by Judy Nunn
‘I’ve spoken to Simon and he tends to agree with you,’ Quincy had said, ‘but Simon himself has advised against taking action with no proof. We’ll just have to make sure in the future that one of the family is there at the warehouse to see the shipment on board. You’ll have to leave it at that I’m afraid.’
But inaction was not Thomas’s way. He’d decided to take matters into his own hands, and a threat involving an army of Powells was far more effective than a one-man confrontation. Besides, if it came to a war he knew he was right. Powells stuck together.
‘There’s something you need to remember, Stanford,’ he now added, his tone laced with menace, ‘something that you really should bear in mind. There’s only one of you. And there are a whole lot of us. I’d think about that if I was in your shoes.’
Reginald felt outrage rather than fear. ‘Are you threatening me with physical violence?’ he demanded.
‘I most certainly am.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Reginald rose from his chair and crossed towards the bell-pull, which hung beside the windows looking out over the courtyard. He would summon Clive and have the young blackguard bodily evicted.
But Thomas was too quick for him. Thomas was lean and fit and fifteen years Reginald’s junior, and he was suddenly very, very angry. The man’s arrogance infuriated him and in an instant he was by Reginald’s side, his hands around his throat.
‘I mean it, Stanford,’ he said. ‘You do one thing to damage our family and I’ll kill you, I swear I will.’
Reginald struggled to free himself, but he was no match for the younger man. Thomas hurled him aside, sending him crashing into the desk; he fell to the floor among a pile of books, the desk lamp shattering beside him.
Thomas, for all his rebellious nature, was not a violent man and he was a little taken aback by his own reaction. He stood watching as Reginald climbed to his feet and again made resolutely for the bell-pull.
‘Don’t bother,’ he said, ‘I’m leaving.’
He strode out the door and, half way down the stairs he encountered Clive Gillespie who, having heard the commotion, was on his way up to investigate.
‘Your boss wants you,’ Thomas said and he passed on by.
Clive paused for a moment, wondering whether he should apprehend the young man, and if he should, what for, but it was too late, Powell was already striding across the hall towards the front door. Clive continued up the stairs.
Reginald was not accustomed to being threatened, and he didn’t like it one bit. He also took offence at being personally assaulted. How dare the young thug manhandle him in such a manner. He longed to seek retribution. If only he could employ Alf Jordan to teach the blackguard a lesson, but of course he didn’t dare. If any harm came to Thomas Powell the family would know he was responsible. Just as they would know he was responsible for any acts of sabotage upon their respective businesses. There could be no retaliation.
Reginald’s anger and frustration knew no bounds. Once again the Powells had aroused in him the blackest of rages.
It was May 1902 and the Boer War was over. Victory was celebrated throughout the nation, and nowhere with greater pride than in the island state of Tasmania. Approximately 860 Tasmanians had served in South Africa, the vast majority as mounted infantry and, of all the Australian units to take part in the conflict, the 1st Tasmanian Imperial Bushmen was the most highly decorated, winning two of the six Victoria Crosses awarded to Australians. Little wonder Tasmanians held their heads high.
‘I see no cause for celebration,’ Silas croaked cantankerously. ‘Twenty-seven of our young men lost their lives. What is there to celebrate in that?’
Silas Stanford had been against the war from the outset. He was against war in general and extremely outspoken in his views.
‘The only people who gain from war are the pariahs who get fat on the misery of it,’ he’d say time and again. ‘The profiteers and the warmongers, Godless men every one,’ he’d rant. ‘War brings out the very worst in mankind.’
Now, even as Tasmania celebrated the return of its sons and sang the praises of its heroes, Silas would not leave the subject alone.
‘Damn good thing the whole wretched business is over,’ he croaked to his son. His voice these days crackled with age and phlegm, and Reginald found it incredibly nerve-jangling.
Reginald found everything about his father nervejangling. At the age of ninety-seven the old man was in a state of decay. Emaciated, skeletal and sunken-eyed, he reeked of death. The only trouble was, he refused to die. And even worse, he refused to shut up.
