by Tony Parsons
‘This was your uncle and aunt’s bedroom,’ Mrs Heatley informed him. It opened onto a wide verandah beyond which was a sweeping lawn, a rose garden and many shrubs. The most striking item in the bedroom was a massive four-poster bed.
‘It’s very impressive,’ Ian said.
‘Air-conditioned too,’ she said. ‘Now I’ll show you where the dining rooms are.’
The main dining room was adjacent to the ballroom and the dinner table provided seating for thirty people. The kitchen was down another hallway and next door to it was a smaller, more intimate dining room with seating for eight. ‘Your uncle and aunt ate here unless there was a big function,’ Mrs Heatley explained.
Ian nodded. ‘And the kitchen?’
‘It’s through that door,’ Mrs Heatley said, pointing.
Ian walked through the door into the kitchen and nodded appreciatively. Every item was in its place and the whole room was as clean as a new pin. There were long benches for food preparation and three different types of stove – electric, gas and combustion. At the far end of the kitchen stood a solid wood table covered by a brightly patterned cloth. There were two chairs and he guessed that Mrs Heatley probably ate her meals here.
‘Did my uncle and aunt have any of their meals here?’ he asked.
Mrs Heatley shook her head. ‘Never. They mostly ate next door and sometimes on the verandahs.’
‘I’d like to have my breakfasts here … if that’s all right with you, Mrs Heatley,’ Ian said.
‘If that’s what you’d prefer, Mr Ian,’ she answered. She had decided that she would call him Mr Ian, which seemed to suit him better than Mr Richardson.
‘Does Mr Blake eat anything special?’ he asked.
‘Only good plain food. Mr Blake is a steak and chops man. He likes fish too, when we can get it,’ the housekeeper said.
‘I’ll leave it to you, Mrs Heatley. I’ll eat just about anything except curry,’ Ian said.
Mrs Heatley was a woman who did everything with great enthusiasm and thoroughness. If she liked someone, she liked them a great deal; and if she disliked someone, they were left in no doubt about her feelings. With Ian Richardson, however, she felt she needed more than one afternoon to make up her mind about what kind of man he was. He might well prove to be an inconsiderate gadabout like his uncle, but something told her that this was unlikely and that there was a great deal more to him than met the eye. In any event, she certainly wasn’t the only one keen to find out more about Kanimbla’s new owner.
Chapter Four
As a boy of eight, Ian’s world had crashed about him when the plane carrying his parents had nose-dived into the African plain. He had been left with bearers at the base camp until the police came to inform him that both his parents were dead. His father and mother had been rather eccentric, though loving parents who had taken him with them all over the world, and it took him some time to comprehend that he would never see them again.
At first, neither he nor anyone else knew what his future might hold. Stickers on crates belonging to his parents suggested that they had an association with Cambridge University in England, and communication with the university finally unearthed the wills of Laurence and Helene Richardson, held by a prestigious legal firm in London. The wills contained detailed provisions for Ian’s education, but of more immediate concern was the direction that he was to be looked after by his elderly paternal grandfather. General Sir Nicholas Richardson had had a distinguished military career and was a director of several companies. A widower, he lived alone at Lyndhurst, a very beautiful and productive property beside the River Ouse in Cambridgeshire.
Sir Nicholas, who had raised four sons and lost three of them – two in war and now Laurence in Africa – was chuffed that his youngest and brightest son had chosen him to look after his grandson. But the will provoked a contretemps between Sir Nicholas and his eldest and only surviving son, Jack. Childless, Jack and his wife Linda wanted Ian quite desperately. Their desire to adopt the boy was strengthened further after they flew to Britain to see him. Linda thought him an enchanting child and devastatingly bright. At Linda’s urging and because he loved her dearly, Jack took legal advice in an attempt to wrest Ian from Sir Nicholas’s guardianship, but it was a fruitless undertaking. Under the terms of Laurence’s will, Ian’s fate was sealed. Ian was to be brought up by Sir Nicholas and schooled at Harrow. After leaving school, he was to do a stint of jackarooing in Australia. At twenty-one, he would be free to choose the career he wished to follow. It seemed that while Laurence and Helene Richardson wanted Ian to have a taste of Australian rural life before committing to any career, they did not consider Jack’s lifestyle conducive to good parenting. Jack’s expulsion from Harrow and a series of drunken escapades featuring women and fast cars didn’t help his cause.
