Elianne (42 page)

They talked pleasantly as they ate, exchanging notes about their respective Christmas and New Year experiences, then Kate rather abruptly changed the conversation. ‘Do you like the theatre, Frank?’

‘Um . . . yes, yes, I do.’ He was a little taken aback by the non sequitur – he’d been telling her about the New Year’s Eve party he’d spent aboard a builder mate’s boat on Sydney Harbour. ‘I don’t go all that often,’ he admitted, ‘in fact I haven’t been once since I shifted back to Sydney, but in Melbourne –’

‘I’m particularly fond of the Old Tote Theatre,’ she said, ‘their productions are excellent. Not that I’m an aficionado on the subject,’ she added. ‘Anyway, I was wondering whether you might like to come along with me one evening.’

Her eyes didn’t waver as they met his, defying him to offer any valid reason why he shouldn’t take her up on the offer.

‘Which particular evening did you have in mind?’ he asked.

You’re hedging, Frank. ‘No particular evening,’ she said. You’re not getting out of it that easily. ‘Any that would suit you. Just name the day.’

As he hesitated she continued to study him unwaveringly. You’re cornered aren’t you? You’re trying to figure a way out. ‘Are you married, Frank?’ she asked.

The baldness of her question startled him. ‘No. No I’m not, why do you ask?’

‘I’m interested to know why you never suggest we go out somewhere together,’ she shrugged, ‘the theatre, a jazz band, a pub, whatever.’ Kate was aware she was being extremely confronting, but she was determined to force an answer from him. ‘When we meet up by chance we get on very well, so why is it that you don’t want to further our friendship?’

Her tactic worked, he stopped being evasive and answered her directly. ‘I don’t believe you’re aware of my background, Kate.’ She offered no hint either way, but waited for him to go on, so he did. ‘My mother was Aboriginal,’ he said. ‘Or rather she was what they used to call “half-caste”,’ he added dryly. ‘Her mother, my grandmother, was a Wiradjuri woman and my grandfather was the foreman on a farm near Wagga Wagga.’

Frank waited for the reaction he was accustomed to receiving upon the revelation that he was black. Surprise and disbelief to start with, then shock and amazement followed by a distinct change in attitude, but once again, she stumped him.

‘I see. And that means we can’t be friends, does it?’

‘Of course it doesn’t,’ he protested. ‘I know that working with Charlie as you do you have many Aboriginal friends. It’s just that . . .’ He started to waver.

‘Frank.’ Kate decided to cut to the chase. ‘I’m not seeking an affair, if that’s what’s worrying you. The last thing I want at this stage in my life is a full-on relationship and I really mean that. But good friends are rare and I like you. I’d like to get to know you. Won’t you let me?’

Frank relaxed and smiled his lazy smile. ‘Of course I will; how could I refuse such an offer?’ I would very much enjoy being friends with you, he thought, frustrating though it may prove. He’d found Kate Durham hugely attractive from the moment he’d first met her, what man wouldn’t, but he’d deliberately kept his distance, knowing they couldn’t have an affair. For all her dedication to the cause, she came from a different world. ‘Friends it is, then,’ he said. ‘So what do you want to know about me? Fire away.’

‘I’d like to know about your mother for starters. What was she like?’

‘No idea, I never knew her, but very beautiful I’m told. At least that’s what Dad says, and from the odd photograph I’ve seen, he’s not lying. They were together for three years. She was ten years younger, and he was madly in love with her, but she wouldn’t marry him.’ Frank grinned. ‘Which makes me a bastard into the bargain,’ he said. But the grin quickly faded as he added, ‘She shot through on the old man when I was eighteen months old and I grew up spending the whole of my life hating her for it, at least until a couple of years ago.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘Charlie Perkins. Meeting Charlie, getting involved in the fight for Aboriginal rights, learning about my mother’s people, finding out who I was. Charlie changed my life.’

Kate nodded. ‘Charlie’s changed the lives of a lot of people,’ she said.

‘He certainly has. But strangely enough he didn’t tell me anything my father hadn’t already told me. It’s just that I refused to believe Dad until I met Charlie.’

Intrigued, she waited for him to continue.

