Chapter One

 

1964

 

Some people didn’t like the smell. Some people found it overly rich and

cloying, some even used the term ‘sickly’. But they were strangers, visitors

from the city.

There had always been visitors to the mill. Overseas dignitaries,

politicians, even the odd prime minister had enjoyed the lavish garden

parties and general hospitality on offer at Elianne. At times there might be

dozens of them, strolling about the grounds of The Big House, or lolling in

the wicker chairs on its broad verandahs and upper balconies, while the

more active opted for tennis and bowls on the grass courts and greens.

In earlier times, before dirt tracks became accessible roads, and before

motor vehicles were the ready form of transport, guests would stay for days

on end. The arduous trip by horse and carriage demanded its reward, and

Elianne had much to offer – not least of which was the mandatory trip to the

nearby mill. The intrepid would climb to the lofty heights of the lookout

tower and drink in the panorama of cane fields, stretching like a vast green

ocean to the horizon while those without a head for heights would be taken

on a tour of the massive metal complex with its varying levels and intricate

steel walkways, its giant vats and machines and eighty-foot-high ceiling,

and they would marvel at the magnitude of its scope and industry.

During the crushing season, from mid-year until December, the

cacophony of heavy machinery was overwhelming as the mill’s giant rollers

and presses smashed and mashed and ground the cane through every stage

of its transition to raw sugar. Nothing was wasted. The fibre that was left from the crushing was burnt in the furnaces to generate steam power; the

mud filtered from the cane through the presses was returned to the field as

fertiliser; and after the painstakingly long crystallisation process, the

molasses residue was mixed in with the stock feed or sent to the distillery

for the making of rum. The whole exercise was highly efficient as men and

machines went about their tasks with precise teamwork.

The mill was a busy, buzzy place during the crushing season, like a

beehive where each worker knew precisely the purpose he served. The men

took pride in the fact they were Elianne workers. They thrived on the noise

and the industry and the smell of the mill, the very smell that some of those

from the city professed to find ‘sickly’.

Kate and her brothers loved the smell of the sugar mill. They found the

toffee-scented air heady and intoxicating. It was the smell they’d grown up

with, all three of them. It was the smell of home.

I’ve missed it, Kate thought, breathing in the richness as she wandered

through the cathedral-like metal maze, where the giant mechanical monsters

now sat eerily silent. Even during the slack season the smell is here, she

thought, it’s always here. It’s been here for as long as I can remember.

She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the mill and the plantation

over the past year. She’d been too distracted. Her life had undergone such a

radical change. She remembered how she’d anticipated with relish every

homecoming from boarding school in Brisbane. Every end-of-term holiday,

every long weekend had seen her eagerly embrace the familiarity of her

childhood. The cane fields shimmering in the heat; the smell of the mill and

the easy friendship of the workers, so many of whom were like family; the

horse races with her brothers along dusty dirt roads; swimming in the dam

and the way, knees clutched to chests, they ‘bombed’ each other off the end

of the jetty; tin canoes and excursions up and down the river; laden mango

trees climbed to see who could shake down the most fruit; and on and on it

went, the list was endless.

But this homecoming was different. Something had changed. After a

year at university, this homecoming had taken her by surprise. It was more

intense, more meaningful. The past seemed more precious than ever, as if

she were somehow threatened with its loss. Perhaps it’s because I’m

different, she thought. Perhaps it is I who has changed, and things will never be the same again. The notion was disturbing, even a little sad, but

also strangely exciting.

Although the mill appeared deserted, Kate was aware she was not alone.

The gentle clink of tinkering could be heard as here and there mechanics

cleaned and serviced the machinery. But the delicacy of the sounds only

served to highlight the stillness. At least it seemed so to Kate. She loved the

mill most of all during the slack season when it lay dormant, quietly

exhaling its treacly breath, biding its time before the next crushing frenzy.

‘Buongiorno, Kate. Welcome home.’

The voice that jolted her from her reverie came from behind the massive

filter press nearby; it belonged to Luigi Fiorelli. He rose to reveal himself,

burly, grease stained and good natured as always.

‘Is good to see you,’ he said with a huge grin and a wave of the grimy

rag he held in his hand.

‘Good to see you too, Luigi.’ She smiled and returned the salute.

‘How you like it down South, eh? You have good time down there?’ His

tone was highly sceptical. During his eighteen years in the southern cane

fields of Queensland, Luigi had travelled no farther than Bundaberg, on the

other side of the river just fifteen miles from Elianne. He hadn’t even made

the trip to Brisbane, which, although two hundred and forty road miles to

the south, was easily accessible by both rail and road. He didn’t like big

cities, he said, which was perhaps an odd remark from one who’d been

brought up in the backstreets of Naples. But then his brothers, also

Neapolitan by birth, were of exactly the same mind. The Fiorellis stuck to

their farms and to Elianne, never travelling any further afield than

Bundaberg. Why bother, they would say, and many felt the same way.

Bundaberg, affectionately known to all as Bundy, had been successfully

servicing the area for nigh on a hundred years.

‘Yes, I had a very good time down south, Luigi,’ Kate replied. ‘I like

university very much.’