So, from Nairobi, Ian was escorted to London by a junior member of the British diplomatic fraternity, from where he was taken to Lyndhurst. For three years he was tutored at his grandfather’s home before going to Harrow. Sir Nicholas was a wise old bird and knew that Ian would find it rough at boarding school. He knew his grandson had exceptional qualities, but that he needed to learn how to fit in. Sir Nicholas believed that Harrow would be the making of Ian because it would prevent him from retreating so much into himself as to become a kind of hermit.
Harrow was a great school with a rich tradition, but for Ian, boarding there was akin to being exiled to another planet. He was an individual in a place where you were required to conform to a great many rules. Ian hated it, at least in his early years. He had few friends his own age and had begun to imagine that there might be something seriously amiss with him. Unlike his classmates, he was not interested in girls or sports such as rugby, and unlike his grandfather, he was not drawn to a career in the military.
It was only the libraries at Harrow and Lyndhurst that helped make his life endurable. Sir Nicholas had inherited a massive library to which he had added some hundreds of books, and Ian habitually lost himself in this Aladdin’s cave of literary riches. He was exceptionally well read when he enrolled at Harrow, and as the school library was well stocked, he was able to keep up his reading there.
Ian also lived for the holidays, when he could walk through the meadows and along the river at Lyndhurst, and help his grandfather oversee the property. Sir Nicholas kept a fine stable of horses, and Ian came to love these majestic animals. As an ex-cavalryman, Sir Nicholas saw to it that his grandson could ride a horse with the best in the country. They often rode together and keen judges were heard to pronounce that there was nothing between them as to either seat or style. Ian could even ride and jump bareback, with his hands behind his back, thanks to Sir Nicholas’s cavalry training.
Initially in awe of his grandfather, Ian grew increasingly fond of him over the years. The old man didn’t hand out many bouquets, but when he did Ian knew that he had earned them. Occasionally, Sir Nicholas would lay his hand on the boy’s shoulder – a signal that he was especially pleased with him. Used to assessing and commanding thousands of men, Sir Nicholas saw the steely resolve beneath his grandson’s reserved demeanour – the boy never skited, not even when he topped his first year at Harrow.
‘Jolly good show,’ Sir Nicholas had said.
‘What is, Grandfather?’ Ian had asked.
‘Your results, Ian.’
‘Oh, that. I’m glad you’re pleased,’ the boy had said.
And that was that.
Sir Nicholas realised that his grandson was far brighter than he had been at the same age, and probably even smarter than Laurence, and took every opportunity to offer the wisdom of his own experience. He was particularly concerned that Ian might fall prey to alcohol. ‘Stay off it if you can. Not easy, I know. It was damned difficult for me, in the mess especially. You’ve got to be very strong. People will think you’re anti-social, but you can show them it’s possible to have a good time without liquor.’
The old man held very definite views about a wide range of
topics, and was not shy of sharing them with his grandson. ‘Australians are an irreverent lot. Got to admit they’re damned fine soldiers, though. Lack a lot in discipline but don’t seem to need it. They’ve done a first-rate job settling the country, considering what they started with. Australians judge a fellow on the job he does. Understand?’
‘Yes, Grandfather.’
‘It’s important, since you’ll be going there.’
‘I understand, Grandfather,’ Ian said.
‘Good show, Ian,’ Sir Nicholas said and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Sir Nicholas and Ian were sitting on a bench watching the ducks on the river. Behind them, new lambs gambolled on the rich pastures of what had originally been fen country.
‘You know that the family has been in wool processing a long time, Ian,’ Sir Nicholas began. ‘Well, soon after Australia was settled – largely by scoundrels from here, remember – we began to hear that it had a flourishing wool industry. Our mill received some samples of this wool. It was very fine and soft, and produced lovely cloth. We heard that there was unlimited land waiting to be taken up so my great-grandfather decided to send his youngest son, Gavin, to have a look at what opportunities there were for acquiring land. It’s a long story, Ian old chap, so I hope I’m not boring you,’ Sir Nicholas said.