‘My old man did things hard in those early years, bringing up a child on his own,’ Frank explained, ‘but he wouldn’t hear a word against my mother. Not one word. I remember him sitting me down and giving me a lecture when I was about ten and an angry kid. “You mustn’t blame your mum,” he said, “she was restless. She wanted to go back to the bush.” He told me she would never have stayed in the city at all if it hadn’t been for him. “She felt trapped in Sydney,” he said. Dad reckons if he’d gone back to the bush with her they’d still be together, but he’d wanted to start a business, so they stayed. Then one morning he woke up to find her gone. He blamed himself, still does, says he did a bad thing. “I deprived her of her freedom,” he told me. “Your mother’s people they’re a different breed altogether, son, you’ve got to understand that.” But I couldn’t understand it; I refused to understand it. I spent most of my life in denial, living as a white man, not interested in anything to do with the blackfella part of me. That is until Charlie came along.’

Frank laughed fondly at the memory. ‘When we first met I told Charlie about Dad and what he’d told me and Charlie simply said, “Your old man’s spot on, mate.” Then he told me to go and find out for myself. So I did.’

‘You went in search of your mother?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did you find her?’

He shook his head. ‘She’d been dead for eight years – usual blackfella causes, diabetes, renal failure. Barely made it to fifty. But I met a lot of her mob. Some of them sadly were lost souls, probably like my mother since she hooked up with the wrong bloke, and some were living full and happy lives. They welcomed me into their extended family once they knew I was Wiradjuri. I learned such a lot, Kate, more than I could possibly tell you. I have only one regret. I should have learned it sooner. I should have learned it much, much sooner.’

‘Forgive the cliché, but better late than never, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I most certainly would.’ He drained the last of his coffee. ‘So now that you know all about me, when do we go to the theatre?’

‘Next Friday.’

‘What’s on?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said collecting up the refuse that sat beside her on the bench. ‘I’ll have to check it out.’

They put their rubbish in a nearby bin and left the park.

It was late March when Alan finally rang his sister. He’d had the diaries for almost three months. He’d read through Kate’s translations twice, very slowly, and he’d compared the dates in the ledgers and read the bits and pieces here and there that his schoolboy French could grasp, hearing as Kate had the voice of his great-grandmother. Then he’d thought for a further fortnight about the diaries’ revelations and the havoc they would wreak upon the family before making the phone call.

‘Bloody hell,’ were the first words he said. ‘You weren’t wrong.’

‘Yep.’ No need to ask what he was talking about. ‘You can see why I’ve been in such a quandary. We have to talk, Al. I’ll come up to Brisbane during the one-week term break in May and we’ll discuss what to do.’

‘Don’t bother coming up,’ he said, ‘there’s no point.’

‘No point!’ She was taken aback. ‘But we have to make a decision about whether we tell the family. We have to –’

‘There’s only one decision we can make, Kate,’ he said. ‘I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, believe me. They have to know the truth whether they like it or not, every single sordid detail. They have to read the diaries for themselves.’

‘Oh God, do you really think so?’ Even as she voiced the question, Kate knew he was right.

‘I don’t think so, I know so,’ he said. ‘They can’t keep living this lie the way they do, it’s ridiculous. Dad’s modelled himself on Big Jim the hero and Mum lives out the past like it’s a romance novel – the whole thing’s wrong.’

‘Poor Marmee,’ Kate said, ‘the truth’ll probably kill her.’

‘No it won’t,’ the reply came briskly down the line. ‘Mum’ll invent some other romantic slant, Ellie the martyr or whatever. The truth’s far more likely to kill Dad.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I know.’

‘We might as well leave it until Christmas, when we can front them together. They’ve been living in ignorance the whole of their lives, can’t do any harm to leave things a bit longer.’

‘Good idea,’ Kate said, grateful for her brother’s support. ‘We don’t need to tell Grandpa though, do we? That is,’ she added regretfully, ‘if he’s still with us at Christmas.’

‘Not if you don’t want to. Although it’s quite possible Grandpa might know, Kate. Ever think about that?’

‘Yes, I’ve thought about it a lot, but something tells me he doesn’t, and if that’s the case, I don’t want to disillusion him at the end of his life.’

‘Fair enough.’

Much as she dreaded the prospect of confronting her parents with the truth Kate felt immensely relieved that the decision had at last been taken out of her hands.

‘Thanks, Al,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Several months later, Neil rang to say goodbye.