‘Si, si, sure, sure, university is fine, very good, but Sydney . . .’ Luigi

was now openly scathing ‘. . . you don’ like Sydney! You can’ tell me you

like Sydney, Kate.’

The thought was clearly anathema to Luigi, but Kate made no reply,

maintaining instead an enigmatic silence.

Luigi Fiorelli had emigrated from Italy with his three older brothers in

1946, following the war. His brothers had become market gardeners,

starting out with tomatoes and zucchinis, and also tobacco, or ‘tabac’ as

they called it. Over time, and with application to the all-powerful Colonial

Sugar Refinery, they had converted their modest acreage to cane, but

twenty-two-year-old Luigi had followed an altogether different path. A

skilled mechanic, he had applied for a position at Elianne. He was forty

now, and one of the estate’s senior overseers, responsible for the repairs and

maintenance of all mill machinery. He preferred to do more than supervise,

however, and was invariably to be found in his overalls working alongside

those under his command. ‘How a mechanic is to be a mechanic without he

get his hands dirty, eh?’ he would say. Luigi’s command of English had

improved immeasurably over the years, but his accent and disregard for

syntax hadn’t changed very much.

The Fiorelli brothers and their families remained inextricably linked to

Elianne. Luigi, his wife and two teenage children lived on the estate in one

of the many comfortable cottages made available by the company to the

mill’s most valued employees. The three older brothers, now independent

growers and each also with a family, relied upon Elianne for the crushing of

their cane, delivering it to the collection points each season, from where it

would be taken by cane train to the mill.

The mill was essential to the livelihood of the entire district. The estate

itself was home to many, and for some, like Luigi, it was their whole world.

Kate’s continued silence, which appeared a comment in itself, now plainly

shocked him.

‘You don’ say to me I am wrong, Kate. A girl like you who is born right

here at Elianne? Your ancestors who build this place,’ he stretched out his

arms as if to embrace the mill and all it stood for, ‘how you can like

Sydney? Is not possible.’

Kate laughed. ‘I’m ashamed to admit, Luigi, that yes, I like Sydney very

much.’ Her eyes, beguilingly green and mischievous at the best of times,

held a cheeky challenge as she added boldly, ‘In fact I love Sydney.’ She

clutched a dramatic hand to her heart. ‘I love everything about Sydney.’ She

enjoyed teasing Luigi, whom she’d known as a colourfully avuncular figure

all her life, but there was nevertheless a touch of defiance in her statement.

Such a comment, even in jest, would annoy her father immeasurably, and indeed others of his ilk. Like many powerful businessmen, particularly

those in the sugar trade, Stanley Durham did not see eye to eye with the

politics of the South. Queenslanders were a breed apart, he believed, and

needed a different set of rules to live by; they always had.

‘Oh, this is most terrible.’ Realising he was being teased, Luigi joined in

the joke, pounding his forehead with the butt of his hand in typically Italian

fashion. ‘You turn into a Southerner. Mamma Mia, what we tell your papa?’

‘I suggest we keep it our little secret, Luigi.’

‘Very good, very good,’ an exaggerated shrug of resignation, ‘I say

nothing to Stan that his daughter is a traitor.’

‘Yep, best we keep Stan the Man out of it I reckon.’

Kate blew him a kiss, and Luigi saluted her once more with his oil rag.

He watched as she turned, flicking her auburn hair back like a horse might

its mane. Then she walked out of the mill with that easy, confident stride of

hers. There was still the tomboy in her, he could see that, still the physical

assurance that she could outride, outswim and outrun many a male her age.

Growing up in a man’s world she’d always been competitive, never one

content to sit among the women on the sidelines of life. But he’d recognised

the change in her the moment he’d seen her enter the mill, well before he’d

made his presence known. No more the lanky teenager, Kate Durham had

become a woman.

He plonked himself down on the wooden crate and resumed his work.

The fact was hardly remarkable, he told himself. Kate would be eighteen in

mid-January, barely one month away. But the change was confronting

nonetheless. It wasn’t just the way her body had matured, which was to be

expected – there was a sexual awareness about her, he could sense it. She’s

probably lost her virginity in Sydney, he thought disapprovingly. Luigi’s

own daughter, Paola, was just three years younger than Kate and he dreaded

the prospect of her falling for some lusty young buck after nothing but sex.

Paola would marry when she’d met the right man, and she would be wed a

virgin; he’d kill any bastard who attempted to deflower her.

Luigi wondered how Stan would react if he discovered his daughter was

no longer a virgin. Indeed he’d wondered from the outset why Stanley

Durham had allowed his daughter to travel so far afield for her education.

Surely Kate could have gone to university in Queensland. She would still

have been away from home of course, that was unavoidable, but at least she wouldn’t have been influenced by the decadence that abounded in the south.

Sydney was a den of vice; everyone knew that.

Luigi had never voiced such misgivings, however – it was hardly his

place to do so. He and Stan were friends certainly, but Luigi Fiorelli, an

intelligent man, was well aware there were limitations attached to such a

friendship. Ah well, he now told himself, it is none of my business, and he

shrugged and got on with his work.

