by Judy Nunn
From his own bedroom, Reginald heard them clumping up the stairs like a herd of buffalo. He was intensely annoyed. They were waking the whole household with their din.
But the following morning when they appeared in the breakfast room a little the worse for wear he didn’t reprimand them. He offered a warm welcome instead.
‘Hello, Harry,’ he said, rising from the table to shake his nephew’s hand; he hadn’t seen the boy since his return from the front. He had of course conveyed his condolences to the family upon the loss of Wesley and Norman. Thank God at least one of them had survived, he thought.
‘Welcome home, lad,’ he said, ‘indeed welcome home to you all.’ He shook hands with the other two as well. He didn’t know their names, but he remembered having met them when they were boys. The bigger of the two was a Powell, he recalled. ‘It must be good to be back.’
‘It is sir, yes,’ Gordie said.
‘It seems you lads had quite a night.’
‘I’m sorry if we disturbed you, Father,’ Hugh said apologetically. ‘I gather we were rather loud – we woke poor old Clive. He caught us raiding the larder.’
‘No matter, my boy, no matter.’ Reginald waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m delighted to be given this opportunity to say hello to our brave lads here.’ He beamed jovially from one to the other. ‘Now let’s get some breakfast into you, shall we?’
Reginald was leading a tightrope existence. In the short week or so since Hugh’s arrival home his life had changed radically and in a way he had not for one moment envisaged. His son’s triumphant homecoming was supposed to have bonded them. Together they were to have been an unconquerable team, he and his war hero son. Instead, they were distanced and he was forced to play a continuous role in a bid to forge the gap. Forever on guard, wary of any reaction on his part that might further alienate his son, he was unable to be himself and felt like a stranger in his own home. The situation was hideous.
The most irksome of the roles forced upon him was undoubtedly the charade of enjoying Rupert’s company. Mealtimes had become a particular nightmare. ‘Close your mouth when you chew, Rupert, there’s a good lad,’ he would say pleasantly, fighting back the urge to scream. Rupert would do as he was told, but a little while later something would distract him and he’d forget, and there would be the food again. The sight of Rupert eating reminded Reginald of Silas and his chicken sandwiches. Both were disgusting, his decrepit father and his cretinous firstborn, both equally repulsive. But still he played the game, determined to repair the rift that had come between him and his precious younger son. Reginald would do anything and everything to win Hugh back.
Hugh and Caitie decided to follow through with their plan to marry as soon as possible, Hugh amazing Caitie with his offer to convert to Roman Catholicism. If the church demanded it and if it was what she wished, he told her, then he would willingly oblige. Knowing Hugh to be a non-believer, Caitie found the offer extraordinary, and she told him so.
‘Just because I’ve lost my own faith doesn’t mean you should lose yours, Caitie,’ he replied.
But she adamantly refused his offer. To Caitie the dilemma was not a particularly confronting one anyway. Despite her Catholic schooling, she had inherited her father’s lackadaisical attitude to the Church. Her brother Oscar was the same. It appeared that over the years Col O’Callaghan had made an indelible impression upon his children, just as his own father Mick had upon him. The only member of the family who had always insisted upon following a traditional path was Eileen.
Caitie’s one concern in marrying outside the faith was the hurt it might do her grandmother. But as it turned out Eileen raised no objections. In fact, Eileen was surprisingly supportive.
‘God will understand, Caitie,’ she said. ‘You’re a good girl, and you have your own relationship with Him. God does not stand in the path of true love.’
The girl will never want for money, Eileen thought, delighted that Caitie had made such a match. No matter that the boy wasn’t a Catholic. No matter that the boy was a Stanford either: the sins of the father should not be visited upon the son. Hugh Stanford was a fine young man. God would not condemn such a union. As with the marriage of her daughter, Mara, Eileen’s views remained flexible to the end.
Hugh bluntly informed his father of the news.
‘Caitie and I have decided to get married next month, Father,’ he said, and he waited for the tirade that was sure to follow. He was aware his father did not consider Caitie an appropriate choice.
