The Great Empty
A Novel
by
Anita Melillo
Copyright © 2012 by Anita Melillo
All rights reserved.
Copyright
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. “The Great Empty” is printed in the United States.
This is a work of fiction. Any references of historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictiously. Other names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and
any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Anita Melillo
Library of Congress Txu 1-848-292
All rights reserved.
Dedication
For Tyler, Angela, Kristan and AJ
Wherever life takes you.., always know that you are loved.
Prologue
From the rolling uplands, swift flowing streams and wooded valleys, the Cotswolds was pleasing to the senses all throughout the year, but there was something about the onset of spring that surpassed the other seasons.
Perhaps it was the fresh scent of chamomile breezing in the dales, or the unveiling of all that had emerged from beneath the winter snow. It wasn’t anything you could pinpoint exactly, but one thing was certain. It carried a newness with it that couldn’t be stifled by tradition or resistance to change, and it was sure to linger around just long enough to impart new layers upon all that had perished in the bitter cold.
Velvety moss blanketed everything, concealing fragments of rock and slate-covered roof tops for miles. Lofty plateaus even gave way to the appearance of plush green mounds, as the cream colored status symbol eased its way down the goat winding paths of endless meadows.
Tourists continually journeyed the two hour distance from London and over the cobblestone streets, just to somehow taste all the imagery with their senses. There was nowhere else in the west of England that compared to Gloucestershire, and nothing had helped to shape it more than the wool industry and the rich abundance of limestone. It was part of everything and comprised the hillside villages and townships throughout.
Even the walls were stacked high with stone, dividing land and creating barriers from outsiders and holding those within captive to its charm, including the Winthrop’s.
As they approached the ornate gatehouse, it heralded their arrival with a warm brilliance in contrast to the melancholy backdrop of noonday haze. That was because the grounds weren’t built of gray stone like many of the other Jacobean manors throughout the village, but out of yellow guiting stone, which mellowed with age into a rich golden color. It was the exportation of this glorious stone, along with the production of wool that had brought such prosperity to the Winthrop’s estate in the 1700’s.
When most sheep farmers and cloth manufacturers eventually lost out to bigger industry, the Winthrop’s continued to flourish with the quarry. And it had taken several decades for the supply to begin to diminish enough to make the union aroused.
It wasn’t that Allister didn’t want to meet their demands, but the figures just didn’t add up. And to a long-term investor, it meant a possible loss, without an all out structural reorganization of his resources and time.
Plus, with his brother, Yancey, doing so well with mineral deposits in Australia, and Elizabeth constantly pushing for a much needed change, it was time to consider other options before taking on a new venture; if not for his own sake, then at least for his families.
Chapter One
They had entered a tunnel which led to an underground cavern with barely enough head room to stand at full height. With the flames of the fire licking the top of the clay ceiling, it was fast becoming so hot that Donovan was gasping for a fresh breath of air, while digging with the small hand pick into the hard wall.
The bustard was cooked through and the unseasoned juices dripped onto the coals, filling he smoky hole with the smell of burning flesh. As each stroke became more labored than the last, he couldn’t refrain from dropping the pick to hold his stomach.
For a second, the swagman looked concerned, but it passed as soon as he tore off a hind quarter and tossed it at him.
Donovan dodged to keep the unwanted portion from searing his leg.
“Eat up,” the swagman growled as he took a can of beans from the roll and peeled back the lid.
Donovan kicked it away from him. “You eat it,” he said defiantly as he scooted further away.
The swagman probed his victim carefully, as though premeditating the best angle to strike. “Better watch it, kid. Makes no difference to me whether you’re conscious or not. I’ll get what I came for one way or the other. Something has to make up for this detour.”
Hot release rose up Donovan’s spine. His vulnerability was still too great from where he sat.
“Look, mister. If it’s money you want, my father has plenty—more than you could ever mine out of this rat hole,” he said.
The man stabbed his knife at the red dirt. “And what makes you think it’s enough?... What did you ever do to become so valuable?”
“I know my father. He would give whatever it took,” Donovan tried to keep a straight face and hoped that it were true.
“For some limp wristed little pomme with an attitude? You Brits beat all, thinkin’ that just because you got a little more than the next guy, it makes you more human. You don’t know nothin’, especially when it comes to us Aussies Take Ned Kelly. Now that was a real man.”
“I see your point,” Donovan continued to dig without expression. “You remind me of him.”
“What do you mean by that?” he snapped curiously.
“Well,” Donovan pondered, hoping that his tutoring in history would come in handy. “He may have lived in the 1800’s, but a bushranger all the same. Made out to be some kind of Robin Hood when all he really did was rob people blind, and took whole towns hostage at a time.”