Stanley Durham made a point of initiating close ties with his workers,

particularly his key employees, who called him by his first name. Those of

long standing like Luigi were indeed considered friends, and often asked up

to The Big House, although such offers were never extended when visiting

dignitaries were ensconced there.

Stan chose not to play ‘the Boss’ among the general hierarchy of

Elianne, but rather the skipper of the team. His workers called him Mr Stan

to his face, but he was indirectly referred to by all as Stan the Man, a term

which rather pleased him, for he saw himself as a man’s man and a leader of

men. But if the truth were known ‘Stan the Man’ was just another term for

‘the Boss’, because that’s exactly what Stan Durham was. He was very like

his grandfather, who had built Elianne out of nothing; in fact Stan the Man

was Big Jim Durham all over again.

Kate set off at a leisurely pace on the mile-long walk to The Big House.

The day promised to become a scorcher, but at the moment a mild breeze

alleviated the discomfort; even at its most intense, the weather was never as

oppressively humid as it was further to the north, where the swelter of the

tropics could be overwhelming. In any event, Kate loved the heat of

midsummer. Many from the South considered it insufferable, but personally

she couldn’t understand how others could withstand the cold as they did.

Sydney’s climate was supposedly temperate and yet she’d found the winter

quite uncomfortable. She dreaded to think what a Melbourne winter would

be like, or worse still a Tasmanian one.

She crossed the rail tracks to where she’d left the dogs sitting patiently

beside the mill dam. The moment they saw her approach, they jumped up,

tails wagging, but they didn’t leave the spot, waiting for her to come to

them instead. Cobber and Ben were well trained and knew that the dam was

as close to the mill as they were allowed to go.

‘Good boys,’ she said. As she reached them then continued down the

dirt road, the dogs raced on ahead, Cobber having trouble keeping up with

Ben, although it didn’t ultimately matter as Ben kept circling back to round

him up.

Cobber was an eight-year-old Golden Labrador just beginning to show

his age and Ben was a hyperactive Blue Heeler who happily rounded up

everything he saw except stock. The family had inherited Ben, now four, as

a pup from a local farmer who bred working dogs. ‘He’s no use to me,’ the

farmer had told them, ‘he got kicked by a steer and won’t go near cattle.’

It’s so good to be home, Kate thought as she watched the dogs at play,

Ben circling back to nip at Cobber’s heels as if to speed him up, Cobber

accepting the bullying good-naturedly; the two were great mates. Ostensibly

the dogs belonged to the family, but everyone considered them Kate’s as

she’d trained them and they simply adored her. Kate had always had a way

with animals.

She walked on enjoying the burn of the mid-morning sun on her bare

shoulders. She was wearing a light cotton shift with shoestring straps, and

the heat’s caress through the dress’s thin fabric was more than pleasurable.

It was sensual, somehow arousing – a little erotic even. She smiled and

quickened her pace, chastising herself. Good God, girl, is there anything

these days that isn’t arousing, that you don’t find erotic? Pull yourself

together and stop thinking about sex.

Luigi Fiorelli was wrong in his reasoning. Kate had not lost her

virginity in Sydney. But she had come very close to it, and she certainly

intended to do so upon her return in the New Year.

Now as she strode down the road and past the stables, she thought of

Jeremy, recalling with fierce clarity that night he’d first kissed her. It had

been nearly three months earlier, and the first real kiss she’d ever known.

She’d considered herself quite an experienced kisser, but she’d obviously

been wrong, for this was something entirely different. This was not the

experimental brush of teenage lips at school dances in Brisbane, nor was it

the clumsy fumbles of local boys, easily fought off, in the back row of

Bundaberg’s Paramount picture theatre on a Saturday afternoon. This was

the tenderest exploration of mouths. She could still recall her wonderment

at the fact that she hadn’t found his tongue repulsive. She could relive, and

had done many times, every moment of her surrender to an intrusion that was at first shocking, then fascinating, then amazing as in her boldness

she’d parted her lips that little bit more, allowing him easy access, even

flickering her own tongue over the delicate tips of his teeth.

She could have given herself wholly to him in the back room of that

poky East Sydney flat while the party raged next door. And indeed in a way

she had given herself to him. The promise had been there – they’d both

recognised it. But Jeremy had not rushed her. Twenty-year-old Jeremy, a

second-year Arts student, mature and experienced, but also infatuated, was,

Kate knew, not after a one-night stand. Jeremy wanted a full-on affair and

aware she was a virgin he had no wish to frighten her. He’d been content to

bide his time. Over the ensuing weeks, he’d progressed a little further – his

lips travelling down her neck; his hand straying lightly over her breast,

sending shivers through her body – never too invasive, but steadily more

intimate. To Kate, however, it was the indelible memory of that first kiss

that remained the true turning point. She’d made her decision. Jeremy

would be the man to whom she would surrender her virginity.

The week before her return to Queensland for the Christmas holidays

she’d visited a doctor and put herself on the contraceptive pill for that

express purpose.

‘I’ll see you in the New Year,’ she’d whispered as he’d kissed her

goodbye at the train station, and they’d both known exactly what she meant.

Having passed by the cookhouse and mess hall, and then the bakery,

Kate reached the village green, with Elianne Hall to her right. The estate’s

village green and hall had been social centres throughout the whole of her

childhood, as they had throughout the childhoods of many of her

contemporaries, and also those of generations past.