‘I see,’ Reginald replied after a moment’s pause. The boy had the audacity to announce it just like that! The boy was not seeking his approval or opening the subject for discussion as a dutiful son should: he was making a blanket statement, damn his hide. This typifies the rift between us, Reginald thought, this complete lack of respect.
‘Miss O’Callaghan is of Irish background, Hugh,’ he replied carefully, aware that here was yet another occasion when he must walk the tightrope of diplomacy. ‘I presume that means she follows the Roman Catholic faith?’
‘Yes, Father, she does.’
‘Surely that will present some problems?’
‘I had thought so myself, it’s true,’ Hugh agreed, ‘but when I offered to convert she wouldn’t have a bar of it –’
‘You did what?’ Reginald wondered whether perhaps his ears had deceived him.
‘I offered to convert to Catholicism,’ Hugh said. ‘I had the rather cavalier notion that as a non-believer it wouldn’t matter, but Caitie was very much against the idea. She said it would be the height of hypocrisy and of course she’s quite right.’
Reginald was struck speechless in his outrage. Did the boy not realise that the Stanford family had been one of the greatest stalwarts of Hobart’s Anglican Church for well over seventy years? Why, Silas Stanford had devoted half his fortune to the Church and its good works. Bad enough the boy should deny his own faith, that at least could be kept quiet, but conversion to Catholicism? Unthinkable!
‘We’ve decided to get married at the Registry Office,’ Hugh said with an air of defiance. He knew his father was shocked, and that his own manner was hurtful in its curtness, but he didn’t care. He wanted it made quite clear that no discussion was to be entered into. ‘It’ll save a lot of fuss in the long run.’
Reginald was appalled by everything he was hearing. Hugh Stanford should be marrying the daughter of one of Hobart’s elite. The nuptials should be taking place at St David’s Cathedral. The marriage should be the wedding of the year. Instead, he was to wed the offspring of Irish Catholic scum at the Registry Office? Reginald felt the stirring of an anger that should it escape might prove uncontrollable. He had not experienced one of his black rages for some years now. He certainly could not afford to succumb to an outburst in the presence of his son.
‘The Registry Office,’ he said tightly, ‘is not the customary venue for a Stanford wedding. I must admit to a degree of disappointment.’
Hugh could see that his father was extremely upset, indeed that he was fighting back emotion. Having expected to be met with a litany of disapproval and endless objections he was thankful that Reginald had resigned himself to the situation. He could not help but feel guilty, however, for causing his father such distress.
‘I’m sorry, Father. I don’t mean to be hurtful, really I don’t. Caitie and I have no wish to offend, I promise you, but we want the minimum of fuss, and this is the easiest solution.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ Recognising his son’s apology to be sincere and heartfelt, the black rage which had threatened now started to subside. Surely this is the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for, Reginald thought. ‘You have my blessing, Hugh,’ he said. If in order to win his son back he must accept the O’Callaghan girl then so be it. ‘All I wish for, my boy, all I have ever wished for is your happiness.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
Over the next several days, Reginald persuaded himself that things were perhaps not as bad as he’d
first assumed them to be. The O’Callaghan girl was good-looking and healthy: she’d give Hugh strong, handsome children. Furthermore, she was intelligent and comported herself well enough to be socially acceptable. Society tends to forget the background of men’s wives anyway, he thought, just look at Archie Dimbleby. Archie had married an O’Callaghan girl and his wife had become quite the doyenne in social circles.
Just when he’d managed to talk himself around, however, something else happened that stretched Reginald’s already frayed nerves to breaking point.
‘Impossible, I’m afraid, Mr Fothergill. As I’ve told you before, Mr Stanford is not meeting with members of the press. I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen.’
Reginald was coming down the stairs when he heard Clive Gillespie at the front door.
‘Good day to you both,’ Clive said to the invisible callers.
‘What the devil’s going on?’ he demanded, fronting up just as Clive shut the door. ‘What do you mean Mr Stanford’s not meeting with the press?’
