by John Bishop
What Lies Buried
by
John Bishop
Copyright 2012 John Bishop
Cover by Joleene Naylor
Cover photo by John Bishop
ISBN for DG ebook 978-0-9872983-0-0
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CONTENTS
Part One: Inheritance
Part Two: Secrets
Part Three: Exile
Part Four: Probing the Past
Part Five: Life Goes On
Part Six: Aunt May, Old Men, and Sunbury Races
Part Seven: Eve of a Funeral
Part Eight: Growing Pains
Part Nine: Reaching Bedrock
Epilogue: Escape from Dachau
BLAKE FAMILY TREE
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PART ONE
INHERITANCE
Caroline
Saturday 8th September 1990
Caroline Blake had lived with an expectation of the day the call would come to say her father was dead. She had imagined herself hearing the news with equanimity, thanking the caller, saying she would not be attending the funeral and that her stepmother, Rachel, and half-sister, Judith, were free to make whatever arrangements they wished. Instead, she found herself asking the solicitor for details and agreeing to Judith’s plans. She hadn’t realised she was still a beneficiary of the estate until the solicitor, Gilbert Ross, told her so. He said he would fax to her a copy of the will and a personal letter written by her father. Given her long-standing resistance to family contact, it would be possible for her to believe the sole purpose of planning a five hour trip to Arajinna was to start negotiations for an early sale of the family property. The unexpected but much needed inheritance and a feeling of release from the past were insufficient reasons to expose herself to the uncertainties of such a visit. Face to face consultation with Judith was not legally required. Nevertheless, she felt an urge to go. Perhaps it was her parliamentary conditioning, the advice of her first political mentor: if you think there might be trouble, be there.
It took her considerable discipline to switch her mind back to immediate commitments. She was to be guest speaker at a dinner that evening. Fortunately, she’d decided not to take a companion, and nobody there need be told about Walter Blake’s death. As usual, she was well prepared. She would not require notes.
She had barely finished showering when she heard the fax machine come to life in her study. It would be better to ignore it for now, but her curiosity was compelling.
FAX TO: SENATOR CAROLINE BLAKE
FROM: DUNCAN ROSS AND SONS
DATE: 8TH SEPTEMBER 1990
Dear Senator Blake,
As requested during our telephone discussion, I am faxing you a copy of the document I believe to be your father’s Last Will and Testament. I am also faxing the letter he deposited with me at the time he executed the will. Other parties have the legal right to challenge the provisions, particularly if in possession of later documentation. I have no reason to believe this is likely and recommend that the executors specified in the attached will, namely you and Judith Blake, should proceed to apply for probate. In the meantime, it is entirely proper for you to agree the details of the funeral and, in this regard, I acknowledge your instructions confirming the suggested arrangements.
I will hold myself ready to meet with you and answer any legal queries about the will.
I look forward to seeing you on Wednesday and conveying, in person, my sympathy on your loss.
Yours sincerely
Gilbert Ross
Banabrook
18th December 1978
Dear Caroline,
I pray you will never read this letter because it will not be put into your hands unless I am dead and you never returned to Banabrook. Realistically, after more than 20 years, I should accept the inevitable. But I still have hope; even though you have made it clear I should not.
Because you have led a public life over the last decade, I have been able to appreciate some of your doings and to be proud of your achievements. Knowing you have made a success of your life, and that you are independently well off, has made me comfortable about making changes to my will.
Our ancestor, Alfred, who built Banabrook in 1840, tried to provide that the property would never be split and would pass through the line of eldest sons or, where no son existed, the eldest daughter. The family solicitor, Gilbert Ross, has informed me that Alfred’s long-term wishes have no legal significance, although his son, Alured, did tie up the ownership of an art collection by a neat legal device. Alfred and Alured, as creators of our family’s wealth, obviously believed in trying to control its use by succeeding generations. I do not, but I share Alfred’s hope that the property will stay in the family undivided. Until now, I had provided for the estate to devolve to you as the oldest daughter, after the payment of legacies to Rachel and Judith. I now feel this is unfair to Judith and, in any case, Gilbert believes she could mount a successful challenge if she had a mind to. So, whilst not constraining you legally, I have revised the provisions. Subject to Rachel being cared for and supported, you and Judith will inherit my entire estate in equal shares. This means the two of you will have to decide the future of Banabrook. Gilbert says the way we have framed the will makes almost anything possible, including selling the property and splitting the proceeds, which he says would be the simplest course if the beneficiaries cannot agree on a plan to keep it in the family. I pray it won't come to that.
It is clear your anger has not abated. I trust my death will render it of no further consequence and that you and Judith will be reunited. She was in nappies when you left us and, as I write this, she is not yet twenty-one. What you tell her about the past will be entirely up to you. Whatever happens, however, I hope you will decide to keep Banabrook in the family.
You are often in my thoughts.
Your loving father,
W.M.Blake.