‘You could never bore me, Grandfather,’ Ian said.
‘Because most of the immigrants were settling in New South Wales, the Queensland Government began its own immigration program in the early 1860s, offering land to immigrants who paid for their own passage. This meant that people with money or influence back in Britain often managed to secure large areas of land. That’s how Gavin Richardson acquired Kanimbla, and it’s been held by the Richardsons from that day to now. It came to me from my father and I passed it on to your Uncle Jack. I hoped it would be the making of him.’
Ian was pleased that his grandfather had confided in him. If he had been a less respectful boy he would have taken issue with one aspect of his grandfather’s story. He knew from his extensive reading that many of the ‘scoundrels’ his grandfather had referred to had been transported to Australia for pitifully small offences brought about by Britain’s woeful social system. He had enjoyed reading about Australia’s history and was amazed that the country had travelled so far in little more than two centuries.
Sir Nicholas had devoted his whole life to family and country. Yet he was not a dour man or devoid of humour. He had a rich laugh and enjoyed a good story as much as anyone. The Lyndhurst property was only a fraction of the size of Kanimbla, but it was exceedingly productive. Its peat-black reclaimed fen country produced heavy crops of wheat, corn and potatoes and the pastures turned off high-quality prime lambs and vealers. It was profitable enough to employ a manager and a farmhand plus a housekeeper.
Ian would never forget the day that Hooper, Sir Nicholas’s former batman and then driver and handyman, came to collect him in the Rolls Royce. Sir Nicholas was very ill, and had been taken to a private room in a nearby hospital. He managed to dredge up a smile when Ian entered the room and came to stand by his bed. Hooper stood to attention just outside the door. A sister stood beside Ian and watched Sir Nicholas carefully.
‘Grandfather!’ Ian breathed and took the hand lying on the blue counterpane.
‘Ian, lad, it’s good to see you,’ Sir Nicholas said faintly. ‘Sit down, there’s a good fellow. See you better that way.’
‘I never thought you’d get sick, Grandfather,’ Ian said.
‘No good gilding the lily. It’s my Last Post, lad. Want to say a couple of things before I go.’
‘Shouldn’t you be saving your strength?’
‘Doesn’t matter now, Ian. Want you to know what a joy you’ve been to me. Damned pleased your father sent you to me. Lyndhurst is yours, Ian,’ Sir Nicholas said in a voice that was not much more than a whisper.
‘Thank you, Grandfather.’ Ian paused, ‘Does that mean I don’t have to go to Australia after I finish school?’
‘Afraid not. We have to follow your father’s orders. You can do what you like once you’re twenty-one. Understand?’
‘I understand. Oh, Grandfather! Thank you for everything … for looking after me … well, for everything. I’ll never forget you. And whatever I do, I’ll try to do it well. I wish you were going to be here to see it,’ Ian said, his voice breaking.
‘I’ve had a good innings, Ian. I could have been killed many times. Saw others killed all around me. Been lucky, lad. Keep a straight bat and play down the line,’ Sir Nicholas said.
‘I’ll do my best, Grandfather.’
Sir Nicholas closed his eyes, exhausted from the effort of speaking.
Ian stayed with Sir Nicholas until the end. Hooper brought the lad a cup of tea and sandwiches and then resumed his vigil outside the door. Several hours later, the sister woke Ian to tell him that his grandfather had finally passed away. Ian got up and went outside to tell Hooper. The ex-soldier came in and saluted before the sister covered the old general’s face.
Jack and Linda Richardson flew to Cambridgeshire for the funeral on what was to be their last trip to Britain. If Jack was disappointed about not inheriting Lyndhurst he didn’t say so. He knew that he had fallen far short of his father’s expectations, and that Sir Nicholas had been more than fair in his treatment of him. He would never forget the climactic meeting where Sir Nicholas had read him the riot act and sent him out to Australia to take over at Kanimbla. ‘You’re a bounder and a fool, Jack,’ his father had told him. ‘For all that, I think you’ve got a bit of good stuff in you. Be damned disappointed if you haven’t. I’m giving you Kanimbla, which is more than you deserve. But it’s your last chance. If you make a mess of it, you’re on your own.’