‘Master Hugh has left strict instructions, sir,’ Clive explained. ‘The press has been rather hounding him since his return. Mrs Watson has fielded a number of telephone calls, and this is the third time Mr Henry Fothergill has called around to the house – he’s a most persistent journalist. Today he actually arrived with a photographer –’
‘Thank you, Clive,’ Reginald interrupted tersely. ‘Is Master Hugh about at the moment?’
‘No sir, he went into town a half an hour ago. I believe he’s meeting Miss O’Callaghan for lunch.’
‘Very well. Would you ask him to be kind enough to come and see me in my study upon his return?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘And tell Nelson not to bring the car around. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going out.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Reginald was fuming as he walked back upstairs. How dare Hugh refuse to give interviews? What would the press make of it? Word would get around that he was arrogant. The publicity could be damagingly negative. People didn’t want their war heroes locked away, damn it: they wanted to claim them as their own! They wanted to share in their fame, to bask in their glory! Hugh has a debt to his public, Reginald thought angrily. He also has a debt to Stanford Colonial Enterprises.
He arrived at the top of the stairs to find Rupert standing there. He hadn’t noticed Rupert, but Rupert had noticed him. Rupert had come to a halt the moment he’d seen his father approaching. Father was angry, Rupert could tell.
‘Stop that,’ Reginald growled. The boy was flapping his hands. It annoyed him intensely.
Rupert clasped his hands tightly together in front of his chest in order to stop them flapping, but his distress now reflected itself in his face, which started to twitch alarmingly.
‘Oh for God’s sake get out of my sight,’ Reginald said.
Rupert scuttled downstairs to the safety of the small front drawing room, where his jigsaw was waiting and where cook would deliver his cheese and tomato sandwich and his glass of milk.
Reginald waited impatiently for Hugh’s return. He tried to work but his jangled nerves were getting the better of him and he was unable to concentrate. He poured himself a tot of brandy from the decanter that sat in the corner cabinet. He rarely drank anything stronger than the occasional glass of wine with dinner, but he kept the finest quality scotch and cognac in his study to offer business colleagues. He felt quite a deal better after the brandy, which was just as well for he could not afford to lose his temper. The situation must be handled with care.
By the time Hugh knocked on the study door an hour later, Reginald had planned his approach and was in a much calmer state.
‘You wanted to see me, Father?’
‘Yes, Hugh, sit down, please.’ Hugh sat. ‘I trust you had a pleasant luncheon with Miss O’Callaghan?’
‘I did thank you, yes. A brief one of course – she had to return to work.’ Hugh smiled. ‘I do think that as Caitie is shortly to become your daughter-in-law, Father, you might consider using her first name.’
Oh dear, Reginald thought, must I? ‘Very well,’ he said, returning the smile, ‘but I detest diminutives, as you know. I shall call your fiancée Caitlin if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind in the least. It’s a very pretty name.’
‘Right then, getting down to business.’ Reginald had decided a direct common-sense approach was the wisest. ‘You’ve been home only three weeks, and I’m sure you’ve not as yet considered when you might take up your position within Stanford Colonial. However, I do think –’
‘Oh, I intend to assume my full responsibility, Father,’ Hugh said, ‘I shan’t let the business down, I promise. However, I thought I would wait until after Caitie and I are married before –’
‘There’s no rush, my boy,’ Reginald said expansively, ‘no rush at all. Good heavens above, you’ve just come back from a war. I could hardly expect you to dive straight from the battlefield into the boardroom now, could I?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Hugh smiled dutifully.
‘However, I’m a little concerned by your decision to close yourself off so completely from the world as you have.’
‘In what way?’
‘Your refusal to meet with the members of the press.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, Hugh, that,’ Reginald said firmly. ‘While I do not expect you to set to work immediately, I do expect you to maintain your public profile. I understood your desire for a quiet homecoming after the hectic publicity in Sydney and Melbourne . . .’ No, he hadn’t. ‘. . . however, to refuse the members of the press altogether is not a wise move – it could generate a very negative response. People might think you feel you’re above yourself.’
