Chapter Five

 

The National Service Scheme, which had been introduced by the

Menzies government in November 1964, required all males twenty years of

age to register with the Department of Labour and National Service. The

young men were then subject to a ballot and if their birth date was drawn

and they passed the ensuing medical tests, they were to serve two years in

the regular army.

The government’s principal concern at this stage was the confrontation

between Indonesia and the newly formed Federation of Malaysia, a conflict

that could potentially affect the border with Papua New Guinea, for which

Australia had defence responsibility. The general population believed,

however, that the National Service Scheme had been conceived for the sole

purpose of supplying troops for Australia’s growing commitment to the war

in Vietnam. Conscription was set to become a contentious issue.

‘Do you think they’ll send you to Vietnam?’ Hilda asked.

Neil nodded. ‘More than likely.’

‘Oh dear.’

The letter addressed to Neil Francis Durham, Elianne Estate,

Bundaberg, Queensland had been dated 10 June 1965. It read:

You are hereby called up for national service training in the Royal

Australian Army. You will present yourself for induction at the Army

Training Depot at Singleton, NSW . . .

It went on brusquely to give the date of his departure and the specific

details of each train and each connection that would deliver him to the

barracks at Singleton, a hundred miles or so north of Sydney.

Neil had been one of those whose number had come up. He’d passed the

medical and was now about to join the ranks of Australia’s national

servicemen.

‘Ah well, a couple of years in the army won’t do you any harm.’ Stanley

Durham had decided to take the philosophical approach. ‘It could even be a

good thing. Military training toughens a man.’ He gave his son a hearty

punch to the shoulder. ‘And you could do with a bit of toughening up, boy.’

The two shared a grin. Neil was strangely ambivalent about being called

up. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to actually fight in a war, but the world of

physical training and weaponry and battle tactics held an allure that was

exciting.

‘I’m appalled you should treat the matter in so trivial a fashion,’ Hilda

said frostily. ‘Your son –’

‘Is about to serve his country,’ Stan interrupted. Then he added, ‘You

can’t buck the system, old girl,’ as if humouring his wife, though he was in

reality shutting her up. Hilda detested being called ‘old girl’. ‘And it’s not

as if we haven’t been expecting the news. Neil’s as fit as a mallee bull – he

was bound to pass the physical.’

Upon Max’s delivery of the letter, Stan had called the family together in

the smaller front sitting room, invading Hilda’s solitary morning-tea ritual.

With Kate in Sydney and Alan in Brisbane there were just the four of them

– indeed had Hilda not insisted upon Bartholomew’s inclusion there would

have been only three.

‘It would be appalling to exclude your father, Stanley,’ she’d said.

‘Bartholomew is a part of this family. Of course he must join us.’

‘Why? He hardly has anything to contribute, has he?’

‘That’s beside the point. He must be informed of the situation.’

‘All right, tell him we’re meeting in half an hour.’ Stan had shrugged.

He didn’t really care either way.

‘Well, Neil,’ he now said, continuing in the same hearty vein, ‘it’s good

to see that you’re following in your old man’s footsteps. Just make sure you

don’t cop a bout of typhoid along the way, eh?’ He gave a self-deprecating

laugh.

Stan was making light of things in order to allay his wife’s fears, but he

was rightfully proud of his service in North Africa. He’d been a Rat of

Tobruk and if he hadn’t contracted typhoid during the 9th Division’s brief rest period in Palestine, he would have gone on with the others to fight at El

Alamein. Typhoid fever had come close to killing him, however, and he’d

been repatriated to Australia in early 1942 with a weak heart that prevented

him from further military service.

‘You’ll make a fine soldier, son,’ he said. ‘The training will stand you in

good stead, and it’s a minor war when all’s said and done: it’ll be over

before we know it. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it’s a war that could well serve

our purpose. We’ll be gaining a valuable ally assisting the Americans. But it

won’t last long in any case. Storm in a teacup.’

Hilda cast a quick glance at Bartholomew. It won’t last long. Wasn’t that

what they’d said about the Great War? Bartholomew had lost two brothers

at Gallipoli. She wondered what was going through his mind. Very little, it

appeared. Bartholomew’s eyes were on Stanley, but he appeared quite

removed from the proceedings as he methodically sipped his tea.

*

Neil telephoned his brother and sister with the news of his call up. Their

reactions were very different.

‘Oh shit,’ Kate said, ‘what a pity you’re not at uni – you could defer.

Any other way around it, do you think?’

‘Nope, mind you I haven’t given that aspect much consideration.’ He

was a little surprised by her automatic assumption that he would do

anything to avoid national service. University is having an effect upon Kate,

he thought. For starters she never used to swear.

‘Military training camp, wow,’ Alan said, when he’d been summoned to

the boarders’ phone and told the news, ‘that could be really interesting. Do

you reckon they’ll train you to drive tanks?’

‘Don’t know. We’ll soon find out. I’ll be home for Christmas. See you

then.’

The night before Neil’s departure, Stan insisted on an evening at the

Burnett Club. Hilda, who had no wish to be deprived of her son’s company,

would far rather have organised a modest farewell dinner at home, but

tradition demanded otherwise.

‘It’s the done thing, my dear,’ Stan was adamant, ‘the members will

want to wish him well and speed him on his way.’

Objection was futile, Hilda knew. Stanley needed to show off his son.

Whenever something of importance required celebration or recognition, the Burnett Club beckoned.

Situated in Quay Street overlooking the river, the Burnett Club with its

strictly ‘gentlemen only’ membership had been the favoured meeting place

of Bundaberg’s professional and business elite for as long as most could

remember. When the son of a prominent citizen came of age he was

invariably introduced to the Burnett Club, although in Stan’s case things

had been a little different. As Bartholomew Durham had had little interest in

that kind of socialising, Stan had been introduced to the club by his

grandfather, Big Jim. These days, with his own son and heir, Stan adhered

to tradition and also to Big Jim’s business policy, which he considered of

fundamental importance.