“He was a hero,” the swagman said hastily.
“Yep,” sighed Donovan. “I guess that’s why he was hanged in his twenties And the way I see it, you’re a little past your prime,” he gripped the pick tight.
Before the madman even thought to respond, he flung the knife at Donovan’s head, who ducked just in time as it stabbed the wall behind him.
Scrambling away on his hands and knees, he headed for the opening as the swagman leapt over the fire after him. Donovan stabbed the pick into his leg and kept on going. The man screeched in agony as he limped off after him. It was either run or die
It was just a few days earlier that all seemed normal with his family. They had gone through their usual Sunday routine of being bored at church. Donovan always had pretended to care, but his actions always showed otherwise.
Against the backdrop of the stained glass Abbey stood two young sinners of the declaring kind. Other’s tried to ignore the brassy chaps, but no one dared to tell them any different. It was the usual reckoning that began with a twist of her hair or a tug at the back of his pants that ensued the battle, however, others rarely escaped the crossfire. The delicate nature of those occupying the space around them might have nurtured their situation, but it wasn’t their concern.
“Snap..,” went the flipping of a rubber band against his sister’s elbow as they stood side by side along the pew. She recoiled and grabbed his right thumb and twisted it backwards.
He yelped, “Ouch!”, but few heard him above the thunderous bass of the pipe organ as it reverberated off the gothic arched ceiling of the seventeenth century Abbey. And the choir, along with the congregation, s
ang in melodious unison the old hymn, “Faith of Our Fathers”. That is, everyone except for Donovan Winthrop.
The pained twelve-year-old purposely voiced each word before everyone else and he agonized loudly over the high notes. He even pinched his younger sister Viola so that she would screech right along with him. The only difference being – she really was in pain.
A month earlier he had been dismissed from the boy’s choir for doing as much. The choir director had told him repeatedly to sing like he meant it, while Donovan’s reply remained fixed on a simple, “I am.” After all, he was only telling the truth. He couldn’t help it if his translation was different than everyone else’s. But of course, trouble always followed.
Preston, the well weathered family chauffeur and occasional guardian, was the only thing that usually stood between him and destiny, other than his father’s unrelenting rebuke.
“That’s quite enough now. Please take a seat,” the old man reprimanded as the wrinkles twitched tightly around his mouth.
“All right,” he gave his usual shrug, sending his blonde bangs aloft as he collapsed onto the hard wooden bench.
Glad to see him go down, Viola gave a quick smirk while she continued to sing, before glancing up to her mother, who was gracefully giving apologetic smiles to neighboring parishioners.
However, it didn’t take very long for Donovan to find another outlet for his harnessed frustration at the slow ticking clock. There was a lead pencil in the pew rack in front of him, which had a big eraser, but no paper. So he had to settle for making artful impressions of his teeth around it, until most of the yellow paint had chipped off. When the task of removing the tiny flakes from his tongue had grown old, he began springing the eraser head back and forth, testing its flexibility.
The domino effect of hymnals being dropped into pew racks sent him slanting sideways to look through the weave of fancy hats, which had hedged at eye level, just to see the podium.
Then in a still and solemn manner that exuded wisdom, the Minister rose to stand behind the gold-leafed dais. With a deep voice as shaky, but yet sure, as the solid panes of beveled glass, he meticulously pondered over each drawn-out syllable when he spoke, “As we assemble here in the presence of Almighty God.., may we temporarily lose sight of that which holds us bondage.., in remembrance of what made our heritage and our country.. the pillar of society it is today.., the faith of our fathers”
Suddenly, the end of the eraser snapped off, sailed through the air and landed in the perfectly teased hair of the distinguished widow, Lady Attwood.
Feeling the slight impact, she gave a jovial spin to see if anything was amiss.
Donovan’s reaction was typical. At once, he slumped into the pew and placed his hands over his mouth to keep from snickering out loud. The only person she noticed staring back was Preston, returning the smile with his face flustered red in embarrassment.
Her expression virtually changed from pleasant concern to a discreet but flirtatious grin, which made Preston so nervous that he bellowed out a series of broken coughs and excused himself from the service in the process.
Viola turned to Donovan and said, “I’m going to tell Father how you disgraced Lady Attwood.”
He grinned, “You do.., and I’ll tell Mother I caught you trying on her knickies.”
More frustrated than timid, the strawberry freckles gathered sharply between her eyes, “You wouldn’t!”
Then a woman, whose disposition was more stale than week old pumpernickel, leaned forward from behind and went, “Shhh!...”
This time both heads of adolescence disappeared beneath the wooden barrier. But their parents, Allister and Elizabeth, looked on.