She came to a halt, once again chastising herself, but this time in a more

serious vein. I really must put Jeremy and sex out of my mind, she thought

crossly. She’d been away from Elianne for close on a year and yet her head

was full of the impending loss of her virginity. If she went on like this she’d

ruin her entire holiday.

She sat on the hall’s front step, Cobber flopping contentedly at her feet,

Ben as ever wandering off to explore. Looking out across the village green

she recalled the many fetes and picnics, where teams of small children had

competed in every imaginable event contrived to excite and enthral the

young. Workers’ children of all colour and creed: Australians, Italians, a few Kanakas and Chinese, English, Scots, here and there the odd

Scandinavian and German, here and there several Torres Strait Islanders.

She could see them all now, herself included, running themselves ragged in

three-legged races, staggering clumsily about in hessian sacks and hauling

on twenty yards of rope as if their lives depended upon winning the tug o’

war.

The same fetes and picnics and parties continued to this very day. The

numbers had dwindled somewhat of late, but Stan the Man insisted tradition

be upheld. She’d been home for just one week, and on the Saturday

following her arrival there’d been a pre-Christmas picnic attended by at

least twenty families. She and her younger brother Alan, who was home

from boarding school, had handed out the presents and the toffee-apples,

while Neil, soon to turn twenty, the oldest of the three and heir apparent,

had awarded the prizes, a job that had always been the domain of their

father. These days, however, Stanley Durham, while remaining as dominant

a figure as ever, preferred to sit on the sidelines like a benign monarch,

surveying his realm, his subjects and his family with pride.

The Durham siblings, although no longer among those youngsters so

fiercely competing, had shared in the recognition, and taken pleasure in the

knowledge that some things hadn’t changed, and some things probably

never would. Kate smiled now as she recalled their exchange. Not one word

had been spoken, but the glances they’d shared had said everything. They’d

been children again: ten or eight or six, no matter, the two-year age

difference between each of them had never formed a barrier. Throughout

the whole of their childhood, they’d been the three musketeers, and she, in

the middle, had been the lynch pin. Kate loved her brothers dearly.

And as for the hall, she thought, turning to look over her shoulder, well

the hall hasn’t changed one bit. The building indeed seemed to belong in a

time warp – it had been the same for as long as she could remember.

Elianne Hall, as it was grandly known, was really just a vast timber-

framed building with a tin roof, but for the mill’s workers and extended

family it had been a vital hub for generations. Here every form of festivity

had taken place, concerts and parties for all occasions, along with birthdays,

weddings and wakes. The hall also served as a Sunday school, and not only

for the workers’ children. Attendance by the Durham siblings had been

mandatory.

Again Kate wondered why everything seemed so poignant. Is it just

because I’ve been away so long? she asked herself. Or is it because I’ve

changed? Everything else appears to have remained much the same. It must

surely be me.

She stood. Time to go home. She was hungry now – she’d skipped

breakfast for an early-morning walk down by the river.

Cobber, who’d been dozing in the sun, stretched and joined her as she

set off. Ben was nowhere in sight, but she didn’t need to call him. Within

minutes he’d appeared and was racing on ahead.

Across the village green, she could see several girls around fifteen years

of age wending their way homewards along the rough bush track. They

were animatedly chattering as they returned from their morning stints at

Elianne’s cattle yards and dairy a half a mile away. Kate gave them a wave

and they waved back. She knew each one of the dairymaids: two were the

daughters of the dairy farmer himself, and the third was the butcher’s

daughter, who was earning extra money during her school holidays. Their

fathers were not seasonal itinerate workers, but lived on the estate running

their businesses year-round as many did.

During the crushing season, several hundred mill and field workers

were employed at Elianne, the cookhouse working round the clock to

provide dawn breakfasts, packed lunches, smokos, evening meals and shift

dinners for the hundred or so accommodated in the single men’s barracks.

Throughout the slack season, however, Elianne remained a self-sustaining

village catering to the families who lived on the estate. It boasted a general

store, a bakery, and a butcher’s shop that was regularly supplied with fresh

meat from the nearby piggery and cattle slaughter yards.

With only two thousand acres of the property under cane, the majority

of the mill’s produce came from local farmers, some of whose children

worked on the estate alongside others who travelled by foot or bicycle from

the settlement of South Kolan, only two miles away. Given the affordability

of vehicles and the easy access of modern roads, there were also those who

now commuted from Bundaberg, but despite the changes wrought by

progress, Elianne remained a community, and a vibrant one at that. Elianne

was a family to which people were proud to belong.

Kate walked on down the road, passing the attractive cottages of South

Mill Row with their front verandahs and pretty little gardens. One of these was home to Luigi Fiorelli and his family. There were several such rows of

cottages on the estate, but the others offered far more basic accommodation

than those of South Mill Row, which were reserved for the permanently

employed and most valuable of workers. Indeed, the hierarchy of Elianne

could be immediately detected in the architecture of the housing allotted to

its employees. To the north of the mill were the single men’s barracks, to

the east and the west the rows of rudimentary cottages reserved for married

workers, and then there was South Mill Row. After that there followed a

further distinctly upwards curve, for the homes allotted to Elianne’s senior

staff were a different matter altogether. There were at least a half a dozen of

them dotted about the estate, gracious affairs of striking design: stilted

wooden, Queensland-style houses with broad verandahs, perfectly suited to

the climate.