‘My father never understood the value of cultivating relationships with

the more influential members of the community,’ Stan said, ‘he considered

a trip into town for a beer at the club tedious and unnecessary. Big Jim

knew better, and Big Jim was right.’

Father and son had deserted the busy bar, which had become stuffy with

cigar and cigarette smoke. Crossing through the empty function room that

looked directly over the river, they’d stepped out onto the lawn with their

beers. The night was still and chill with the bite of winter, but the air was

bracing and the river below glistened silver on black in the moonlight.

Behind them, even with the doors closed, the babble of men’s voices could

clearly be heard.

‘Good turn up tonight,’ Stan said, ‘lot of the regulars.’

A healthy cross-section of the town’s upper echelon was indeed present,

including from the medical profession Dr Len McKeon, prominent

physician, and Dr Jack Scott, surgeon. Representative of the business sector

was Carl Nielson of Nielson’s Musical Store, Stewart Pettigrew of Wypers,

Garnet Buss of Buss & Turners and Rob Black of John Black’s Drapery and

Clothing Emporium. Stanley Durham was on friendly terms with each and

every one, and each and every one had shaken his son by the hand. They’d

gathered about and toasted the lad, raising their beers and their glasses of

‘Special Blend’ and ‘Governor’s Choice’, the club’s exclusive OP rum

blends. ‘Godspeed, Neil,’ they’d said while Stan had stood by, pretending

nonchalance, but bursting with a father’s pride.

‘The men of the Burnett wish you well, Neil,’ he now said as they gazed

out at the river and the sprawl of the Bundaberg Foundry on the opposite bank. ‘That’s a powerful bond forged in there, son, valuable friendships

that’ll last you the whole of your life.’ He downed a large swig of his beer.

‘Something my father could never understand,’ he added with a touch of

derision. ‘Just as well I had Big Jim in my life.’

Neil, like Kate, often felt critical of the treatment afforded Bartholomew

by his own son. Stan continually ignored or derided his father, which

seemed not only unfair but puzzling. Neil himself could clearly remember,

in the days before Bartholomew’s stroke when he’d accompanied the old

man into town, the respect his grandfather had commanded. It had been

quite evident that Bartholomew Durham was held in high regard by all

those who knew him. Did it make him any less of a man if he chose not to

become a member of the Burnett Club?

‘Do you know, Neil,’ Stan continued, ‘I remember all those years ago

before I went off to training camp. Big Jim brought me here to the club and

his mates all gathered around to wish me Godspeed. Just like tonight.’

‘History repeating itself, eh?’ Neil said, although his smile was a little

forced. He sometimes disliked himself for not taking a stand. I should have

spoken up just then, he thought, I should have spoken up for Grandpa: Kate

certainly would have. He wondered, as he did on occasions, whether his

choice to remain silent was a sign of weakness. Am I a spineless bastard, he

wondered, or do I not want to prick Dad’s bubble, which is it?

‘History repeating itself, exactly.’ Stan beamed with pleasure. ‘A man’s

friends are the measure of him, son, and my friends have become yours. I

couldn’t be more proud, Neil. I swear I couldn’t possibly be more proud.’

He raised his glass and they clinked and drank to each other.

Neil decided to let himself off lightly this time. Of course I can’t prick

Dad’s bubble, he thought, not a bubble as big as this one anyway. But living

in Stan the Man’s shadow could be wearing, and living up to his

expectations even more so. Neil was plagued by the ever-present fear of

disappointing his father.

He drained the last of his beer. ‘Come on, Dad, finish her off,’ he said,

‘my shout. Then I’ll beat you at snooker.’

Stan laughed. ‘Want to bet?’

The following evening, Stan and Hilda stood on the platform of

Bundaberg Railway Station waving farewell to their son who was hanging

out the window of the ‘Rockhampton Mail’, the slow, overnight train that stopped at every station between Bundy and Brisbane. Neil’s instructions

had been meticulous. Upon his early-morning arrival at Roma Street

Station, he was to proceed to South Brisbane Interstate Railway Station,

where he was to board the lunchtime train bound for Sydney. He would

alight at Singleton in the early hours of the following morning.

‘It’s only training camp, Hilda,’ Stan said unable to disguise a touch of

irritation as she ferreted for her handkerchief. ‘The boy’s hardly going off to

war.’

Hilda made no reply. Not yet, she thought, dabbing at her eyes.

The training course at Singleton was tough and deliberately so, the

intention being to push the young national servicemen to their absolute

limit, even to breaking point if necessary, and then remould them to army

requirements. Military experts believed that the new recruits, in taking a

dislike to their officers and NCOs, would rely more and more upon each

other, thereby forming a bond of mateship that would serve them well in

combat. The psychology worked. Over the ensuing weeks, the bond forged

between the ‘nashos’, as they were known, became steadily unbreakable. It

was a bond very much embraced by Neil Durham.

After several months of arduous basic training, Neil and his newfound

mates were transported to Brisbane where on 5 September they were

marched into Enoggera Barracks, home of the newly formed 6RAR. It was

here they would embark upon their serious corps training.

The 6th Battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment constituted four

companies of approximately one hundred and twenty officers and men, each

company consisting of four platoons, numbering around thirty men and one

officer. Private Neil Durham was assigned to D Company, 12 Platoon.

Neil loved the routine of army life. He was a fit young man, lean and

strong, and, unlike some of the other national servicemen, particularly those

from the city, the rigorous physical training presented him with little

hardship from the outset. Relentless though it was, he found it exhilarating,

liberating even. In fact, Neil embraced everything the military had to offer.

He loved the camaraderie of his fellow ‘nashos’, he loved the precision of

weaponry training and the discipline of army drill, and he particularly loved

the mindlessness of endless marches to the chant of ‘These Boots Were

Made for Walking’. The men of the 6th Battalion had claimed Nancy Sinatra’s number-one hit as their own and sang it with pride and gusto,

always tuneless, but in perfect rhythm, never missing a beat.

Freed from the constant pressure of his father’s expectations, Neil

Durham loved, above all else, being simply one man in an army of men.

