Elianne (47 page)

‘Really?’ Bartholomew found Kate’s own intimacy charming, that she should refer to the great-grandmother, whom she had known only briefly as a very old woman when she herself was a very young child, as ‘Ellie’, the way she would a contemporary or a friend. The diaries had clearly had a strong effect upon her. ‘I am surprised that my mother should so risk retribution at the hands of Big Jim. He would not like to be written of intimately, and he could be a very harsh man.’

‘She wrote in French,’ Kate said.

Bartholomew heard himself laugh, no more than a throaty chuckle that threatened to become a cough, but how long had it been since he’d laughed, he wondered. ‘How very like Mother,’ he said, ‘she was so clever.’

‘She felt it was you who suffered at the hands of Big Jim, Grandpa. She thought your father was cruel to you.’

‘He was, indeed he was, but he had his reasons. He saw me as the runt of the litter, and he was quite right. I never had the strength or the stamina of my brothers, certainly not as a child.’

‘It must have been very hurtful. Surely you must have grown up hating your father for so openly displaying his favouritism?’

‘No, Kate, not at all. Big Jim’s bias towards my brothers only provided me with an even greater love from my mother. I was the lucky one.’

‘So you were her favourite.’

Bartholomew shook his head. He was tired. He’d forgotten how exhausting talking could be. ‘No, I don’t think so, she was just being protective. But it was her love most certainly that made me strong.’ Reflecting upon his mother, he smiled fondly. ‘She was a person of great strength herself. My father would not have survived the deaths of his sons without my mother’s love, Kate, and yet she had love to spare also for me. Ellie had love for us all. She was the true strength of the Durham family.’

You’re right, Kate thought, Ellie was indeed the strength of the Durham family. But you don’t know the truth, Grandpa. You know only the lies Ellie wished you to believe, the lies she invented for your own protection.

‘I’ve exhausted you, haven’t I?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied, closing his eyes and giving her hand another light squeeze, ‘but in the nicest of ways. Do wake me, my dear, when the tea gets here.’

Bartholomew died five days later and another family funeral took place at Christ Church the following week. Alan drove up from Brisbane and Julia flew out from Canada.

‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ Julia demanded of her brother when she learnt that their father had been lingering on the brink of death for some time.

‘Dad wouldn’t let me,’ Stan barked back, annoyed. ‘He wrote a note saying under no circumstances were you to be informed. He didn’t want you leaving your family to rush to his bedside. Christ alive, I told him you’d come home for the funeral anyway so what difference would it make, but he refused to listen. You know what a stubborn bastard he could be when he felt like it.’

There was a large and impressive turnout at the funeral, members of Bundaberg’s oldest families, the business elite, and representatives from every area of the local sugar industry. The attendance was not only a tribute to the social standing of the Durham family, but a personal testament to the respect accorded Bartholomew over the years.

At the wake which followed, again upon Hilda’s insistence, Kate gave Julia her father’s message.

‘He said that you were all he could have wished for in a daughter, Julia. Those were his exact words.’

Her aunt made no attempt to mask her tears. ‘The wily old bugger,’ she said, ‘he could speak. He could actually speak.’

‘Yes, and he said to tell you he loved you very much.’

‘Oh damn,’ delving in her handbag, Julia came up with a handful of tissues, ‘there goes the mascara.’

Alan had arrived home, his car packed with his belongings and the day after the funeral he announced he was not returning to Brisbane.

‘I’ve chucked in my apprenticeship at Evans Deakin and I’ve chucked in the Diploma course,’ he said over breakfast, ‘I’m back to stay.’

Kate and Hilda both glanced at Stan, waiting for the fireworks they presumed would follow, but after a long and suspenseful pause, his reaction came as a total surprise.

‘Good for you, son,’ he said a little stiffly, ‘you’re doing the right thing. I’m proud of you.’ Stan the Man appeared uncharacteristically at a loss for words, but in truth he was having trouble expressing himself without betraying emotion. Alan was coming home to assume his brother’s responsibilities and take up the position that was now rightfully his. Bugger the apprenticeship indeed, Stan thought, and bugger the Diploma, the boy was doing his duty. This was just as things should be.