None, however, was as grand as Durham House. Always referred to

simply as The Big House, the Durham family home was nothing short of

magnificent. The Big House appeared three stories high, but it wasn’t really,

this was just an illusion. The attractive white-painted lattice work flanking

the broad stairs that led up to its first-floor verandah masked only storage

space and a laundry, for this house too stood very tall on its stilts. Its

elevation gained impressive views on all sides both of the river a quarter of

a mile away and also of the plantation. From the balconies of The Big

House the cane trains could be regularly observed during the crushing

season, even at night, lights gleaming in the distance, feeding the hungry

mill the hundred and fifty tons of cane it devoured every hour.

Painted white with railings of green, and surrounded on all sides by

wooden verandahs and upper-storey balconies, the house lounged in its

landscaped gardens and tennis courts like an indolent giant. It was too huge

and too opulent to be elegant, but also too beautiful to be crass, the finishing

touches of oak doors and wooden-framed French windows saving it from

even the harshest of critics. Hilda Durham had seen to that.

Stan the Man had had the house designed along the lines of the original

Elianne House, built by his grandfather in 1890, which, since the death of

old Big Jim Durham twelve years previously, had served as home to Ivan

Krantz and his family. Ivan was the estate’s managing accountant and

company secretary. The only adjustment Stan had made to the original design of the house, or so he’d said at the time, was to quadruple the size of

the place and add another storey with balconies.

‘The same only bigger,’ he’d assured his wife shortly before Neil was

born. Hilda had loved the old house. In fact, she’d loved Elianne House far

more than the modern residence Stan had had specially built as their marital

home. ‘We’ll need the extra space with family on the way,’ he’d insisted,

when she’d queried whether the size he envisaged might be a little vulgar,

‘and of course there are always the visitors. We must be able to

accommodate our visitors in style. They expect it my dear, just as they did

in Big Jim’s time.’

It had been Hilda who had had the final say, however, particularly with

regard to the interior. The grand oak staircase leading to the upper floor had

become a principal feature, as had the wooden panelling in the main dining

room and the various sitting rooms. Doors with frosted-glass panels

featuring original designs, crystal chandeliers, wall-bracket light fittings of

brass, lead-light and stained-glass windows, together with Hilda’s personal

selection of objets d’art and paintings had completed the final touches.

Stanley Durham very wisely never questioned his wife’s taste.

Kate bounded up the front steps three at a time, the dogs flopping on the

verandah; they were not allowed inside the house.

The family was having morning tea in the smaller downstairs drawing

room as she’d presumed they would be. Or at least as she’d presumed her

mother would be. Hilda insisted upon morning and afternoon tea being

served in the front drawing room. Even if no one else attended, and they

very often didn’t, Hilda would quite happily sit there, sipping away at her

tea and nibbling at her cake or scones. She never demanded anyone join

her; the ritual was all she required.

To Kate’s surprise, everyone was there, her father lounging in his

favoured armchair, her mother perched as always in her carver at the table

and Neil and Alan seated on hardback chairs demolishing the slices of

sponge cake that young Ivy the maid had just passed around.

‘Morning all,’ Kate said, looking a query from one to the other. She

hadn’t expected to see her brothers.

Hilda signalled Ivy to fetch a fresh pot of tea and Stan signalled his

daughter to sit.

Kate did so. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Dad’s called a family meeting,’ Alan replied with a typically

nonchalant ‘don’t ask me’ shrug.

‘What about?’

‘Change.’ Neil dived in diplomatically before Alan could offer another

careless shrug. His younger brother’s nonchalance had a way of irritating

their father. Placing his side plate on the table and giving his mouth a

perfunctory dab with his linen napkin in order to appease their mother’s

constant plea for good table manners, he stood. ‘Dad decided to leave it a

week or so for you two to settle back in before calling this meeting to

discuss some developments undertaken by Elianne Pty Limited.’ Neil’s

address to his siblings was solemn and Kate and Alan exchanged looks.

Home being ‘Elianne’ and the family business ‘Elianne Pty Limited’ Neil

was wearing his ‘Company Hat’. Normally they would have teased him

about it, but not today, not in front of their father.

‘There have been a lot of changes over the past year or so . . .’ Neil cast

a look to Stan whose brisk nod conveyed the unmistakeable order to carry

on. Stanley Durham was very proud of his eldest son. Since completing his

boarding-school education three years previously, Neil had been drilled in

every area of mill management and was proving the perfect heir to the

throne.

‘Given your time away at uni, Kate,’ Neil continued, ‘you may not be

fully aware of the fact that we’re in a state of transition, and that there is

indeed further change in the air.’

Change in the air. Recalling her earlier reflections, Kate found the

phrase extraordinarily apt. Perhaps it isn’t me after all, she thought.