Alan was the first of the Durham siblings to arrive home for Christmas.

Unlike Kate, he’d returned to Elianne for each of his term breaks

throughout the year, every visit finding him more eager than ever to be

reunited with Paola.

The relationship between the two had escalated to the point where it was

evident to all and sundry that young Alan Durham and Paola Fiorelli were

smitten with each other.

Stan voiced his concern to his wife, and he didn’t pull any punches

doing so. ‘There’d better not be any funny business going on,’ he snarled.

‘I’ll have his bloody guts for garters if he gets the girl pregnant.’

‘Don’t be coarse, Stanley,’ Hilda replied primly. ‘Of course there’ll be

none of that going on – they’re only sixteen.’

‘Exactly! Just the age when a boy thinks of nothing but sex!’

‘A girl, however, does not.’ Hilda’s response was icy; something in her

husband’s tone had seemed to add ‘you stupid woman’. ‘Particularly a girl

like Paola, who comes from a very good family.’

She’s missed the point entirely, Stan thought. He was surprised, for

despite her vague lapses Hilda was usually astute in her observation of

others. Dear God, it’s the good family that’s the worry, he told himself,

they’re Micks for Christ’s sake! He didn’t care in the least if Alan bedded

the Italian girl, it was time the boy lost his virginity and it might as well be

with the Dago. But if something serious were to develop between his son

and a Catholic, that would be a different matter altogether.

‘I may have made a mistake giving Paola a job here on the estate,’ he

said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it would be better all round if she sought work in

town.’

Paola had left school the previous year after completing her junior

certificate and was now employed as a receptionist at the front desk of

Elianne’s office, a position which had delighted her father Luigi.

‘No, dear, it wouldn’t,’ Hilda said firmly but gently. ‘In fact I believe

such an action would be most unwise. If the two are as enamoured as they

appear to be, then separating them would only enflame the situation. Better to wait. They will tire of each other in time. Paola will not submit to Alan’s

advances, if indeed he makes any, and driven by a young man’s desire he

will move on. Theirs is puppy love, Stanley, and puppy love never lasts.’

Sensing her husband’s uncertainty and keen to put him at his ease, she

added, ‘Besides, were anything serious to develop, Luigi himself would be

the first to forbid any form of union.’

Stan nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said. She was, he thought. Hilda hadn’t

missed the point at all.

Kate arrived home two weeks after Alan and was immediately

embroiled in the situation for no reason other than her car.

‘Hey, if I sling on my L plates can I drive the Holden into town tonight,

Kate?’ Alan said the day after her arrival, which happened to be a Saturday.

He’d had his learner’s plates for just under a month, and cadged drives into

town at every opportunity. ‘I want to take Paola to the pictures.’

‘What’s wrong with the bus?’

A privately operated bus service ran regularly between Elianne and

Bundaberg, particularly during the crushing season when shift workers were

transported to and fro from dawn until midnight. The service had

diminished a little over recent times as cars had become more readily

available, but it continued to operate throughout the year, even during the

slack season. Employees were delivered to work, children to school, women

to shops, and families to picnics at Bargara. And at weekends the bus

remained an imperative mode of transport for young people, taking them to

and from dances and the Saturday-night pictures.

‘The bus was fine for us when we were kids,’ Kate said.

‘Give us a break,’ Alan pulled a face, ‘it’s hardly as classy as the

Holden.’

Ah, she thought, he wants to show off. ‘You do know you have to have

a licensed driver in the front seat with you, don’t you, Al?’

‘Course I know that.’ He proffered a hopeful smile. ‘Do you want to

come along?’

‘And how do you plan to get home?’ she asked, knowing the answer.

‘Well we could catch the last bus, I suppose,’ he said with a reluctant

shrug, then he grinned. ‘Or you could come to the pictures with us if you

like. The Sound of Music’s on at the Olympia,’ he added enticingly.

‘Everyone’s raving about it and Paola’s dead keen. What do you reckon?’

‘I reckon the sooner you get your licence the better,’ she said.

Alan couldn’t agree more. It was a source of constant frustration that,

expert driver as he was, his legal licence was still a good two months away.

‘Is that a yes?’ he asked hopefully.

‘The Sound of Music, how could I possibly refuse?’

The Olympia Picture Theatre was an open-air cinema, or rather three-

quarters of it was. The majority of the space was given over to canvas deck

chairs, where the audience lounged comfortably beneath an open sky,

knowing they could make a dash for the covered section at the rear should it

happen to rain.

There was no likelihood of rain that night, however. The afternoon’s

searing heat had gone and the warmth that lingered was sensual as people

lolled in deck chairs, bare-legged and sandal-shod, men and boys in shorts,

women and girls in light cotton dresses and skirts. Summer nights at the

Olympia were invariably languid affairs.

‘Do, a deer, a female deer . . .’

As the youngsters on screen joined Julie Andrews in song, Kate glanced

at her brother seated beside her. The Von Trapp children had apparently

failed to captivate Alan, who was staring up at the stars. The Von Trapps

may not have been wholly to blame though: Alan often disappeared into a

world of his own.

Kate enjoyed the film more than she’d thought she would, but she was a

little distracted by her brother’s inattention. Alan’s gaze continued for the

most part to be directed either up at the stars, which were indeed vivid in a

cloudless sky, or at Paola seated on the other side of him. The two held

hands throughout, but Paola’s own gaze, from the occasional glimpses Kate

caught of the girl’s profile, remained fixed upon the screen.

‘Isn’t he terrible?’ Paola said during the drive home. ‘A film as

wonderful as that and he spends the whole time looking up at the sky.’

Or at you, Kate thought. ‘Didn’t you like it, Al?’ she asked.

‘Not much,’ he said, his eyes on the road as he drove. ‘I thought it was a

bit soppy.’ He smiled apologetically into the rear-vision mirror at Paola,

who was seated in the back. ‘Not enough action for me, I’m afraid.’

‘Not enough action?’ She was appalled. ‘They get chased by Nazis!’