‘I’m off in a couple of weeks, Kate,’ he said as if he was leaving on holiday, ‘just called to say cheerio.’ He’d been telephoning her regularly as he’d promised he would and they’d always spoken in their customary light-hearted vein. This time was to prove no different. There was no acknowledgement of the danger he faced, and Kate played things his way, aware that he wanted no drama.

‘Keep working hard,’ he said just before he hung up, ‘we’re all very proud of you, Kate. I expect no less than a pass with honours in this final year.’

‘And I expect you to write regularly,’ she said, deliberately sounding like a schoolmistress, ‘if not each week, then at least on a fortnightly basis.’

‘Don’t I always?’ he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice. Then she could hear the seriousness as he added, ‘You’re the one person I really do write to, Kate, the one person who doesn’t get the duty letters. I find it a great comfort, confiding in you the way I know I can.’

Glad that the conversation was ending on a serious note, Kate took the plunge. ‘I love you, Neil,’ she said.

‘Love you too, Sis, always have, always will. Bye.’

No one was sure exactly how the rumour started, although in actual fact it had been young Beth, the typist at Elianne’s office, where Paola served as receptionist behind the front desk. Beth had seen the ring on the chain about Paola’s neck one day in the ladies’ toilet. The ring and its crucifix companion had inadvertently swung into view through the open neck of Paola’s blouse as she’d leant over the washbasin.

Beth had ooh-ed and ah-ed and Paola had blushed and denied any special significance as she’d tucked the ring away out of sight, but Beth wasn’t stupid. Beth could add up two and two. Beth knew Paola was going out with Alan Durham, and she couldn’t wait to tell her friends.

At first it had been no more than supposition and girlish gossip passed around among young women who shared a penchant for romance. But as rumours tend to do, it swiftly took on more substantial proportions, until one day . . .

‘G’day, Stan. I believe congratulations are in order.’

Stan had been on his way up to the mill when he’d bumped into Garry Gregg coming out of the mess hall near the cookhouse. Garry was Elianne’s Sugar Boiler and an expert at his trade, as was essential. It was Garry’s job to tend the giant vats, maintaining the correct pressure and temperature. He would taste the sugar in its liquid state, testing it for purity, and then make adjustments where necessary. Responsible as he was for the very quality of the product, Garry Gregg was without doubt one of the mill’s most important employees and therefore on easy terms with Stan.

‘Congratulations about what?’ Stan asked as the two men walked on together towards the mill where, from the chimney, smoke belched unrelentingly into the air. Garry was returning to work after his brief morning-tea break.

‘Young Alan’s engagement of course. I’ve heard it’s now official with a ring and all the trimmings.’ Like many, Garry had been surprised to hear that Stanley Durham was allowing his son to marry the daughter of an employee and a Catholic one at that, but he was nonetheless pleased. ‘And keeping it in the Elianne family, Stan, that’s really good news. She’s a lovely girl, Paola, I’m sure they’ll be very happy.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Stan growled, he couldn’t trust himself to say anything more, ‘yes, yes.’ If Garry Gregg knew then the whole damn mill knew. It would appear he was the only one who’d been kept in the dark. What the bloody hell was Luigi up to, allowing this nonsense?

He left Garry without another word and stormed off across the railway track towards the office fifty metres or so from the mill, halting briefly as he passed the sugar shed.

‘Get Luigi Fiorelli,’ he barked at one of the workers. ‘Tell him I want to see him in my office, and tell him I mean right now!’

‘Yes, Boss.’ Young Andy sprinted for the mill; you jumped to it quick smart when the Boss was in one of his moods.

Inside the massive steel maze the noise was overwhelming, as Goliath-like machines went about their tasks chopping and crushing and mashing with demonic persistence. Giant wheels and rollers and presses seemed set in perpetual motion, rhythmic and relentless like the inside workings of a colossal watch.

Luigi was on one of the upper levels, overseeing the activity below.

‘Hey, Luigi!’ Andy screamed at the top of his lungs in an attempt to be heard above the din. ‘Hey, Luigi!’ He waved as he screamed, ‘The Boss wants you!’

Luigi saw rather than heard young Andy. What on earth was the boy doing without a tin hat? The wearing of tin hats was mandatory at all times in the mill – Luigi himself had made it a rule. He climbed down the steep steps, bent on admonishing Andy.

‘Why you have no tin hat?’ he demanded at the top of his voice, stabbing a finger repeatedly at the boy’s head. During the crushing season, Luigi communicated a great deal by mime; he found gestures most effective.