‘In the field, the mechanisation of cultivation and harvesting and

loading is revolutionising the sugar industry . . .’ Neil’s focus remained

principally upon his sister. There was no need to talk mechanics with his

younger brother. At fifteen, Alan knew more about the specifics of any

given machine than Neil would ever know. Having been obsessed with

machinery from the age of ten, Alan spent every moment available to him

in the mill or in the maintenance workshops with the man he adored above

all others, his friend and mentor, Luigi Fiorelli. Alan was a born mechanic.

Kate nodded. Neil was telling her nothing she hadn’t registered. How

could one fail to observe the recent changes brought about by

mechanisation, particularly those wrought by the harvester. The mechanical harvester was already replacing whole teams of manual cane-cutters. The

very face of the industry was being transformed.

‘Several other major mills that service the southern cane fields are

expanding,’ Neil explained, now addressing himself to Alan. ‘They’re

increasing their crushing tonnage and also their rate of crushing per hour.

Elianne must follow suit.’

Ivy had arrived and was setting the fresh pot of tea on the table. Hilda

raised a delicate hand, indicating that she herself would play ‘mother’ and,

as Ivy left, Neil continued without pausing to draw breath.

‘. . . And to this end, it is our intention to purchase substantial new mill

machinery –’

‘What sort of machinery?’ Alan interrupted, his attention instantly

captured.

‘Four new Broadbent high-grade centrifugals, two new Thompson four-

drum water tube boilers, and a Saranin design vacuum pan.’ Discarding the

‘Company Hat’, Neil’s tone was suddenly boastful and his grin boyish as he

listed, like a series of prizes, the proposed acquisitions, knowing how very

impressed Alan would be.

Alan was. With duly raised eyebrows, he returned his brother’s grin,

looking exactly like a younger version of Neil. Much as the two differed in

temperament, they shared the Durham look – the look of their father and his

father before him, both chisel-boned, dark-haired, impressive men.

‘Where’s the money going to come from?’ Alan said, intrigued. ‘They’ll

cost a lot. Machines like that don’t come cheap.’

His remark was more a comment than a query but, delivered in his

customary laconic fashion, it annoyed his father.

‘That’s no concern of yours, boy,’ Stan growled. ‘Ivan has everything in

hand. He’s issuing limited shares in the company and selling them to raise

the necessary capital. He and your brother and I have had endless

discussion regarding the mill’s expansion and investment. It’s hardly your

place to question our decision.’

Alan gave another shrug that appeared careless, but really he was just

giving up. He hadn’t been questioning the decision at all, but there was no

point in arguing. Father and younger son did not understand each other and

never had.

Once again it was Neil who sprang to the rescue, as he invariably did.

‘With the increase in milling efficiency, we’ll be saving in other areas,’ he

explained. ‘For a start, there’ll be fewer workers needed on each shift to

operate the mill, and that’s just one of the expense-saving factors. Ivan says

that –’

Stan decided it was time to take over.

‘Which brings us to other major areas of change,’ he said as he rose

from the throne of his armchair. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he accepted the fresh

cup of tea his wife offered him, ‘and thank you, Neil.’ It was a signal for his

son to sit, which Neil did, but not before delivering the cup of tea his

mother had poured for his sister.

Stan sipped his tea, waiting until everyone was settled. He liked to make

an impact and was accustomed to receiving the undivided attention of any

audience he addressed, which was why the occasionally offhand manner of

his younger son so annoyed him. He considered it disrespectful.

At fifty years of age, Stanley Durham gave the impression of being a

big man, one who towered over others. But standing just short of six feet,

he was not overly tall by Queensland standards. Perhaps it was the way he

carried himself with such pride. Perhaps it was the strength of his build, or

his dark, brooding eyes and handsome head of hair, now flecked with grey.

Whatever the chief contributing factor may have been, Stanley Durham’s

overall image was that of a ‘larger than life’ man. It was certainly the way

he saw himself. It was the way he wished to be perceived and therefore the

way he was perceived.

Assured of his family’s full attention Stan now made his dramatic

announcement.

‘Ivan Krantz will be leaving Elianne at the end of next month.’

A moment’s silence followed as Kate and Alan exchanged looks of

bewilderment. Ivan had been the mill’s accountant and company secretary

for the past twelve years. He and his wife and son had lived in old Elianne

House all that time. The Krantzes and the Durhams had been as close as

two families could be. Why would Ivan choose to leave the mill, and

particularly now, after instigating such changes?

‘You’re being naughty, Stanley. You mustn’t tease.’ Hilda’s rebuke was

mild. She was a gracious woman who, even in the admonishment of her children, never raised her voice. To Hilda, decorum always remained the

order of the day.

Stan laughed. He’d enjoyed the effect of his statement, his intention

having been to confuse and bewilder. ‘No, no, you misunderstand,’ he said

expansively. ‘Ivan’s not leaving the mill, he’s just moving from the estate

into Bundaberg. He’ll remain Elianne’s company secretary and he’ll still be

personally handling our business.’ Stan was obviously happy with the

arrangement, and genuinely pleased for his friend. ‘Ivan and young Henry

are setting up offices in Bourbong Street, right in the centre of town, and

Elianne is to be their very first client.’