‘Yeah, but only in the last few minutes and nobody’s killed.’

‘Your brother has no taste at all, Kate,’ Paola said. ‘Unless it’s a

gangster film he’s not remotely interested.’

‘You’re lucky. It used to be cowboys and Indians.’

‘It still is.’ Alan accepted their ragging good-naturedly. ‘And if I can’t

get a dose of either, I’ll look at the stars.’

Alan didn’t actually care what film he saw. All he could think of was the

day when he’d have his licence and be able to drive Paola into town without

someone else sitting in the front seat. He was sick of being treated like a

child. And more importantly, he was sick of being made to appear a child in

Paola’s eyes. But he was grateful to Kate.

‘It was beaut having the Holden tonight,’ he said as they pulled up in

the front driveway after dropping Paola home. Kate had no idea whether

there’d been a good-night kiss; she’d discreetly looked the other way as

he’d walked Paola to the door.

The two of them climbed out of the car and started up the main steps of

the Big House.

‘Thanks, Kitty-Kat,’ he said.

‘A pleasure, Al-Pal,’ she replied.

They smiled; they hadn’t used those nicknames for years.

How different everything is, Kate thought a little later as she lay in her

bed, the lamp still on, gazing about at the familiar things that surrounded

her; strange how everything can look the same and yet be so different. But

then times have changed, she told herself. Alan’s grown up, Neil’s off at

army camp, I’m at university . . .

But try as she might, she couldn’t distract herself from the truth. The

changes in her life and her brothers’ lives were part of the natural

transformation she’d sensed on her trip home the previous Christmas: she

could not ignore the difference that now existed. This difference went far

deeper than simply growing up and moving on: it was reflected in

everything she saw around her. Even the past, now viewed through different

eyes, would never be the same. The diaries had made sure of that.

Reaching out her hand, she switched off the bedside lamp. She must not

think about Ellie. She’d determined that during this trip home she would put

the diaries from her mind. An impossible task, she was aware – their

revelations would always be with her – but to dwell upon the unanswerable questions they raised was a pointless invitation to torment. She rolled on her

side, willing herself to sleep.

‘You and I must visit Elianne House today, Kate.’ The following

morning over breakfast Hilda made her solemn announcement. ‘We must

pay our respects.’

‘How can we?’ Kate replied bluntly. ‘It’s gone.’

Stan and Bartholomew glanced up from their plates, both mildly

surprised by her brusqueness, but Alan stifled a smile as he tucked into his

eggs and bacon. He loved his sister’s lack of pretension.

Hilda was not amused, however, by what she saw as her daughter’s

blatant irreverence. ‘I am fully aware of that, Kate,’ she said, piqued and

more than a little hurt, ‘but we must pay tribute to the demise of Elianne

House. As a measure of respect to Grandmother Ellie if nothing else,’ she

added tightly.

‘Of course.’ Kate smiled an apology. She hadn’t meant to sound terse; it

had not been her intention to offend. As a rule she was happy to indulge her

mother’s need for drama, but for some reason the words had just popped out

that way. ‘We’ll go straight after breakfast, Marmee, I promise.’

A half an hour later, Kate pulled the Holden up in the front driveway of

Elianne House or rather the untidy remains of what had once been the front

driveway, for vegetation had steadily claimed the grounds of the old home.

As for the house itself, there remained no visible sign that here had once

stood an early Queenslander of impressive dimensions and gracious design.

Verdant growth had reclaimed the site with a greed that seemed to denounce

humanity’s right to have ever built here in the first place, vines and bushes

and grasses vying for supremacy over the rubble and remnants that lay

buried beneath.

The women climbed from the car, Kate circling to stand beside her

mother.

‘Good God,’ she said in amazement, ‘it’s disappeared completely.’

‘Yes,’ Hilda replied, ‘isn’t that terrible? After seventy-five years Elianne

House has been wiped from the face of the earth, just like that, gone

forever. It’s more than terrible,’ she said, her face a mask of tragedy, ‘it’s

shameful that such a thing should have been allowed to happen. The past

has been stolen from us, Kate.’

Which is probably not a bad thing, a voice in Kate’s brain said, but she

remained silent as together they stared at the mass of tangled growth that

had sprouted to claim its own with such ferocity.

‘Big Jim built the house for Grandmother Ellie in 1890,’ Hilda said

pensively, still seeing in her mind’s eye the old home in all its grandeur.

‘Elianne House was a gift of love.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Kate marvelled at the fact that she felt absolutely nothing.

Surely this is a healthy sign, she thought, with a vague sense of relief. If

only she could put her knowledge of the past behind her with the same ease

as she could Elianne House, then perhaps . . .

Hilda, having turned to look at her daughter, was now studying her

astutely as Kate gazed out at the landscape.

‘You’ve changed, Kate,’ she said.

Visited by an unrealistic fear that her mother might somehow have

divined her thoughts, Kate started guiltily. ‘Changed?’ She tried her best to

sound casual. ‘In what way?’

‘You’re confident now.’

‘Since when have I not been?’ What a strange remark, Kate thought.

‘I mean that you’re at home with your beauty, dear.’ Hilda examined her

daughter’s face, clinically, unashamedly, like a doctor examining a patient

for infinitesimal signs of a condition. Yes, she thought, Kate is no longer a

virgin. She wears her womanliness like a badge and my goodness how it

does suit her.

‘Oh my darling,’ she said fervently, overcome by a sudden surge of

emotion, ‘I do hope he loves you. You deserve someone who can offer you

true love.’ Then in typically mercurial fashion, the feyness vanished to be

replaced by maternal practicality, and questions darted like arrows. ‘Who is

he, dear, tell me? What does he do? Would I like him?’

Relieved though Kate was that no supernatural divination had taken

place, she found her mother’s perceptiveness confronting. Rather than avoid

the issue as she would normally have done, however, she chose to answer in

all honesty.