Jack knew he had to make a go of this opportunity, and arrived at Kanimbla full of enthusiasm and energy, even if some of that seemed, at times, misplaced. Still, over the years, Kanimbla had made Jack a fair living and he’d become a well-known figure in the Australian pastoral industry. Linda was a strong woman who always called a spade a spade. The fact that she loved Jack had not blinded her to his faults, and she never shied away from expressing her opinion. If she had been otherwise, Jack would probably have gone to the devil. In many instances, she had been responsible for toning down his wild behaviour.
When Jack and Linda met a teenage Ian at Sir Nicholas’s funeral, they were even more impressed than they had been with the newly orphaned eight-year-old. Linda thought Ian was the nicest young man she had ever met. ‘I’d be very proud to call Ian my son, Jack,’ she said to her husband.
‘Well, he was obviously a hit with the old man,’ Jack replied. He remembered, with shame, the terrible dressing-down he had received from his father after being expelled from Harrow. He knew that his behaviour had been a black mark against not only himself but his whole family. Now it seemed that his nephew had more than redeemed the Richardson name by covering himself with glory at Jack’s old school.
Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t begrudge Ian the old place. Laurie would have got it anyway, so what’s the difference?’
‘What we have to think about now is who will inherit Kanimbla should anything happen to us,’ said Linda, practical as always. ‘You haven’t made a change to your will since we were married.’
Jack felt that the question was academic, since he never considered his own death, but he was keen to reassure Linda.
‘If I go first, the place is yours while ever you want it. If you don’t want it, put it on the market,’ he said. ‘And if we both disappear off the face of the earth, that’s easy – Kanimbla will go to Ian.’
How cruelly ironic that this is exactly what would happen.
Chapter Five
‘Should I wear a tie for dinner, Mrs Heatley?’ Ian asked. Despite her coolness, Ian felt himself drawn to Mrs Heatley, who reminded him of Mrs Peake, the housekeeper at Lyndhurst, and he was determined to win her respect.
‘I don’t think a tie
will be necessary. Mr Blake doesn’t concern himself too much with dressing up. An open-neck shirt and a pullover will be fine. You’ll be having an informal discussion so it’s not like a dinner party. I’m sure you wouldn’t want Mr Blake to think you’re a toff first-up, would you?’
‘Not at all, Mrs Heatley,’ Ian smiled. ‘I want to start off on the right foot.’
Mrs Heatley nodded her approval. She sensed that her new employer was relying on her to ease him into his new role as boss, and she liked being needed. ‘I’ll make up the fire in the study and you can sit in there after dinner. Most of the stock records are kept there.’
As Mrs Heatley had predicted, Leo arrived tie-less. They went straight into the small dining room. The manager took the beer Mrs Heatley handed him and saw that his new employer had been given an orange juice.
‘Settled in?’ Leo asked.
‘With Mrs Heatley’s help. She obviously knows everything, even down to what you prefer in the way of food.’
‘No mystery there. Nothing flash. My daughters tell me I have boring tastes. Of course Rhona says worse than that. She reckons I’m a dinosaur,’ Leo chuckled.
‘Oh, why?’ Ian asked.
‘I’m one of the last of a dying breed, Ian. I’m like the old drovers – we’ve just about had our day. I’m too much of a bushie for Rhona. She mixes with so-called New-Age men. They can all argue like bush lawyers but if you asked them to put up a length of fence they’d die of fright. I had a mate of Rhona’s here, setting up the stud merino records. He was a genius on the computer but didn’t have a clue about the day-to-day running of the property. It cost us a heap of money, though I admit it’s been worth it in the end. Jack couldn’t follow the computerised records but the overseer here didn’t have any trouble. When Rhona comes up she checks on the system and makes any necessary changes,’ Leo said.