‘My only wish is that this war might have ended before men managed to reap personal gain from it,’ Silas continued. ‘The whole business is immoral –’ He would have gone on further if Reginald hadn’t interrupted him.
‘Tasmanian industry benefited from the Boer War, Father,’ he said. Sometimes he let the old man ramble, trying in vain to close his ears to the crackle of phlegm; on other occasions, dependent upon his own mood, he would goad his father into an argument. Today he was not inclined to sit in silence while his nerves were stretched to screaming point. ‘In fact the state of Tasmania is in a far better financial position than it was prior to the conflict in South Africa.’
‘Shame,’ Silas declared dramatically, ‘shame on those profiteers I say!’
‘They weren’t profiteers at all,’ Reginald countered, ‘they were honest men who accepted contracts from the Imperial Defence Force. In supplying goods to the army they assisted the cause.’
‘And got rich in the process, boy, don’t forget that.’ Silas’s head started to quaver as it always did when he became overheated and argumentative. ‘They got rich in the process, my word. Why, just look at that Henry Jones. Tasmanian jam sales were at an all-time low in ’99.’ He waggled a claw-like finger at his son. ‘I keep my eye on the market, boy, I know what’s going on. Smaller factories were closing down, but what does Jones do? He gets rich supplying jam to the army. That’s profiteering, that is.’ By the ring of triumph in his voice Silas was clearly declaring himself the winner.
‘I follow the market too, Father,’ Reginald said calmly. Nothing was to be gained in allowing his irritation to show, for his father would only see it as a further sign of victory. ‘And lucrative though Jones’s defence contract may have been, it is also well known that he personally supplied one million pounds of jam to the war effort without taking payment.’ Reginald remembered being flabbergasted at the time. It is surely some misguided public relations gesture on Henry’s part, he’d thought, unnecessary, wasteful and quite foolish, in his opinion.
‘Covering his tracks,’ Silas crowed triumphantly. ‘Covering his tracks. The man’s a profiteer –’
‘Don’t overexcite him, Reggie, he’s not been well lately.’
Reginald was relieved at the arrival of his mother with the tea and chicken sandwiches. It was pointless discussing the war with his father.
Mathilda sat and started to pour. ‘I was hoping you’d bring Evelyn and the boys around for morning tea, dear,’ she said. He often did these days.
‘I wanted to, Mother, but Hugh has the croup and Evelyn decided to stay home with him rather than leave him in Nanny’s care.’
‘Oh, what a pity.’
Reginald placed his father’s chicken sandwich on the table beside him, wishing the old man would choke on it.
‘You should have brought Rupert,’ Silas said accusingly.
‘I would have, Father,’ Reginald replied with a tight smile, ‘but you know Rupert: he won’t go anywhere without Hugh.’
Reginald would never have dreamt of bringing Rupert along on his own. He avoided at all costs being alone in the boy’s company; if it had been possible he would have avoided the child altogether.
‘It’s charming, isn’t it,’ Mathilda said, handing Reginald his father’s cup of tea, ‘the way the boys are so close at such a tender age.’
At seven and six, the brothers were inseparable,
a fact which infuriated Reginald. Adorable as everyone appeared to find Rupert, surely the company of a simpleton could not benefit a normal, healthy child. He worried for Hugh.
‘Yes, Mother, the boys’ affection for each other is a delight to us all.’ The greatest dissembling feat of Reginald’s life was living the lie that he felt any fondness for his eldest son. His wife sensed his discomfort, certainly, but even Evelyn was not aware of the extent of his loathing.
Reginald handed his father his cup of tea.
‘You should have brought Rupert,’ the old man said again, and Reginald wanted to kill him.
‘I will next time, Father, I promise. I’ll bring both the boys next time. They always love to see you.’