‘He’s a university student, Marmee,’ she said, ‘and I don’t know if

you’d like him. His name is Jeremy, he’s just finished his Bachelor of Arts

and intends to go on to his Masters, and I’m not sure if either of us knows what “true love” is.’ She smiled, not wishing to sound callous. ‘To be quite

honest, I think it’s a strictly fairy tale term.’

‘Oh, you modern young career women,’ Hilda gave an exasperated

wave of her hand, ‘I don’t understand your cynicism, really I don’t.’ She

wondered briefly whether she should offer a mother’s cautionary advice

about ‘taking care’, but it hardly seemed necessary. Kate was far cleverer

than she could ever hope to be. Besides, this was the sixties: things had

changed. There was the contraceptive pill. Girls knew how to look after

themselves these days.

She looked out again to where the old house had once stood. ‘Perhaps it

is wise after all to be cynical,’ she said wistfully. ‘Perhaps you’re right to

keep your expectations to a minimum. Not everyone is destined to

experience a great love.’

Kate felt a stab of irritation. Hilda was wandering down some wishful

lane to the past again, a past of her own invention.

‘Time to go home,’ she said briskly. She was no longer prepared to

pander to the fantasy.

Any consideration Kate may have once given to the sharing of Ellie’s

writings, at least in some part, with her mother had gone. She had decided

not even to share them with her brother Alan. Not yet anyway. The diaries

must remain a secret for the moment, their future uncertain. She had already

embarked upon the painstaking exercise of their translation, which she

intended to complete in time, but to what end she wasn’t sure. Perhaps for

posterity – they were documents of historical interest after all – or perhaps

to be kept locked away for future generations of Durhams. She might

possibly, when she had completed their translation, let Alan read them for

himself, thereby gaining a confidant who could help her decide upon a

course of action. Right now she was certain of only one thing. She could not

expose her parents to the lies and deceit upon which their lives had been

based.

Private Neil Durham was granted ten days’ leave over Christmas and

the New Year, his arrival home completing the family reunion.

‘My God, just look at you,’ Stan said, holding his son at arm’s length, a

proprietorial hand on each shoulder. ‘Army life suits you, my boy, there’s

no doubt about that.’

‘Dad’s right,’ Kate said, eyeing her brother up and down admiringly. ‘I

never realised you were so handsome.’

She was joking, but it was true nonetheless. He had always been good

looking, but now Neil’s body had filled out, the musculature clearly

defined; he was not only fit, he was strong and it showed. But more than

that, Kate registered a new self-assurance in her brother, a new manliness.

Neil laughed and hugged her. ‘You’re not too bad yourself, Sis.’

The Christmas luncheon was a repetition of the previous year with the

same intimate gathering of family and friends. The Krantzes were there –

Ivan with his wife and son – and the Fiorellis – Luigi, his wife and two

children, foregoing their customary extended family gathering for the

honour of dining at The Big House. But there was a subtle shift in

relationships, or so it seemed to Kate. Surely Ivan is a little less deferential,

she thought, his manner a little bolder. It would make sense of course. Ivan

was no longer dependent upon Elianne for a living. Elianne was only one in

any number of Krantz & Son clients, the most important admittedly, but just

one nonetheless. Ivan and his son were doing very well, she’d been told.

‘We’re branching into some exciting new investment areas, Stan,’ Ivan

said. ‘We’d love to run them by you, wouldn’t we, Henry?’ Henry nodded.

‘These are thrilling times for the sugar industry. Times of expansion, times

of change –’

‘Yes, yes, we’ll talk later,’ Stan said dismissively as he reached out and

speared another slice of turkey from the platter. ‘Now’s hardly the time.’

There had been occasions in the past when Kate had felt herself cringe

at her father’s arrogant treatment of others. She didn’t now. She thought it

crass of Ivan to talk business over the family Christmas lunch, and she

wasn’t the only one. Glancing at her mother, she caught Hilda’s eye peering

over the rim of the champagne glass she’d just lifted to her lips. Poor form,

Hilda’s eye said, pushy, vulgar. Hilda, too, was pleased to see Ivan put in

his place. And put in his place Ivan was. He backed down immediately.

‘Of course, Stan, of course,’ he said with a bonhomie that denied the

insult he’d just been delivered, ‘wrong time to talk, I agree.’ He beamed at

his son. ‘We tend to get a bit carried away with the excitement of it all,

don’t we, Henry?’

Henry nodded again. Neither of them wanted to end up on the wrong

side of Stan the Man.

Kate was briefly distracted from the interplay of friction by her

grandfather’s quiet signal for the hot mustard. She passed him the pot for a

second time and watched with amusement as Bartholomew piled another

heaped spoonful onto the side of his plate. Then, as she ate her own meal,

she looked around at the gathering.

It isn’t just Ivan, she thought. The table seemed fraught with undertones,

or was it just her imagination working overtime? The glances her father

kept darting at Alan and Paola seated together with eyes for none but each

other clearly signalled his disapproval, which was hardly surprising. But

there was a guardedness also from Luigi, who every now and then scowled

in the young couple’s direction, he too distracted by the attention they were

paying each other.

Maria Fiorelli nudged her husband. Kate was not the only one who’d

noticed Luigi’s ill humour.

‘Non rovinare le cose, Luigi,’ she whispered.

Luigi re-directed his scowl to his wife. What did Maria mean? How was

he spoiling things?

‘Guardo a voi. Non cipiglio. È Natale.’

‘Ah. Scusa.’ Luigi hadn’t even realised he’d been scowling. Maria was

quite right, he told himself, he mustn’t spoil Christmas. He painted on an

obliging smile, which looked rather fake and foolish and Maria smiled

gratefully in return.

Maria Fiorelli was not overly concerned about her daughter. She was of

the same mind as Hilda Durham, the argument she’d presented to her

husband having been very similar to that proffered by Hilda to Stan.

‘It is a first love and an innocent one, Luigi,’ she’d said when he’d

voiced his worry. ‘Alan is a good boy. He would not take advantage of

Paola. You of all people would know this.’