‘With all due respect, Father, I don’t really care what people think.’
‘Well, you should,’ Reginald snapped: the remark irritated him. ‘You have the Stanford name to consider.’
Hugh said nothing, and Reginald took a moment to compose himself. Getting snappy with the boy would serve no purpose.
‘Now Hugh,’ he said reasonably, ‘I understand your reluctance to capitalise on your VC for business purposes . . .’ No, he didn’t. ‘. . . but you can’t go to the other extreme and hide away from the fact that you’re a war hero – that’s foolish. You have a debt to the public, my boy, can’t you see that? They want their champion, Hugh. They’re proud of you, just as I am. You mustn’t deprive the people of their home-grown hero.’
Hugh had had enough by now. He stood, signalling a halt to the meeting. ‘I have made up my mind, Father. I will do no further interviews. I wish to put the war behind me.’
Reginald was angered that his son should behave in so peremptory a fashion and he rose to his feet. ‘For God’s sake, boy, what’s wrong with you?’ he snapped. ‘You could at least offer the press one simple interview. It’d take you all of ten minutes. Is that too much to ask? A photograph of you and your VC on the front page of The Mercury and everyone’d be happy.’
‘I couldn’t do that, I’m afraid.’
‘Why the devil not?!’
‘I don’t have the VC any more.’
‘What do you mean you don’t have it?’
‘I gave it away.’
‘You gave away your VC.’ Reginald didn’t believe him for a minute. ‘You gave it away, just like that,’ he said with a click of his fingers, ‘a Victoria Cross.’
‘Yes I did.’
He’s serious, Reginald thought. The boy was looking him straight in the eyes and he was deadly serious.
‘What’s going on, Hugh? What are you talking about? You gave it to whom? The army? Why would you give your VC back? I don’t understand.’
‘I gave it to Thomas Powell.’
‘Thomas Powell,’ Reginald repeated parrot-like. He recalled Thomas Powell, the lout from Charlotte Grove Estate who’d threatened to beat him up all those years before. ‘Why would you give your Victoria Cro
ss to Thomas Powell?’
‘Because it rightfully belongs to his son David.’
‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’ Reginald was becoming flustered. It was all too ridiculous; this couldn’t be happening. ‘The medal belongs to you. The deeds of valour that earned the VC were yours. You performed those actions.’
‘I don’t remember performing them.’
‘That’s beside the point,’ Reginald yelled in his frustration. ‘Battle fatigue is common! Men have been known to lose their memory! Your acts were witnessed, for God’s sake! I’ve read the citation! You performed those deeds!’
‘I could not have performed them if I’d been dead though, could I, Father?’ Hugh calmly replied. ‘David Powell saved my life by forfeiting his own. The VC has gone to its rightful owner.’
It was his son’s composure that pushed Reginald over the edge. How could Hugh stand there so coolly and throw this insult in his face? Suddenly, and without warning, Reginald was consumed by the blackest rage.
‘You’ve done this to spite me, haven’t you, boy? You’ve done this to get back at me for Rupert.’
‘No Father, I have not –’
But Reginald was too far gone. His pent-up anger was unleashed, and there was no holding him back. ‘It’s all been to spite me! The O’Callaghan girl, the VC, everything! You dare to marry an Irish Catholic whore! You drag our family name through the mud! And now you give away the Victoria Cross! Dear God, how much more am I expected to take?!’ He stormed out from behind his desk, his right hand raised, his finger pointing accusingly. ‘You’re my only son, damn you! I’ve worked my whole life on your account. I’ve built an empire for you to inherit, and this is the thanks I get. I give you the world and this is how I’m rewarded!’
The finger was now jabbing the air barely inches from Hugh’s face, but Hugh made no move.
‘Ingrate!’ Reginald screamed. ‘Ingrate!’
Hugh wondered whether perhaps he should fetch help. His father’s eyes were the eyes of a madman – was he having some sort of fit? Then even as he watched he saw the eyes become confused and lose focus and he saw the trickle of blood coming from his father’s nose.