Twenty-two-year-old Henry Krantz, much to his father’s pride, had

recently returned from Brisbane a qualified accountant. ‘The lad topped his

entire course, Stan,’ Ivan had boasted, ‘what better junior partner could a

man wish for, I ask you?’

‘To Krantz & Son,’ Stan raised his teacup high and the others found

themselves automatically saluting with their own cups. ‘Good luck to them,

I say.’ He took a hefty swig of his tea and dumped his cup and saucer on the

table. ‘Times are changing. Expansion is on the rise and good accountants

are essential. I’ve no doubt Ivan and Henry will do very well. With Elianne

as their first major client, others are bound to follow . . .’

Stan might have continued a little longer in the same vein, but he made

the mistake of glancing at his wife, whose attention was no longer focused

upon the tea. Hilda, so often vague and distracted by the niceties of life, was

looking intently at her husband, demanding he make the further

announcement, which to her was the most important one of all.

In response to his wife’s unspoken but unmistakeable request, Stan

halted. He cleared his throat. ‘Ivan’s move into town will bring about

another change,’ he said with a slight hesitation, which was not like him.

But even when delivering news he was aware would not be received

favourably, Stan Durham chose to make an impact.

‘Old Elianne House is to be demolished,’ he announced in a manner that

defied dissent. Then he waited for the argument that would follow.

There was a further silence. Hilda’s eyes were no longer upon her

husband. Instead she was studying her daughter. Kate would surely be

shocked to the core. Kate had inherited her love of the old home. And why

would she not? Hilda wondered. The house had been built by her great-grandfather for the woman he worshipped. Elianne Durham, the woman

after whom Big Jim had named his plantation and his mill and his entire

estate.

‘Elianne House is more than your heritage, Kate,’ Hilda had told her

daughter many times over the years, ‘Elianne House is a symbol of love.’

Now, as she studied her daughter, Hilda awaited the explosion. Kate did

not readily bend to her father’s will like Neil, nor did she close herself off

from him like Alan. Kate met her father head on, and confrontation between

the two could be volatile.

But it appeared no explosion was to take place.

‘Why?’ Kate asked quietly. She was indeed taken aback, perhaps even

shocked, but above all she was mystified. ‘Why would you want to

demolish a beautiful old home like Elianne House, a home that’s been a part

of your family for generations?’

‘Who am I going to put in there, Kate? You tell me that.’ Although his

daughter’s tone had not been accusatory, Stan’s response bore a touch of

belligerence. He’d known from which quarter the argument would come

and he was quite prepared to do battle. ‘Ivan’s not the only one shifting into

town, you know. These days many of the senior staff members are opting to

commute from Bundaberg. We have other homes that are already going

begging. Would you suggest I let Elianne House out for a pittance to one of

the workers and his family? I can promise you, it’d go to wrack and ruin if I

did.’

‘But why demolish it?’ Kate insisted. ‘That’s surely a little drastic.

Couldn’t we just leave the place empty?’

‘A valuable piece of real estate sitting untenanted and requiring

upkeep,’ her father scoffed. ‘That hardly makes financial sense, does it?’

‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ Kate had the distinct feeling she was on the

losing side. ‘But perhaps the house could be sold and transported? I mean to

destroy all that beauty . . . The woodwork, the lead-lighting, the stained-

glass panelled doors . . .’

‘The house is not in a fit enough state to be transported, Kate – we must

be realistic.’ Stan was no longer belligerent; there was no need. The battle

was over. ‘And I didn’t say we were destroying it my dear, I said we were

demolishing it. There is a distinct difference.’

‘And that is . . .?’

‘The house will be dismantled. The features you mention are worth a

great deal these days. The timber alone will fetch a fine price.’ Stan threw

in the clincher. ‘The house is of far more value in pieces than it is whole,

I’m afraid.’

‘I see.’ There was nothing Kate could say to that.

Hilda couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment as she witnessed

her daughter’s acquiescence. She hadn’t expected Kate to win the battle

certainly, but she’d expected her to offer a more forceful opposition. Surely

Kate could have taken a stronger stand, given everything the house

represented: the past, Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim, the great love they’d

shared . . . She looked about the drawing room.

‘More tea?’ she offered. ‘Neil, Alan, you must surely be ready for

another cup.’

Kate was aware that she’d disappointed her mother. It was regrettable,

but inevitable. She would certainly have done battle for the house on

aesthetic grounds if its preservation had been practicable, but she could not

fight for its symbolic significance the way she knew her mother would have

liked. Unlike Hilda she was not a romantic. She probably never had been.

As a little girl, her mother’s stories of Grandmother Ellie and the past had

enchanted her. But then so too had fairy tales. She’d long since grown up,

and more and more these days she’d come to realise that, although she

loved her mother dearly, Hilda Durham lived in a fantasy world.

‘Well that’s it,’ Stan said, clapping his hands together loudly by way of

a finale, ‘family meeting’s over. Let’s call Ivy in: we need more cake.’

That night, shortly before dinner, Kate visited her mother in the upstairs

sitting room that was Hilda’s personal domain. She was seated as usual by

the window that looked out over the balcony and the rear garden, browsing

through a copy of Tatler, her dry sherry digestive on the coffee table next to

her.