Luigi did. If there were any one boy in whom he would place his trust it

was most certainly Alan Durham. Luigi had been a true friend and mentor

to Alan for the whole of the boy’s life; he knew the boy better than did the

boy’s own father. But what if over time the relationship between Alan and

Paola developed into something more serious? The two could not marry.

His wife was quick to address his fears. ‘And if it were ever to become

serious,’ she continued, ‘you would always have an ally in Mr Stan.’ Unlike

her husband, Maria was not on first-name terms with Stan the Man. She did not wish to be: respect demanded their employer remain ‘Mr Stan’ at all

times. ‘Mr Stan would never allow his son to wed a Catholic,’ she said.

‘So you do not think I should forbid Paola this friendship?’

‘No. That would only make matters worse. And here is something else

to think upon, Luigi. Alan’s presence will protect Paola from less desirable

youths who may come sniffing about. Best we leave things as they are for

now. When she is of age we will remind her of the nice Catholic boys she

has grown up with. Or we will write home to see if someone there has a son

worthy of our Paola.’

‘Very well, Maria, I will trust in your wisdom. We will say nothing.’ But

despite his wife’s common sense, Luigi did not stop worrying.

Nor did Stan Durham, and as both families maintained a pained silence,

the only two oblivious to the undercurrent of disapproval were Alan and

Paola.

Throughout the main course, the customary toasts were made to friends

and family, but Stan ensured the principal toast was reserved for Neil and

his forthcoming tour of duty in Vietnam.

‘To Neil and his military service to this country,’ he said solemnly,

rising to his feet.

There was a shuffling of chairs as the others quickly followed suit,

glasses raised. ‘To Neil,’ they said.

‘So when do you think they’ll send you over there?’ Ivan asked when

they were once again seated.

‘None of us knows for sure,’ Neil said, ‘but not for a while yet. We’ve

got close to another five months of training to go, so I reckon around May

some time.’

The general discussion then not unsurprisingly turned to the war in

South Vietnam and not unsurprisingly Stan was quick to express his

opinion. Stanley Durham was very much in favour of Australia’s

commitment.

‘Communism’s spreading like a rampant bloody disease throughout

Europe and now Asia,’ he said, downing his knife and fork and pushing his

plate from him. ‘If the Reds take South Vietnam we’ll be next in line you

can bet on it. They have to be stopped.’

Prior to his son’s conscription, Stan had shown little interest in the

conflict in Vietnam, which had seemed to him so very far away. A civil war in a remote Asian country couldn’t possibly affect us here at Elianne, he’d

thought, if indeed he’d given the matter any consideration at all. He was of

quite a different mind these days and, never one to dither, his views were as

always black and white. Shades of grey rarely entered Stan’s arguments.

‘But you surely don’t believe,’ Ivan said, ‘that mandatory national

service is the answer.’ He cast a deferential look to Neil, intending no

disrespect. ‘I mean Australians said no to conscription twice during the First

World War. To introduce it now, and without a referendum, seems a radical

move by the government, don’t you think?’ Ivan Krantz was only too

relieved that his son Henry had missed out on the government’s national

service lottery by a good two years.

‘If conscription is what it takes to stem the spread of communism then

yes I most certainly do,’ Stan declared emphatically. ‘Our boys are being

called up to serve a noble cause and they should feel proud to be a part of

it.’

Ivan didn’t agree at all, but he retired from the discussion, knowing

argument would be futile; and besides, he had no wish to cross Stan.

Kate felt intensely irritated. Ivan’s views obviously differed from her

father’s and he was an intelligent man – he should have answered back. She

wasn’t sure which aspect of the exchange irritated her most, her father’s

belligerence or Ivan’s lack of spine, but she found herself diving in.

‘What about those who oppose the very principle of war?’ she

demanded, squaring up to her father across the table. ‘What about those

who are against the taking of human life? Should they be conscripted? Is it

right they should be forced to do what they believe is morally wrong?’

Silence descended. Even the clink of cutlery ceased.

‘Yes,’ Stan said, glowering darkly at his daughter. ‘Sacrifices are made

in a war: men kill and are killed. Cowards cannot be tolerated.’ He shifted

his focus, directing his attention solely to Neil. ‘If my son is to answer his

country’s call, then so must the sons of others.’

Kate had no comeback to that. He’d bested her by personalising the

argument and bringing Neil into the equation. She looked at her brother,

hoping she hadn’t caused offence, and was grateful when his eyes signalled

she hadn’t, but she knew that to continue the discussion was pointless and

in Neil’s company tasteless.

Stan smiled a victor’s smile. ‘Besides,’ he said to the table in general,

‘the Americans will have this war over in no time, and by joining them

we’ll have earned the gratitude of a valuable ally. All the more reason to

send our boys over there. We have the future to think of when all’s said and

done.’

Having clinched the argument to his own satisfaction he gestured for

Ivy to clear away the plates, even though several guests hadn’t quite

finished their main courses. Then he turned to his wife. ‘Shall we have

some more champagne before dessert, my dear?’

‘An excellent suggestion,’ Hilda replied, relieved that the tension was

dispelled.

The exodus that followed lunch found the younger members of the

company pondering what to do next.

‘I need a swim,’ Neil said as the junior Durhams and Fiorellis stood in

the baking sun waving goodbye to the Krantzes’ Ford Zephyr. ‘Let’s head

for the dam.’

‘You’re on,’ Kate said, but Alan cast a hesitant glance at Paola. The

deep dam with its steep banks was a dangerous place for all but the most

experienced of swimmers. She was bound to find it alarming, if indeed she

dared venture in.

‘What about Bargara?’ he suggested thinking of The Basin, but the

other two shook their heads.

‘Too far, can’t be bothered,’ Neil said.

Alan didn’t push the matter further as a better idea occurred. ‘Can I

borrow the Holden and take Paola for a drive then, Kate?’ he asked. ‘Only

around Elianne,’ he added in the moment’s pause that followed, ‘I promise.’

He raised his hand as if swearing an oath.

‘Sure,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll grab the car keys while we put on our togs. Won’t

be a tick.’

