs while you can! For God’s

sake get down the stairs.’

Clasped in each other’s embrace, they struggled like clumsy dance

partners, Alan managing to catch Stan off balance enough to haul him to the

top of the stairs. But upon regaining his footing, Stan once again flung him

aside with ease. Even in his drunkenness, Stan the Man’s size and strength

far outmatched that of his son. Alan found himself skidding along the

verandah on his back, shards of glass cutting through his shirt and into his

skin, while his father kept screaming like a madman.

‘Let it burn! Let it burn! Let the whole place burn!’

He’s insane, Alan thought, struggling to his feet. He’s demented with

the drink. What the hell does he think he’s doing? Does he mean to

incinerate himself along with the house?

‘You’re drunk, man,’ he yelled, ‘get down the bloody stairs,’ and he

hurled himself at his father in a rugby tackle, grabbing him around the

knees and holding on for dear life.

Stan fell as if in slow motion and Alan went with him, all the way down

the stairs, father and son locked together.

They landed in a heap at the bottom and Kate dropped the hose, leaving

it to snake about like a live thing as she ran to help.

‘Are you all right?’ she said squatting beside her brother who, winded,

was fighting to regain his breath as he shakily sat up. ‘Oh hell, look at your

back.’ She saw the blood seeping through his tattered shirt.

‘I’m fine, Kate, I’m fine,’ Alan replied, his voice husky, the smoke

catching in his lungs. ‘Check out Dad – how is he?’ Stan was not moving.

Kate made a quick professional examination of her father. ‘Nasty cut to

the forehead, but he’s breathing and there doesn’t appear to be anything

broken.’

‘He’s probably passed out – he’s as drunk as a skunk.’ Alan hauled

himself painfully to his feet. ‘Let’s get him out of the danger zone.’

They took an arm each and as they started to drag Stan away from the

house other willing hands were suddenly there lending assistance. Luigi and

his team had arrived in the fire truck, Gio in his utility close behind them.

With the fire now raging out of control, Luigi instantly assessed the

situation and took command. ‘We must let her burn,’ he said to Alan. As the

Boss was unconscious he sought permission of the next Durham in line.

‘Better we contain the blaze so it do no more damage, si? The house she

must go. Cinders in the cane, Alan, no good: we could lose all of Elianne.’

‘Yes, Luigi, I agree.’

‘You stay, look after your father, I have men enough.’ He stopped Kate

who was about to return to the hose she’d been manning. ‘You stay also,

Kate,’ he said with a meaningful nod at Alan’s bloodied back, ‘you stay,

look after your brother.’

Luigi left them and upon Kate’s instruction Alan removed his shirt,

which was in tatters. As she crossed to the garden hose now being manned

by Gio, Alan sat naked-chested on the ground beside his father’s inert form.

He watched Luigi’s team set about their work. A half a dozen men armed

with shovels and cane knives were busily creating a fire break, while Luigi

and his co-worker had started circling the perimeter in the fire truck, saturating all in their path. Alan was thankful for the fire truck, which was a

recent innovation. A Bedford fitted with a water tank and powerful hose, it

proved useful enough in the control of burnings, but was invaluable in a

situation such as this.

Kate returned with the sleeves of her own shirt, which she’d ripped off

to form two rags, both now drenched. ‘Here,’ she said, handing one to him,

‘you do Dad and I’ll do you.’

Cradling his father’s head on his knees, Alan started to bathe the blood

from Stan’s forehead, while his sister knelt behind him, dabbing gently at

his back.

‘God, you’re a mess,’ she said, peering closely. ‘The cuts aren’t deep,

but we’ll have to get at you with tweezers later. I can feel glass splinters

everywhere.’

‘So can I. Ouch! Go easy.’

‘Don’t be a wimp.’

She cleaned the blood off as best she could, then they sat together

watching The Big House burn. The blaze was now at its peak, hungry

tongues of fire devouring balcony railings and licking at walls like an

insatiable beast revelling in its prey.

‘Quite a spectacle,’ Kate said. ‘The end of an era.’

‘He did it deliberately you know.’

‘What?’

‘Dad. He lit the fire himself. There was a trickle burner on the verandah,

he wasn’t mucking around.’

‘Good God.’ Kate looked down at Stan, whose head was still resting in

his son’s lap. ‘I expected him to burn the diaries, but not the whole damn

house.’

‘Yep, pretty radical,’ Alan agreed drily. ‘A bit excessive to my mind,

sending everything up in smoke.’

‘Not quite everything.’

Her brother looked a query.

‘Not the diaries,’ Kate said, ‘not the originals anyway. The ledgers are

in the boot of my car: I didn’t want to risk Dad destroying them.

As if he knew he was being talked about, Stan suddenly stirred. His

eyes opened and he regained consciousness to find his head cradled in his

son’s lap. He sat up, disoriented. What had happened?

He looked at his son, and then at his daughter, and then at the house that

was burning like a funeral pyre. Of course, that’s what happened, he

vaguely recalled. He’d burnt down The Big House.

Kate and Alan exchanged a glance. They could both see that the

madness had left their father. In fact he seemed extraordinarily sober.

‘It’s over, Dad,’ Kate said.

They sat together side by side, the three of them, and watched in silence

as the fire devoured the past.

 

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