She did not have time to read the will, but the letter told her all she needed to know. After thirty years, her father’s handwriting had an unexpected effect—a niggling reminder of emotions she had long suppressed. Perhaps going to Banabrook was not a good idea; there would be other reminders of the past. As for sharing the estate with Judith, she had no concerns. Half of very big would be big enough to solve her pressing financial worries. But Banabrook must be sold, and quickly.
‘Please welcome Senator Caroline Blake.’
She rose to enthusiastic applause. A political opponent had once suggested that her practice of standing beside the lectern when she spoke was to ensure nothing obscured her latest outfit. That this former businesswoman-of-the-year continued designing clothes as her main relaxation had been well established by the leading women’s magazines, as was her insistence on wearing only her own creations. That she was no longer a director of Caroline Blake Fashions was widely known because of a Sunday tabloid’s witch-hunt over share disclosures by politicians. That she was still personal guarantor of a sizeable bank loan for the company she had founded was mentioned frequently by the financial press.
During the prolonged applause, she used smiles and gestures to acknowledge the president, a few dignitaries, and the entire audience—her elegant mime ensuring the first words of her speech would not be banal formalities. She never used the lists of introductory acknowledgments sent to her office before a public appearance. Should she consider anybody in the audience worthy of mention, she would name them during her address.
Judging the moment she could be heard by all, she projected her first words into the subsiding applause: ‘The reform of family law must be the first priority of the party.’ The room went quiet. Senator Blake was speaking on one of the key subjects of her political crusade—a crusade some believed would lead to her becoming the nat
ion’s first woman prime minister. She was already acknowledged as the driving force behind much important legislation. But what attracted many members of the general public was her obvious feeling for issues the electorate valued—in this case, as she was now saying: ‘the need for stressed families to embrace compromise as a virtue, where compromise between the parties in conflict might ease the burden on the innocents—the children.’
Arrangements
Monday 10th September 1990
‘And hire me a car,’ Caroline called as an afterthought. Her secretary turned in the doorway but had not drawn breath when Caroline continued. ‘It’s only a week since that batch of prickly ministerials. We don’t want any more finger-pointing over personal use of vehicles.’
‘For crying out loud; that wasn’t about you! You came in yesterday to finish these bloody reports, and now you’re all coy about taking your entitlements. It’s not reasonable.’
‘The press isn’t interested in what’s reasonable.’
‘You’ve lost your dad!’
‘Don’t give me a hard time, Bet. It’s not negotiable, and we’ve a lot of calls to make.’
‘You should be using one of the pool drivers as well. And putting him up at the motel. All right, I know, not negotiable.’
Except for the Prime Minister, she did not tell her parliamentary colleagues why she was to be out of town. Each would have felt the social imperative to commiserate and engage in caring small talk. Apart from using precious minutes of a week she must now condense into a day, this would confront her with questions she couldn’t handle. Even Bet, a confidant on most subjects, knew nothing about her family.
Throughout this hectic Monday, ambivalent feelings about the remainder of the week disturbed Caroline’s concentration. At 1pm, Bet brought in a sandwich and coffee, and stood over her until she started to eat.
At home that evening she made her last calls for the day. For a while she wondered whether her recently acquired mobile telephone removed the necessity to tell her solicitor where she’d be. But she’d been warned some country areas had poor reception and, having requested urgent attention to her financial problems, she could hardly make herself difficult to find. She caught him just finishing dinner. As soon as he began the commiserations, she cut him short. ‘Thanks, Sean, but I’d like to skip the formalities. My father and I fell out a long while ago. When this is all over, I’ll buy you a drink and tell you a bit more. For now, the only consideration is an inheritance that will end the nightmare. I’m not even telling the board until I get back. I called the chief accounting officer this morning and he’s spoken to the bank. He thinks they’ll hold off while I get things moving.’
Her second call was to her cousin Tony. Yes, the solicitor had telephoned. Yes, he would be at the funeral. No, he didn’t feel she’d been neglecting him.
‘For heaven’s sake, dear Cous, you’re a senator. I’m not that important.’
‘You are to me.’
‘I warn you. I’ll cry.’
‘I might need you to lean on, Tony. I don’t know these people.’
‘Chin up old chap—as my dad used to say. I’ve booked a nostalgic trip on the train. Max will meet me at Calway Junction. End of the line these days.’
‘Who’s Max?’
‘The Reverend Maxwell Kingsley. Incumbent Vicar of St Mark’s, a teeny bit eccentric—which, of course, I like—and friend of Judith. Big, big friend, if you catch my drift.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Came to interview me for the family history.’
‘Our family?’
‘Yes. I’m taking him some stuff I’ve had stored away. There’ll be a bit of a surprise for all of you. Now then; deep breath Caroline. Everything will be all right. Trust old Tony.’
Years of practice made packing a suitcase almost automatic. She did so and climbed into bed, her mind now exercised by a new concern. She had not wanted to worry Tony. Having lived in Sydney through the seventies and eighties, he would have needed little prompting to remember the case of the Reverend Maxwell Kingsley.
