Elianne (29 page)

‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

A further chant rang out and again it was picked up by the masses to be repeated over and over like a mantra.

‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

Then the scene ignited as hundreds of protestors surged forwards in an attempt to break through the barrier and the cordon of police. They were held back, but not for long, the sheer force of their numbers proving too powerful. Suddenly the barriers were broken and a number of university students raced out into the street, throwing themselves down in front of the president’s car, forcing the motorcade to a halt.

Chaos ensued. American Secret Service men rushed to form a wall around the car; horses following the vehicle reared, their riders struggling to maintain control; police raced forwards and dragged the students bodily across the asphalt, clearing a path for the motorcade to continue. The activists did not fight back, choosing to employ a different delay tactic that was less dangerous and far more effective than resistance. As each student was dragged away another simply took his or her place, egged on by the constant chant of fellow protestors.

‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

‘Johnson – murderer! Johnson – murderer!’

Before long before the police and security teams had the situation under control and the motorcade was able to continue on its way, but the plan for a brief welcoming halt at Hyde Park and a leisurely procession through the city streets had now been well and truly abandoned. The president, the prime minister, the premier and the rest of the official party were to be transported along the planned route to the Art Gallery with as much haste as was humanly possible.

‘Come on, Kate,’ Jeremy urged, ‘we’ve got to beat them to it.’

He started racing off through the park and Kate joined him, matching his pace. Jeremy had been among the first to fling himself down in front of the president’s car, Kate quickly following suit, but both had easily escaped the clutches of the police who’d dragged them out of the way, as had most of the other protestors. Amidst the bedlam the police had been frantically intent upon clearing the roadway to allow access for the motorcade. There’d been no time to make on-the-spot arrests.

From the outset, the students’ idea had been to cut through the park and arrive at the Art Gallery before the official party, thereby allowing opportunity for a further concerted protest, and already demonstrators were racing on ahead.

Kate and Jeremy, sprinting at top speed, overtook many and were with the first dozen or so to arrive. Others soon joined them. They too had moved fast and were well ahead of the motorcade, despite its speedy journey through the city streets.

American flags had been hoisted from the many flagpoles of the New South Wales Art Gallery, and a cheer went up as the demonstrators managed, one by one, to haul them down. By the time the motorcade arrived, a single flag only remained.

Accompanied by the chants and jeers of protestors, the members of the official party were hastily whisked from their limousines and into the art gallery. The entire exercise had been a public relations disaster. This was not at all the warm welcome intended by the Holt government; nor was it the reception the Americans had expected from their staunch ally. The demonstration had proved an immense success.

The full measure of its success became evident in the media coverage that followed. Some of the local reportage was condemnatory, accusing the demonstrators of ruining the day for schoolchildren who hadn’t even noticed the president speed by. How heartless, they said. But the true impact resonated far and wide, the message broadcast on television screens and splashed across the front pages of newspapers around the globe. There were clearly many Australians who were not ‘all the way with LBJ’.

‘I think we made our point,’ Jeremy said smugly and in a huge understatement. ‘Well done, everybody.’

The students assembled at the Empress raised their glasses and cheered, Kate as loudly as any present. Despite her recent reservations about Jeremy, she supported the protest action on every possible level. If a demonstration of such magnitude could help put a stop to Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War then she was proud to have played her part. Besides, the sooner her brother came home the better.

Kate missed Neil that Christmas when she returned to Elianne. The two had always been close, as had all three of the Durham siblings, but the letters she’d received from her older brother over the past several months had introduced a new level of intimacy.

There’s so much I’d like to share with you, Kate
, he’d written on one occasion. As a rule, he wrote chattily and often with humour, avoiding any talk of the war, but this time he’d closed on a distinctly serious note.