He cleared his throat. ‘I was a little hurtful last time you were home, Alan,’ he said awkwardly, ‘grief makes a man say things he shouldn’t . . .’

Good God, Alan thought, don’t tell me the old man’s actually apologising!

That, however, was as close to an apology as Stan was prepared to go. ‘But we can put any unpleasantness behind us now, son,’ he continued. ‘You and I will make a good team. Elianne will be in safe hands with us at the helm . . .’

Oh no, he’s making a speech. Alan’s mind went into overdrive. He thinks I’m going to replace Neil as heir to the throne. Oh no, Dad, no, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick altogether.

‘Actually I won’t be going into management, Dad.’ He dived in quickly, trying to sound casual, but knowing he had to set things straight right from the start. ‘I aim to open up an engineering workshop in Bundaberg.’

Stan stared uncomprehendingly at his son. What on earth was the boy talking about?

‘I have tremendous plans,’ Alan went on enthusiastically, ‘and I’ll be much more use to Elianne this way, I can promise you. You don’t need me to manage the place, that’s not what I’m good at and the Krantzes handle the business side of things anyway. Honestly, Dad, with the plans I have Elianne can become the most efficient, productive, cost-effective mill in the region.’

‘The breakfast table is hardly an appropriate place to discuss business,’ Stan said coldly, and he stood. ‘I suggest we adjourn to my study.’

‘But your eggs, Stanley,’ Hilda protested, ‘you’ve hardly touched your eggs.’

Her husband made no reply, however, marching off without a word, and as Alan followed he shrugged an apology to his mother.

Once in his study, Stan settled himself behind the large mahogany desk he’d had specially imported twenty years previously and demanded a full explanation of his son.

‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about these grandiose plans that are of such proportion you would relinquish your duty and your status as manager of Elianne.’

Sitting in the hardback chair feeling as if he was at a job interview, Alan ignored his father’s sarcasm. ‘I aim to concentrate on chopper harvesters, Dad,’ he said. ‘As we both know they’ve been around for a few years, but they’ve yet to replace whole-stalk harvesters in this region. They need to be adapted to the local conditions and this requires quite a deal of expertise . . .’

Stan said nothing. He wasn’t particularly interested, recalling that the original disadvantage of chopper harvesters as opposed to the whole-stalk design had been the deterioration of the cane caused by bacterial infection through the cut ends of the billets. The problem had eventually been rectified by controlling the length of the cane to produce longer billets, and also by ensuring speedier delivery to the mill, but Stan had nonetheless avoided the change to chopper harvesters. They seemed to spell trouble.

Alan presumed from the silence that his father was waiting for him to go on, and he did so eagerly. He’d spent every spare moment at his disposal over the past two years researching and studying the revolutionary chopper harvester design.

‘There’s no denying the chopper will change the industry and radically increase production as it already has in the north,’ he continued, ‘but it’s a far more complex piece of machinery than the whole-stick harvester. It requires a great deal more adaptation to suit our local conditions. The Bundaberg mills and cane growers want the chopper, Dad, but it has to be modified and streamlined to work efficiently –’

‘And that’s where you and your engineering workshop come in, I take it,’ Stan finally interrupted. He didn’t like being lectured about the business he knew so well, although he had to admit he was a little in the dark when it came to chopper harvesters.

‘Yes, that’s exactly where I come in. I’ve already bought several second-hand lathes, they’re being delivered next week, and I’ve lined up an ideal workshop location in East Bundaberg on the corner of Quay and Kendall Streets.’

Alan, normally so attuned, and indeed accustomed, to his father’s displeasure, didn’t notice the tell-tale signs as he carried on earnestly.

‘So you see, Dad, I’ll be able to make modifications for Elianne. You get the choppers and I’ll adapt them. You can be one of my very first customers. We’ll lead the market in a successful changeover from long-stalk to chopper harvester. What do you say?’

‘I say, who the hell do you think will pay for all this? I presume you expect me to foot the bill? That’s it, isn’t it? I’m to fund your enterprise while you shirk your filial responsibilities.’

Alan finally registered his father’s disapproval. But his father didn’t understand. ‘No, no Dad, that’s not it at all,’ he said hastily, ‘I already have the finance. Enough to get myself set up anyway: I have investors.’

‘Oh? And who exactly would these investors be?’