Strangely enough, the boys didn’t seem to find the old man obscene at all. They’d quite happily climb up onto his lap and play with his beard; they didn’t even seem to notice his rancid breath. Indeed, Silas and seven-year-old Rupert had developed a particularly fond relationship. They found each other funny. Silas’s galah-like cackle when the child pulled his beard would set Rupert off and he’d give his donkey-like bray in return. Then everyone would join in: Evelyn, Mathilda and young Hugh, they’d all laugh. The women appeared to find it charming and Hugh obviously thought it was hilarious. Reginald didn’t. The sight of the cadaverous old man and the vacuous boy with the donkey laugh disgusted him, and he would find a pretext to look away.
It surprised Reginald that many, upon first meeting Rupert, failed to register the child was retarded, for he was a good-looking boy. The laugh gave him away, of course, and very quickly because Rupert laughed a lot, but to Reginald just one glance was enough. The wide-eyed vacancy, the broad dimwitted smile, the constant need to be tactile, running his hands over things and people: this was not a normal child.
Reginald had hoped to ignore Rupert, but as the years passed it became more and more difficult. Everything about the boy rankled.
‘Well I’ll leave you two to chat,’ Mathilda said twenty minutes later when she’d poured the men their second cup of tea. ‘I must hang out the washing in order to catch the afternoon sun. If there is to be any sun of course,’ she added as she stood. ‘With winter coming on one is really reliant upon the breeze.’
‘Let me help you, Mother.’ Reginald rose from his chair. The fact that they didn’t employ a washerwoman annoyed him: that would be his father’s meanness, of course.
‘No, no, Reggie, stay and amuse your father, I insist – he sees all too little of you these days. And Silas, dear, do eat your sandwich,’ she instructed, ‘you need to keep your strength up.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Silas reached for his side plate. He’d forgotten the sandwich was there, and he very much enjoyed his chicken sandwiches.
‘I shall have to be going soon, Mother,’ Reginald said. He hated being left alone with his father when the old man was eating. The sight revolted him.
‘Finish your tea first, dear. And don’t forget your own chicken sandwich. You haven’t touched it.’
‘Of course.’ Reginald obediently sipped his tea, but he didn’t touch the sandwich. He couldn’t possibly while his father was eating.
‘Come and say goodbye before you go,’ his mother called over her shoulder as she left the room.
‘Of course,’ he called after her. He rose and crossed to the window, peering through the drawn curtains, pretending to check on the weather; anything to avoid the old man and his sandwich. ‘It’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it?’
‘You should have brought Rupert,’ Silas muttered petulantly through a mouthful of chicken.
Reginald turned from the window. ‘Actually, Father, I’m thinking of having Rupert committed.’ He didn’t know exactly what made him say it. He’d been thinking of no such thing, but the desire to shock was overwhelming.
Silas stared at his son in slack-jawed amazement, the forgotten mouthful of chicken sandwich unattractively evident. Rupert committed? Surely he had heard incorrectly.
‘Yes,’ Reginald continued. He found the old man’s reaction intensely gratifying. ‘I’ve been giving it quite a bit of thought lately. Rupert will soon be of school age, and he naturally can’t be enrolled in any normal educational facility. I really do believe the lunatic asylum might be the place for him.’ Bent purely on shock though he was, Reginald suddenly found the idea appealing. Why had it not occurred to him before? But of course his wife and his mother would never allow it. What a pity, he thought.
Silas was outraged beyond belief. A lunatic asylum? Little Rupert? How could Reginald contemplate such a thing? He hastily swallowed his sandwich in order to protest. Are you mad, boy? he was about to roar, he’s your son! He’s a Stanford! Stanfords do not commit their sons to lunatic asylums! But he didn’t get a word out. A lump of chicken lodged in his windpipe and he gagged instead.
‘I haven’t made any firm decision as yet,’ Reginald said, very much enjoying the apoplectic rage he could see in his father’s eyes. The old man was so angry he couldn’t even speak. ‘It’s early days, of course, but I do find the impediment Rupert threatens to Hugh’s future development rather worrying at times, and the lunatic asylum would appear to be one solution to the problem.’
Silas couldn’t breathe. He pummelled his chest with his fist and gestured for Reginald to thump him on the back as he fought to dislodge the food stuck in his throat.
Good heavens above, Reginald thought as he registered what was happening. How often had he secretly prayed for this? Every single time he’d given the old man his chicken sandwich he’d wished that he’d choke on it, and now he actually was.