. . . so much I long to talk about and can’t with my mates over here. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a really beaut bunch of blokes – you couldn’t get better – but in this particular instance they don’t understand. I suppose I feel the need to unburden myself to a woman, which of course makes me the ‘softie of the family’ that you always said I was, but I don’t care. I’d love to pour a whole lot of things out to you, but I’m unable to in a letter, the army being the way it is. I know I sound enigmatic – sorry, don’t mean to, but the simple fact is I miss you . . .

Several other letters had contained similarly veiled references to something he couldn’t write about and Kate started to suspect that it might be a woman. Is he having an affair? she wondered, on active duty, in the middle of a war? If so, how extraordinary.

The latest letter, addressed to her at Elianne and arriving in mid-January, had concluded even more enigmatically. After regaling her with the raucous Christmas Eve he and his mates had spent in Vûng Tàu and the endless toasts to family and friends back home, which he vaguely recalled had reduced them all to drunken tears, he’d once again ended on a serious note.

I have a secret I need to entrust you with, Kate, and a favour I need to ask of you. As before I can’t write of it, and I’m sure by now these cryptic references to ‘something afoot’ have become thoroughly irritating, but my tour of duty will be over in July and I promise all will become known then. I won’t go home to Elianne on my return to Australia: I’ll come directly to Sydney and we’ll talk.

In the meantime, a Happy New Year to you, Sis. I hope 1967 proves everything you wish it to be, particularly the outcome of the referendum. I know how strongly you’ve been fighting for Aboriginal rights and I admire your devotion to the cause, just as I admire everything about you.

My love always,

Neil

Far from finding the mystery her brother hinted at irritating, Kate was intrigued. If anything his cryptic references were helpful, distracting her as they did, just a little, from the daily worry for his safety.

‘I get the feeling you’re not too happy about Tech, Al. Am I right?’

‘My oath you are, but Dad’s dug his heels in so there’s not much I can do about it. I wish he’d just let me get on with my apprenticeship – I don’t need a bloody diploma!’

Kate smiled sympathetically. Such vehemence was rare in Alan, and she was aware of his frustration. ‘You probably know as much as the teachers do anyway,’ she said, but it appeared there was no humouring him. He just scowled darkly and gazed out at The Basin, where Paola and Georgio were splashing about in the shallows alongside the families and their children.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon and the four had driven to Bargara, Alan at the wheel – he’d had his licence for a long time now and revelled in the freedom it afforded him. This would be their last opportunity to spend time at the beach together before Alan’s departure in two days. Having matriculated the previous year, he was to take up his apprenticeship in Brisbane as a fitter and turner, but his father had insisted he simultaneously undertake a Diploma course in mechanical engineering at the Technical College. Stan the Man considered it only proper that as a Durham his youngest son should have a qualification that set him above the average mechanic. Alan himself couldn’t have cared less.

‘Look at them dog-paddling, will you? Georgio’s nearly as lousy a swimmer as Paola,’ he now said in a bid to make amends, aware that his manner had been unnecessarily surly. ‘Mind you the kid makes up for it at footie: by crikey, he can kick!’

Kate followed the direction of her brother’s gaze, but Alan was not looking at Georgio. His eyes were unashamedly fixed upon Paola, which was hardly a surprise. Kate had sensed from the moment she’d arrived home that their relationship was stronger than ever.

‘You’ll miss her, won’t you?’ She expected the directness of her question to be met with a careless shrug or some attempt at nonchalance, but as he turned back to her the candour of his reply took her completely by surprise.

‘Of course I will. I always do. But we’re used to it now, both of us. And I’ll be back.’

How incredibly assured he is, she thought. He’s become a man and a confident one at that. Her brother’s body had broadened certainly, and his face had lost its boyishness to take on the brooding Durham look, but it was his manner that most impressed. Alan was mature far beyond his seventeen years.

‘I love her, Kate,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one I’ll tell, because I know I can trust you. I love her and she loves me.’ Although he hadn’t planned upon making any form of declaration, Alan found that he enjoyed saying the words out loud. ‘Mum and Dad . . . Luigi and Maria . . . they all think that my going to Tech will somehow change things, or that Paola will meet someone else while I’m away. But nothing will change. We’ve made our plans. We’re going to wait until we’re eighteen and then we’re going to tell them we want to get engaged. We won’t marry until after I’ve finished my apprenticeship and gained my Diploma, but Paola and I will be together. Nothing will stop us.’