‘A number of local cane growers who are keen to make the changeover,’ Alan replied a little warily. He knew his father would be none too happy to discover who, but what the hell he thought, it was only a matter of time before word got around. ‘The Fiorelli brothers actually.’

Stan’s burgeoning anger turned to sheer outrage. ‘You’re abandoning your family and your duty in order to ally yourself with Luigi and his brothers!’

Oh God, here we go, Alan thought, the full histrionics, I should have seen it coming. ‘Luigi doesn’t even know, Dad,’ he said patiently, ‘the arrangement is strictly between the brothers and me. They’ll have a share in the business when it takes off, and we all agree it’s bound to, in fact Tofts have already expressed interest in the regular supply of sprockets and adaptations for various chopper designs –’

‘You ungrateful young bastard, this is nothing short of betrayal!’

‘No it’s not. It’s common sense. As I said before, I’ll be of far greater use to Elianne with my own business than I would –’

‘You’ll be of no use to Elianne whatsoever,’ Stan rose angrily to his feet, ‘and don’t think you’re going to live here while all this is going on! Don’t think for one minute you’re going to live here!’

‘I won’t actually, Dad,’ Alan said as if politely declining an invitation. ‘There’s a flat above the workshop, so it’ll be easier if I stay in Bundy. Saving on travel time will give me more daily work hours.’ He stood. ‘Now if it’s all right with you, I’ll go back and finish my breakfast.’

Burning with impotent rage, Stan watched as his son walked out of the study, gently closing the door behind him. Alan’s implacability had always managed to infuriate. The boy did it on purpose of course.

Kate’s application for PhD scholarship funding proved successful. It was hardly surprising. A company like Vesteys was only too keen to acquire the services of a talented young honours graduate eager to specialise in livestock. She returned to Sydney in early April to take up a laboratory position conducting research for Vesteys, while embarking upon her PhD thesis at Sydney University.

‘Welcome back.’

She’d rung Frank shortly after her arrival, and they’d arranged to meet in the park on Saturday. Saturday lunches in the park, dependent upon the weather, had become quite a fixture the previous year.

‘How’s everyone coping at home?’ he asked sympathetically when they’d bought their ham and salad rolls and coffee and were settled on their usual bench. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since her brother’s death over four months earlier.

‘So-so,’ she said with a shrug, ‘Mum’s better than Dad, but . . .’ Another shrug.

‘And how are you coping?’ He was concerned. She looked tired and under some strain, which he supposed was understandable.

‘I’m fine.’ She took a healthy bite of her bread roll as if to prove she was, and Frank, assuming she didn’t want to talk about the situation at home, changed the subject.

‘Great about your PhD scholarship,’ he said, she’d told him the news over the phone, ‘you must be really pleased.’

She nodded a ‘yes’ with her mouth full of food and he started on his own ham and salad roll after which they lapsed into a companionable silence, chomping away together.

‘What an irony,’ he said after a while, ‘that Vesteys should prove your champion. I mean you of all people.’

‘Why me of all people?’

‘Your commitment to the cause,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee, ‘you and Vesteys are pretty strange bedfellows, you have to agree.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh,’ he could see she was puzzled, ‘sorry, I presumed you knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘About Vesteys and the Gurindji Strike . . .’ She looked at him blankly and he went on to explain. ‘In 1966 two hundred Gurindji stockmen and house servants together with their families walked off the Wave Hill Cattle Station, one of Vesteys’ properties in the Northern Territory. They settled at a sacred site near Wattie Creek not far away and they’ve been there ever since, over two and half years now. You haven’t heard of this?’

‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘no I haven’t.’

‘The strike was originally presumed to be about conditions,’ he continued. ‘Vesteys are notorious for denying their Aboriginal labour even the most basic of human rights, but the campaign is really far bigger than that. The Gurindji are after the return of their land, or at least part of it, and rightly so. Vesteys, like most of the big northern pastoralists, have deprived the local people of their hunting grounds and traditional way of life, leaving them no alternative but to accept work on the cattle stations, where they serve as cheap labour. The Gurindji have a particularly strong case in this instance. They petitioned the Governor General in 1967 and their claim was rejected, but they don’t intend to give up. And nor should they.’