As she and Neil set off up the stairs, she heard young Georgio Fiorelli

behind her.

‘Can I come too, Alan?’

And Alan’s good-humoured rejoinder, masking any reluctance he may

have felt: ‘Course you can mate. The more the merrier.’

Minutes later she and Neil, clad in bathing togs, T-shirts and sandshoes,

towels draped around their necks, stood watching as the Holden drove off in the direction of the mill.

‘A disaster waiting to happen, those two,’ Neil said. ‘Did you feel the

tension over lunch?’

‘Hard not to, surely everyone did.’

‘Everyone except Alan and Paola.’

‘You’re right there.’

The two of them stared thoughtfully out at the trail of dust winding its

way up the dirt road.

‘Do you reckon one of us should have a word with him?’ Kate asked,

but even as she did she knew the answer, and turning to each other they

shook their heads in unison.

‘You know Alan,’ Neil said with a shrug.

‘Yep, he’d only close off. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens,

I suppose. Race you.’

She sprinted out of the driveway, her brother hot on her heels, and

together they raced along the dirt track that led through the bushland to the

Pump Hill railway track, their objective the main dam.

Situated high above the banks of the Burnett River, the main dam was

fed with a constant supply of water via the pumping station far below. Here,

well upriver, the water was fresh and the main dam was the principal source

of irrigation for the cane fields. A further dam up near the mill supplied

water to the homes on the estate and the mill itself, but it was the main dam

that had always been of greatest significance to the Durham children.

Throughout the whole of their lives the main dam had served as a favourite

summer playground and, barely a half a mile from the big house, the run

there had always proved a gruelling competition, particularly between the

two older siblings.

For the past several years, the race had been a neck-and-neck affair, but

this time things were vastly different. This time Neil came in the easy

winner and by the time Kate reached the dam she discovered him sitting on

the small wooden jetty, taking off his sandshoes and barely out of breath.

‘Not fair,’ she panted collapsing beside him. ‘Not fair at all, the army’s

made a new man of you.’

He grinned. ‘I believe that’s the general idea.’

She flopped onto her back, chest heaving, feeling the sun-drenched

wooden planks warm against her shoulders. ‘So I suppose it means I won’t get to beat you from now on.’

‘S’pose it does.’

‘What a bugger.’

They spent the next hour being ten again, racing each other to and fro

across the dam – she could equal him in the water – and scrambling up the

steep banks to throw bombshells off the jetty, keeping an eye out for snakes

all the while. Snakes held little fear for them, accustomed as they were to

the many species that abounded, most of which were highly venomous, but

like all the locals they were wary of the Brown snake. Browns were not

timid. They did not shrink from human contact as other snakes did, you

couldn’t shoo them away with a stick. Brown snakes were aggressive, and

to be carefully avoided.

Exhausted at long last they stretched out on the jetty. They didn’t even

bother drying themselves off, but just lay on their backs soaking up the sun.

After ten minutes or so, Kate sat up. She hugged her knees and stared

out at the distant mill, its tangle of buildings towering gothic-like over the

surrounding bushland of the estate and the never-ending cane fields.

‘I’m sorry for stirring up that argument over lunch,’ she said. The matter

had been playing on her mind and she wanted to apologise.

‘What argument are you talking about?’ he asked dozily, eyes closed.

‘Conscription. It was a bit tacky of me, really.’

‘Tacky. In what way?’ He opened his eyes and squinted up at her.

‘Tacky’ wasn’t a word that featured regularly in his vocabulary, nor in the

general lexicon of the Durham household. University speak, he thought.

‘Well, pretty tasteless to talk about “the very principle of war” and the

taking of human life when your brother’s about to go into battle, wouldn’t

you say?’

‘Nup, you were only being you, I’m used to it.’

‘It’s just that Dad –’

‘I know.’ Neil stopped squinting up at her and propped on one elbow.

‘Dad was on his high horse and you wanted to have a go at him like you

always do. Alan and I wonder why you bother.’ He smiled. ‘I must say I

was surprised how quickly you caved in this time. But it was because you

didn’t want to be tacky, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You weren’t, so don’t worry.’ He flopped back on the jetty and closed

his eyes once more.

Kate rolled onto her stomach and studied him thoughtfully. ‘Hey, Neil . .

.?’

‘What now?’ he said, propping again.

‘They give you an option, don’t they? I mean, I know you have to serve

your time in the army, but when you’re called upon for active duty, you

don’t actually have to go, do you?’

His laugh was affectionate. ‘Oh Kate,’ he said, as if she was a child

who’d asked a truly naïve question, ‘a bloke can’t opt out just like that, not

after training with his mates. Sure, they say it’s an option, but we all know

it’s not.’ He could see she was puzzled and he tried to explain. ‘Nashos get

chucked all sorts of shit at training camp, they really put you through the

mill and the blokes form a rock-solid bond. That’s the whole aim of the

exercise and it works, I can tell you. What are you going to say to your

mates when you’re all trained up and they ask you to go to war? See you

later, fellahs, I think I’ll stay behind?’

‘I get the picture,’ she replied.

‘You mustn’t worry about me,’ he said, keen to put her fears at rest, for

he could see that she did worry. ‘I love the army, strange as that may seem

to you, and I think I’ll make a good soldier. Don’t worry on my behalf,

Kate. Please don’t.’

‘I won’t,’ she promised, although she knew she would. What a decent

man my brother is, she thought, what a kind man. Kate felt suddenly and

inexplicably moved. There was such concern in Neil’s eyes. Soft and brown

and caring, they reminded her of her grandfather’s. Like Bartholomew, Neil

was a gentle man. He shouldn’t be going to war, she thought. But then of

course no one should. She would not voice her anti-war sentiments in the

family home again though, she told herself, not even if provoked by her

father. To do so would be disloyal to Neil.

She made her vow out loud and emphatically. ‘I’m not going to let Dad

rile me anymore,’ she declared. But her brother only laughed.