‘Do come in, darling,’ she said, putting down the magazine.

Kate entered and pulled up a chair beside her mother’s. ‘I’m sorry,

Marmee.’ It was the name they’d adopted by mutual consent when, aged

ten, Kate had first read Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. Hilda loved the

way her daughter called her Marmee.

‘Good heavens, what on earth are you sorry for?’

‘For disappointing you as I did.’

‘But my clever, clever, Kate, how could you possibly disappoint me?’

Hilda appeared bemused. ‘I am so very proud of you.’

‘Old Elianne House,’ Kate prompted. Her mother seemed to have

forgotten.

‘Ah yes. That.’ Hilda gave a slight shrug and looked out the window.

‘You wouldn’t have won, anyway.’

‘I know.’ Kate sensed that her mother wasn’t really seeing the balcony,

or the gardens stretched out below.

‘How sad to think that a symbol of such love should be sold off

piecemeal,’ Hilda said quietly, more to herself than to Kate.

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ She’s not here at all, Kate thought, she’s off

somewhere in the past again.

Kate had spent her childhood wondering why her mother dwelt so much

in the past. Was it in order to escape the present? But her mother led an

extremely comfortable life, so why the need for escape? Then two years

previously, and for some unfathomable reason Kate associated the occasion

with her sixteenth birthday, the thought had suddenly struck her. It might

simply be the drink. No one had ever mentioned Hilda’s drinking, and no

one had ever seen her inebriated. But the digestive dry sherry had always

been a daily habit and the medicinal brandy not an irregular occurrence.

Kate had wondered ever since how many digestive and medicinal measures

her mother might secretly imbibe. Perhaps the past wasn’t her mother’s

escape at all: perhaps the liquor was.

‘She was over seventy when I first met her,’ Hilda said, continuing to

stare out the window, ‘but still so beautiful, so very beautiful.’

Here we go again, Kate thought, Grandmother Ellie. Kate could even

vaguely remember her great-grandmother, a slim, regal woman with white,

white hair. She could remember Big Jim too, just, although he hadn’t been

particularly big then, a rather withered man, she recalled, who seemed

terribly, terribly old. They’d died the same year, when she was five.

‘Of course I knew who she was,’ Hilda went on, ‘everyone knew who

she was. I’d seen her picture in the paper – Elianne and Jim Durham were

famous. But I never dreamt I’d marry into the family. I never dreamt I’d

come to know her as I did.’

She’s really rambling tonight, Kate thought. It’s probably because of the

family meeting and the talk of the old house’s demolition. Or perhaps it’s simply the sherry, who can tell?

‘You’re so like her, Kate.’ Hilda turned from the window. ‘You’ve

grown into your beauty, my darling, just as I said you would.’

Kate was startled from the complacency of her thoughts. Her mother’s

eyes were not vague, but highly perceptive.

‘Do you remember how I used to tell you that you would be beautiful?’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ Kate replied a little brusquely. She could recall

only too well her mother’s constant attempts to be a guiding influence in a

masculine world and to make her aware of her femininity. ‘You will be

beautiful one day, Kate,’ Hilda would say, ‘do not doubt yourself, my dear.’

But Kate had not doubted herself for one minute. She’d needed no

confidence booster, and she certainly didn’t need to be beautiful.

‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’ Hilda smiled her pretty smile. ‘But

you will soon. One day, very soon, you’ll know that you’re beautiful.’

Hilda had recognised every nuance of the change in her daughter. Kate’s

physical blossoming had been evident at first glance, but she’d also sensed

the restlessness in the girl. Kate is still a virgin, Hilda had thought. She

hasn’t discovered her true womanliness yet. But she wants to. She aches to.

‘You look so like the pictures of Grandmother Ellie as a girl.’ Hilda

studied her daughter fondly. ‘The same green eyes and auburn hair.’ She

smiled again, and reaching out her hand, she stroked her fingers along the

curve of Kate’s cheek. ‘It’s a very effective mix with the Durham bones, I

must say.’ Her smile faded and her fingers rested where they were as her

eyes locked with her daughter’s. ‘I do hope you will find a great love, my

darling, one as fulfilling as Grandmother Ellie’s.’

Kate felt uncomfortable, exposed somehow. Her mother, far from being

in her customary distracted state, seemed altogether too knowing.

‘I think it’s time we headed downstairs for dinner,’ she said and she

stood. ‘We don’t want to keep the others waiting.’

‘Goodness me, no.’ Hilda glanced at the antique mantel clock, which

still kept perfect time. A lovely piece in cherry wood with brass-fitted face,

it had belonged to Grandmother Ellie and was one of her favourite

possessions. ‘We certainly don’t want to keep them waiting.’ She drained

the last of her sherry, delicately patted the corners of her mouth with a lace

handkerchief and rose to her feet. ‘After Christmas, when Ivan leaves,’ she said, ‘we shall do a tour of Elianne House, you and I. No one else, just the

two of us, and we shall bid our farewells.’

Our farewells to what, Kate wondered, the past? Her mother wore that

distant expression again.

‘Yes of course, Marmee, that’s exactly what we’ll do.’

 

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