For Alan it was quite a speech, but as usual he was succinct and to the point. Alan never minced words. He awaited her response.

Kate could have stated the obvious. She could have warned him that all hell was bound to break loose, but she didn’t. Why bother? He already knew. ‘I’m happy for you Al,’ she said. ‘I’m happy for you both.’ She smiled. ‘And I have to admit, just a little envious.’ She was, she realised. She’d never experienced the depth of feeling these two shared. She didn’t love Jeremy; she never had.

‘It’s good to have an ally, I must say.’ He grinned, his face reverting to its former boyishness, and she resisted the urge to hug him, jumping to her feet instead.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’m boiling. Let’s join the dog-paddlers.’

Before her trip home for Christmas, Kate had again contemplated sharing the secret of Ellie’s diaries with Alan. After almost two years, she had nearly finished translating the ledgers, there was just one more to go, and throughout the entire process she had relived every moment of their revelations. She welcomed the prospect of sharing the burden. But the timing was wrong, she’d decided. Alan’s life was about to undergo a radical change; he didn’t need the added pressure.

Perhaps she’d tell Neil when his tour of duty was over and he returned in July. She always said ‘when’ not ‘if’ to herself, by way of affirmation that Neil really would come home. Yes, that’s the best plan, she thought. By then she’d have finished the translation and he could read the diaries for himself. And he was now capable of handling the truth. Far from being the family ‘softie’ as she’d jokingly accused him it was quite clear the army had strengthened him immeasurably.

The following day a farewell luncheon had been planned for Alan along traditional family lines, complete with champagne, at Hilda’s insistence. ‘I refuse to toast my son’s future with a glass of beer,’ she’d announced when Stan had said he’d prefer to stick to Four X.

Ivan’s son, Henry, was to be present as representative of the Krantz family. ‘Mum and Dad are in Melbourne,’ he’d told Hilda when she’d rung to invite them, ‘Dad has a series of meetings with investors and Mum likes to head south whenever she can during the summer.’

Stan had harrumphed at the news and the fact that no apology had been offered. There had been a time when Ivan Krantz would have jumped to any required height upon the merest click of his good friend Stanley Durham’s fingers, but those days were clearly over. Stan felt like telling young Henry not to bother turning up, but he didn’t. Ivan remained a close friend, and far too much investment was at stake to risk a parting of the ways. Elianne was reliant upon Krantz & Son.

Alan had wanted to invite the Fiorellis as well, but his mother and father had suggested they keep the lunch strictly a family affair.

‘It’s easier on Cook, darling,’ Hilda had said mildly. ‘Four more guests entails a great deal of extra work.’

He didn’t bother countering with a query about the Krantzes’ invitation. And since when had the number of guests worried Cook, whose favourite saying had always been ‘the more the merrier’? The reason behind the Fiorellis’ exclusion was all too pathetically obvious, but it didn’t matter anyway: he’d already arranged to take Paola for a drive in the late afternoon. They’d make their own farewells in private, which was vastly preferable.

With only six to table they dined casually in the breakfast room, although Cook and Ivy had gone to great pains to create a celebratory atmosphere, laying out one of the heavier lace tablecloths, the best silverware and the cut crystal champagne flutes.

‘You’re at the other end, son,’ Stan said peremptorily as he seated himself in his customary chair at the head of the table.

Alan dutifully took up his position while Hilda and Kate sat either side of Stan as was expected, leaving the other two chairs for Bartholomew and Henry. Being a sign of pecking order, seating was always important to Stanley Durham, and most particularly today. Under no circumstances would he have young Henry Krantz placed at the foot of the table, a position that would have been reserved for his father had Ivan been present. Henry was an uppity little prick with tickets on himself.