‘That’ll be the day,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to help yourself, I’d bet

my last quid on it. Or should I say dollar,’ he corrected himself. ‘Either way,

I bet you and Dad have at least one big barney before decimal currency

comes in.’

‘You’re on.’ Kate held out her hand, ‘the fourteenth of February it is.’

The government’s advertising jingle had been preparing the country for

months now. ‘Bet you five quid or ten dollars I manage to keep my temper

till then,’ she said. ‘Do you think we’ll end up calling dollars “bucks” like

the Americans do?’ she asked as they shook on the deal.

Neil returned to Enoggera the end of the following week, and Kate

came close to losing the bet barely two days later. So close in fact that she

could hear her brother mocking her. See? she could hear Neil say. Told you.

It started out over breakfast with Alan’s comment about the ongoing

consequences of the Student Action for Aborigines Freedom Ride. He’d

read a recent article in The Australian newspaper and he knew Kate had

been involved.

‘The article said that the Freedom Riders attracted publicity overseas as

well as throughout Australia,’ he said, ‘including the New York Times.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And that as a direct result of the student action the NSW Aborigines

Welfare Board has announced it’s going to spend sixty-five thousand

pounds on housing in Moree.’ Alan was genuinely impressed. ‘Wow, Kate,

a bunch of students pulling off something like that; you’d have to be pretty

proud of yourselves, I reckon.’

‘We certainly are.’ Gratified by her brother’s interest, Kate dived in with

an activist’s zeal. ‘And it’s not before time I can tell you. The housing

conditions are appalling in New South Wales country towns. So is the state

of Aboriginal health and education, not to mention the racism and

discrimination that abounds. Aborigines are treated as a sub-human race.

It’s high time something was done.’

Kate had made a conscious decision not to discuss her activism at home,

feeling that it would only antagonise her father and others of his ilk who

automatically railed against any action taken by those ‘down south’. But

now, having gained Alan’s undivided attention, she couldn’t help herself.

Ignoring her barely touched breakfast she continued enthusiastically.

‘SAFA’s more or less disbanded now, but I’ve joined another student

activist group headed by Charlie Perkins. We intend to campaign for a

national referendum. There are other groups pushing the federal

government too. We need to right the wrongs perpetrated against Aboriginal

people –’

‘A national referendum.’ There was a snort of derision from the head of

the table; Stan had heard quite enough. ‘You’re talking about New South

Wales for God’s sake.’

‘No, I’m not, Dad,’ she countered. ‘Queensland’s as bad as New South

Wales if not worse. Racism’s endemic throughout the whole of rural

Australia.’

‘Not here at Elianne it’s not!’ Stan snarled. He took instant umbrage at

what he perceived to be a personal slur against his character from those

interfering bastards down south. ‘That’s utter bullshit. We’ve always been

good to our blacks here!’

Alan attacked his eggs, regretting the fact that he’d brought up the

subject, and Hilda exchanged a glance with Bartholomew that said ‘here we

go again, another father–daughter slanging match’.

But Kate kept her temper in check. ‘How can you possibly say that?’

she replied coolly. ‘You don’t employ any Aboriginal workers, and you

never have.’

‘Course I don’t,’ her father snapped, ‘why would I? They’re a lazy

bunch of good-for-nothings. You can’t rely on them, Big Jim knew that.’

His daughter’s expression obviously annoyed him further. ‘And don’t you

look at me like that, missy,’ he said knowing how ‘missy’ infuriated her.

‘I’m telling you here and now there’s nothing racist about me – I’m just

talking plain common sense.’

Nothing racist, Kate thought, you’re sailing pretty close to the wind. She

was about to comment on the fact when she heard Neil’s voice. See? Told

you, and knowing any remark she made would invite argument, she

maintained her silence.

Stan waved an accusatory finger at Bartholomew. ‘Father used to hire a

few local blacks now and then, but it always backfired on him. They

wouldn’t turn up or they’d walk off the job. Isn’t that right, Father?’

But Bartholomew continued buttering his toast with meticulous care as

if he hadn’t heard the question, so Stan re-directed his aggression to Kate.

‘I’m not talking about the Abos,’ he said scathingly, ‘I’m talking about

the Kanakas. We’ve never once had a racism problem here. We’ve been

good to our blacks for generations. Why do you think I still employ a half a

dozen or more on the estate? Because they’re part of Elianne, that’s why.

They and their families have been here since the mill first opened.’

Having delivered what he saw as the irrefutable comeback, Stan visibly

relaxed. His daughter’s continued silence convinced him that the debate was

over and that he’d won, and he leant back in his chair embracing his

moment of triumph.

‘Why I remember Big Jim telling me how he fought to help his Kanakas

when so many were sent home in the early part of the century,’ he said

waxing expansive. ‘“It wasn’t fair, Stan,” that’s what he used to say to me,

“those men and their families had been here for years, they were part of the

land. Then the new federal government brings in the White Australia Policy

and what happens? They’re kicked out of the country. No thanks for the

decades of hard work, no thanks for having built this place with the blood

and sweat of their labours.”’

Stan gazed about at his captive audience. ‘Big Jim fought to protect his

Kanakas,’ he said as his eyes came to rest on his daughter. ‘I remember the

exact words he said to me. “The Kanakas of Elianne are like family to us,

Stan, we owe them our loyalty.” That’s what he said. And I’ve honoured

that sentiment ever since.’

Having concluded his speech to his eminent satisfaction, Stan looked

about once again at his audience as if perhaps expecting applause. He was a

little disappointed by the lack of reaction, although his wife obligingly gave

a nod and a small smile by way of recognition.

In the ensuing pause, Kate stood. ‘May I be excused from the table,

please?’ she said, addressing her mother.

Hilda was taken aback. ‘But you’ve hardly touched your breakfast.’

‘I’m not very hungry this morning. I think I’ll go for a walk with the

dogs.’

‘Oh. Very well, dear.’

Kate left. She couldn’t stay in the same room listening to her father rave

on about Big Jim a moment longer. Particularly as everything he said was a

tissue of lies. It hadn’t been that way at all.

 

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