Elianne (4 page)

‘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.’

I
t had become the custom on Christmas Day for Stanley Durham to host an extravagant luncheon for his senior staff and their families. The formal dining room of the Big House seated twenty-four to table with ample space for the addition of a further table near the servery to accommodate the younger children. Despite the heat of midsummer, the fare was traditionally British and, as ceiling fans whirred high overhead, guests feasted on roast turkey, ham, baked vegetables and gravy, followed by hot plum pudding with brandy sauce. The one concession to the Antipodean climate was the inclusion of huge bowls of tropical fruit salad and ice cream, which always went down very well.

The guests were waited on by household staff. The word ‘servant’ was never used in the Durham home, Stan favouring the more egalitarian approach. The cook and the household staff, three in all, were only too happy to work on Christmas Day, given the huge bonuses they received in recognition of their services. Besides, they had the evening off, which they celebrated with their own dinner and festivities in the staff quarters. Hilda was insistent no one remain on duty that night. She would make sandwiches for the family herself.

This Christmas, however, Stan had decided to adopt a different routine. The meal was to be the same and the service the same, but the numbers would be fewer and the company different. This Christmas was to be a more personal occasion.

‘Half of the mill’s senior staff lives in Bundaberg these days, anyway,’ he’d said to Hilda, ‘let’s just keep it to us and the Krantzes, shall we? With Ivan’s move to Bundy it may well be the last Elianne Christmas he and his family will have with us.’

‘Why don’t we ask the Fiorellis too?’ Hilda had replied. ‘They’ve been here even longer than the Krantzes and they’ve never once been invited to Christmas lunch.’

Stan had applauded the idea. ‘An excellent suggestion, my dear,’ he’d said, ‘an excellent suggestion indeed.’

They were thirteen to table. For smaller gatherings such as this, the seating capacity of the formal dining table could be halved upon removal of the specially designed centre section, so with an extra chair added to one side they were comfortably accommodated at a twelve-seater. The guests numbered three Krantzes and four Fiorellis, and there were six Durhams in total, the sixth member of the family being Stan’s father, Bartholomew.

Seventy-four-year-old Bartholomew had had a stroke three years previously, following the unexpected death of his wife from a heart attack. Since that time he had not spoken one word. Whether this was because he was unable to speak, or whether it was because he chose not to, no one really knew, for he’d made a good physical recovery. His movement was slow and measured, but he could adequately tend to his own needs – in fact he preferred to do so, politely eschewing help when it was offered. Bartholomew Durham lived a quiet existence in his quarters on the first level of The Big House, and appeared to have all of his faculties about him. He was certainly capable of communication, he just could not, or perhaps would not, speak.

‘The poor man,’ Hilda said time and again of her father-in-law. ‘Tragic that history should so repeat itself. It was exactly the same with his father; when Grandmother Ellie died, Big Jim just gave up, he couldn’t live without her.’ True to form, Hilda saw epic romantic drama in the situation, and to some degree she was right. The death of Bartholomew’s beloved wife, Mary, had indeed devastated him. It had not, however, robbed him of his life, merely of his speech.

‘Would you like some more ham, Grandpa?’

Seated beside her grandfather, Kate had noticed that, although he’d barely touched the turkey on his plate he had slowly and methodically devoured his ham. The fact did not in the least surprise her. She was aware of her grandfather’s penchant for ham, which he always ate with a liberal serve of hot mustard.

Bartholomew nodded, and she served him another slice from the nearby dish. Christmas luncheon was always a relaxed affair. After the guests had been individually served, fresh platters of meat were carved and set out on the table in order for them to help themselves.

Kate placed the pot of hot mustard in front of her grandfather and as their eyes met he smiled. His smile was lop-sided, his lower lip a little slack as a result of the stroke, but his eyes were beautiful. Kate loved her grandfather’s eyes. A soft, gentle brown in a once-handsome face, they were intelligent, communicative. Bartholomew spoke with his eyes. At least he did to Kate.

She removed the lid of the mustard pot and watched the laborious care with which he served himself. His dexterity reduced as it was, Bartholomew went to great pains to avoid being clumsy, careful never to spill or to drop things. It’s like watching a film in slow motion, Kate thought, but she knew better than to offer any help.

Kate shared a special relationship with her grandfather, particularly since his stroke. She knew that he appreciated her practicality and that he abhorred both pity and sentimentalism. She sensed that he found her mother’s tragic assessment of him galling, and she was quite right, he did. Bartholomew was a modest man. He always had been. Unlike his son Stanley, he did not see himself as ‘larger than life’ and had no desire to be the centre of attention.

Kate found her grandfather’s situation strangely poignant. His daughter-in-law romanticised him to the point of embarrassment, and his son barely recognised his existence. Even before the stroke, Stan the Man had never seemed to have much time for his father, a fact that had always been a source of puzzlement to Kate. They were men of vastly different temperament, certainly, but given Stan’s demands for respect it seemed odd that he showed so little for his own father. Whenever he spoke of the past and the old days of Elianne, as Stan very often did, it was always his grandfather, Big Jim, who featured, not Bartholomew. And yet both Kate and her brothers had heard from any number of sources that Bartholomew Durham had been a clever businessman, one who really knew the sugar industry. It would appear that Bartholomew, quiet and unassuming as he was, had been overshadowed by Big Jim, even in the eyes of his own son.