‘You’re getting a little overexcited, Father,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t, you know. As Mother keeps telling you it’s not good for your health.’ He smiled benignly. ‘Besides, I was only joking, I wouldn’t really put Rupert in an asylum, you know that.’ Not long to go now, surely, the old man was starting to turn blue.
Silas struggled for breath, his hands clawing at the arm rests. The boy could see he was choking, why didn’t he do something? He stared up at his son in disbelief. His son could see he was choking and his son was doing nothing.
His son continued to do nothing.
Reginald watched his father die, and his father, right up until the end, watched him watching.
When it was over, Reginald waited for a further moment or so. Then he went out to the rear of the house where his mother was hanging up the washing on the back verandah.
‘I insist you let me help,’ he said. ‘Father’s in a cantankerous mood so I’ve left him with his chicken sandwich.’
‘You two are utterly incorrigible,’ Mathilda said, handing him a pillowslip.
Ten minutes later they went back inside, where they discovered to their mutual horror that Silas had choked on his chicken sandwich.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eileen O’Callaghan knew her son was using her. It had been apparent right from the start that Col had brought his children home for her to look after. But to his credit he hadn’t dumped them with her and left; and as the years had passed she wouldn’t have minded if he had anyway. Now, a decade on, young Oscar and Caitlin had become her very life. They were rascally and personable, both of them, reminding her strongly of her own brood as children. At eleven Caitie, destined to be a beauty with her flame-red hair and emerald eyes, could have been Shauna all over again, and thirteen-year-old Oscar was a beefier version of Col as a boy, cheeky and fearless. The children gave meaning to Eileen’s existence; it was for their sake she must stay healthy, and now well into her seventies she had never felt better.
Col was still something of a child himself, parenthood appearing to have little effect on him. He loved his children, but he was a terrible disciplinarian. No rules were laid down. He’d spoil little Oscar and Caitie with lollies and he’d show off to make them laugh, his idea of fatherhood being to give his children a good time. It certainly endeared him to his children, but not to his mother. ‘You can’t let them run wild,’ Eileen w
ould complain time and again, but it would make no difference. Like his father, Col was a loveable rogue with no sense of responsibility. He was, also like his father, a wastrel with money and Eileen had been compelled to exercise a degree of control over his life, just as she had over her husband’s.
‘Your children will need a proper education, Colin,’ she’d said sharply after having put up with the situation for a whole two years. She never called him Colin unless she really meant business. ‘And a proper education takes money.’ I might as well be speaking to Mick, she thought. ‘You will give me half your salary each week and I shall put it aside for Oscar and Caitie’s schooling. The rest you may gamble away or spend on your fancy clothes or do with as you wish, but those are the rules from now on – do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Ma.’ Col hadn’t dared argue back. Even in her advancing years, his mother remained a formidable woman. Besides, he was grateful to Eileen for having taken on the upbringing of his children: they were much better off under her control.
Col had found himself an excellent job. ‘You’re looking at Col the Cooper,’ he’d jokingly announced the day he’d got it, ‘Col the Cooper of Cascade Brewery, no less.’
Good coopers were highly valued employees and Cascade Brewery was known to look after its workers well. Col was happy with the job and the perks that it offered, particularly the free ale that was supplied during morning and afternoon tea breaks and also at lunchtime. It made for a convivial workplace, as the bosses well knew.
Each day he would catch the tram to and from the brewery; and at the end of each week he would return home with his pay packet, which he would hand directly to his mother, who would extract half the money. Col would buy toys and lollies for the children, but most of the other half went on the card tables and the brandy and cigars he shared with his like-minded friends or on the purchase of a snappy new item of clothing – he had inherited his father’s taste for the good life. Occasionally, when he’d had a win at cards, he would spend up handsomely wining and dining a woman he’d met, but only if he knew there’d be an exchange of favours at the end of the evening. Col, who was still highly popular with women, never needed to buy sex, but he believed in wooing his way into a woman’s bed: it was all part of the fun.