After everyone had stood reverently to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the service came to a close. Then as if he had been released on a six day furlough, Donovan made an unshackled dash for the front door and out to the beige Bentley, where Preston shoved the bottle beneath the driver’s seat just in time. As soon as he sprayed his breath with mint freshener, the heavy rear door slammed shut.
“I could have gotten that for you, sir,” he dutifully, but off-handedly offered. It was an exasperating post he held.
“Nah,” waved Donovan. “Give it a rest,” he replied as he got lost in the deep tan leather of the back seat, pushing buttons to the electric windows and door-locks.
“Isn’t there anything else you can toy around with?” the guardian questioned in aggravation.
Donovan replied, “I guess I can listen to music,” as he took his red backpack from the floor and pulled out his cellphone with an ear piece. He scanned the screens with his finger until he got to his music selections, and then pressed for some industrial punk. As it started blaring in his eardrum, Preston could hear it from the front seat, as Donovan jerked his shoulders and head to and fro in the backseat.”
“My battery is almost dead,” he yelled forward. “Remind me to charge it when we get home!”
Preston scoffed, “Oh, do be sure to charge it boy, I can’t imagine what you’d do without it.” He gave some encouragement, as he anxiously tapped the steering wheel with one hand, while courteously tilting his gray monogrammed cap to those passing by, all the while hoping that the rest of the family would join them soon. Real soon.
Viola remained close to her mother’s side, while she and her father socially greeted other members.
“So, Winthrop,” a hard-bearing dark eyed acquaintance addressed him. “Is the quarry keeping you a good man these days?”
The insinuation was planted deep.
“Your timing is impeccable,” Allister replied sternly, trying to avoid a confrontation. “First it was my father’s burial.., and now the house of God. Surely, you’ll stop at nothing to win your gain.”
“Don’t get pious with me,” the man’s voice was full of empathy and reproach. “Why, I’ve known your family since you were ye high. And you’ve never been one to let a good deal sour, especially on the Sabbath.”
Even though it was true, Allister turned his back on his accuser with a breath of fueled air and took Elizabeth by the arm.
“Rumor has it the union is prepared to strike..,” the man pressed on, a little louder and less conspicuous than before.
Being careful to conceal the snarl that was taking over his face, Allister turned back around. “And since when do you represent the Union, Dillinger?”
“Why, I’ve always taken an active interest in my fellow man,” he laughed, giving him a slap on the back that would have been befitting of an old chum.
“Yes, well.., save it for the altar,” he snapped back.
Elizabeth interrupted, “Please darling, we do have a plane to catch.”
“Of course, love,” he responded, grateful for the cue.
“It’s not the last you’ll be hearing from me on this,” the voice trailed behind them.
“Pity,” Allister forced a gentlemanly nod and they left the building.
Soon they had joined Preston and Donovan in the car, with Allister in the front seat and Viola between her mother and Donovan in the back.
“That bloody, bumbling, belligerent fool..,” Allister cursed. “Who does he think I am anyway, someone totally bereft of dignity?
Why, I could buy that blasted quarry twenty times over if I wanted to!”
Viola squealed, “Mother, Donovan’s licking the glass!” always the snitch.
Elizabeth’s thoughts were with her husband though, as she responded from the back seat. “Must we discuss this in front of the children? Besides, he has made us a fair offer, and I think we should at least consider it. You’ve said yourself how nice it would be to simply shut it down.”
“You can’t be serious?! That was only in jest,” he rubbed his eyes and readjusted his glasses. “Anyway, shutting it down is one thing, but selling out is quite another. Dispossess the family empire? I wouldn’t hear of it!”
“Need I remind you then, that it’s yours alone and it’s not
even an empire—it’s a business. Yancey relinquished his share and reinvested long before your father died. And I might add.., is doing quite well. He’s his own man, Allister.” She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror and began toiling away with her bangs at his unwillingness to see reason.
“And I suppose you’re implying that I’m not?” the anger rose in his voice.
“I’m not implying anything,” Elizabeth sighed, exhausted from the fight that had gone on for months now. “It’s just that..,” she sincerely stressed, “we have more at this very moment than we, or our children, could possibly spend in a lifetime. How much is enough, Allister? And when do we actually get to start enjoying the benefits of being so secure?”
However, rather than replying, he seemed lost in the insatiable quest that had summed up his whole existence to this point. Instead, he just looked forward in a numbed gaze, as his eyes followed closely the details of the pavement and not the road ahead.
Miss Lucia had only been with the house staff for five years, but she was an endeared hostess and caregiver. Even though her simple black uniform and dirty-blonde honey-bun hairstyle conformed to the rest of the motif, she was still very attractive, which didn’t go unnoticed to pubescent Donovan. Sometimes he tried to show her how much he thought of her, as any other crafty young lad might.
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