Heritage

by Judy Nunn

  Lucky stopped feeling self-conscious. Why should he? he wondered. The women obviously weren’t.

  ‘An Authority official misspelled my name on the application form,’ he said. ‘He put “Luckman” and I couldn’t be bothered correcting him.’

  ‘And Aussies being Aussies, he was “Lucky” from then on,’ Peggy chimed in.

  ‘I like it,’ Ruth said.

  Peggy was glad they were talking so candidly. ‘He can be Samuel to you and Lucky to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’m getting used to Lucky,’ Ruth smiled. ‘It suits him.’

  They both looked at Lucky, and he turned to peer comically over his shoulder as if there were someone behind him. They laughed and he took Peggy’s hand once more.

  ‘Shall we keep walking?’ he suggested. ‘I’d like to reach Maarten’s before dinner gets cold.’

  They continued on their way, the women still talking, and Lucky thought how alike Ruth and Peggy were at heart. They were strong, unpretentious and scrupulously honest. No wonder he loved them.

  It was Ruth who brought up the subject of Pietro. She knew all about the circumstances of his death – her fellow workers had talked of little else for the past week. She’d found it hard to believe that the handsome young Italian she’d met at Dodds barely a month ago was dead, remembering how he and his pretty young wife had spent the whole evening dancing. They’d also told her at work that the girl was pregnant, which had made the news of her husband’s death even more shockingly sad.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about Pietro,’ she said to Lucky. ‘Rob Harvey told me you were good friends.’

  ‘We were,’ Lucky nodded, ‘we were very close.’

  ‘How is poor Violet coping?’ She directed the question to Peggy.

  ‘She’s not,’ Peggy replied. ‘She’s a mess. At first everyone worried she might lose the baby, but she’ll keep it, they say, she’s physically strong. It’s her mental state that’s the problem. Oh God, you should have seen her at the funeral – it was awful. She was deranged.’

  For the past week Peggy had avoided all discussion of Pietro and Violet. She’d talked to Lucky but no-one else – her guard had gone up the moment the topic was mentioned. She found it a relief now to speak openly to Ruth, knowing she was removed from the grapevine of gossip that was Cooma.

  ‘She accused Maarten Vanpoucke of killing him. She kept yelling “you killed him, you killed him, you have the eyes of the priest” – she was demented in her grief. It was horrible to see.’ The scene at the graveside remained etched in Peggy’s mind.

  Lucky was relieved she was unburdening herself. He knew how deeply she’d been affected and had been concerned by the way she’d closed herself off, even in the company of those who truly cared.

  ‘Pietro had recurring nightmares about a priest who wanted to kill him,’ he explained to Ruth. ‘And because he died in Maarten’s surgery, Violet developed this fixation. In her mind, the doctor became the priest.’

  ‘She still believes it,’ Peggy said. She’d visited Violet at the family property a few days earlier and had initially been relieved to discover the girl was no longer under sedation. But it had disturbed her to find that Violet was still in a state of distraction. ‘She keeps saying the doctor killed her husband and he has the eyes of the priest. She says it over and over.’

  ‘How terrible,’ Ruth said. ‘The poor girl.’

  They were still discussing Violet when they arrived at Maarten’s house, and as they walked through the open gate and approached the front door, Ruth looked at the ground-floor bay windows of the doctor’s surgery. That was where the young man had died, she thought, in the very same room where she’d had her examination; it was awful to contemplate.

  Lucky rang the bell and it was Maarten himself who opened the front door and greeted them. He’d intended to have Mrs Hodgeman show them in, but he’d become impatient – they were fifteen minutes late.

  ‘Lucky,’ he said, shaking his hand effusively, ‘welcome.’

  ‘Sorry we’re a bit late. We walked.’

  ‘No matter, no matter. Peggy,’ he said and made a show of kissing her hand.

  Peggy felt self-conscious at the theatrical gesture but she chastised herself. The man was European and in his own home – what right did she have to be critical of a social etiquette to which she was unaccustomed?

  ‘Hello, Maarten.’ She turned to smile at Ruth. ‘We’re to blame for being late; we were too busy talking.’

  ‘Naturally.’ How comfortable the women seemed with each other, he thought. ‘And, Ruth, my dear.’ He kissed her hand also, careful not to allow his lips to linger too long. ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Hello, Maarten, thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He delighted in her use of his Christian name; he’d thought that he might have to remind her. ‘Come in, come in.’

  He escorted them through the hall and up the grand staircase.

  ‘What a beautiful house,’ Peggy said as they emerged onto a polished wooden landing and Maarten ushered them into the lounge room. It was certainly impressive, she thought, taking in the lavish furnishings, the Persian carpets, the paintings and the objets d’art, although a little too opulent for her taste.

  ‘Thank you, I like to surround myself with beautiful things.’ He didn’t look at Ruth as he said it, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye. She, too, was gazing around the room, and he noticed how perfectly she belonged here. A creature of such beauty should be surrounded by beautiful things.

  ‘A comfortable lifestyle is important to me,’ he said to Peggy, but the words were directed at Ruth. It was his intention to impress on her the comfort, the life and the style his wealth could offer her. That was why it had been necessary to bring her here. It was a pity Lucky and Peggy had to be involved, but there’d been no other way.

  He crossed to the bottle of Dom Perignon which sat in an ice-bucket on the sideboard. ‘Do make yourselves at home. Is everyone happy with champagne? Lucky, would you prefer a beer?’

  ‘Champagne’s fine by me,’ Lucky said. He would have preferred a beer, but he didn’t want to halt the man’s flow – Maarten was in his element, playing the host with great flair.

  ‘May I?’ Ruth asked, gesturing to the open French windows leading to the balcony.

  ‘Of course,’ Maarten said, opening the champagne.

  He watched her as she stepped outside. This is your home, Ruth, he thought, as he eased the cork from the bottle.

  Ruth stood on the balcony, breathing in the air with its first hint of autumn chill. She looked out over Vale Street. Several blocks away to the right she could see the crosses of the Brigidine Convent silhouetted against the clear night sky, but her mind was on the boy and his pretty wife, the way they had danced and been so in love. The talk tonight had disturbed her, and she couldn’t rid herself of the couple’s image as she thought how young Pietro had died in the room just below. She rejoined the others.

  They sat sipping their champagne, and Mrs Hodgeman arrived with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Maarten heralded her entrance with great aplomb. ‘Mrs Hodgeman is our chef extraordinaire,’ he said, and Noreen Hodgeman, overwhelmed by the honour, gave a clumsy approximation of a curtsy.

  He introduced her to his guests. ‘Miss Minchin,’ he said, ‘Miss Stein, and of course you know Lucky.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss,’ she said to each of the women, and to Lucky, ‘Good to see you, sir.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hodgeman.’ Lucky gave her a special grin, aware that no amount of urging would make her call him ‘Lucky’ – at least not under the doctor’s roof. Under the doctor’s roof he would always be ‘sir’.

  Peggy found it bizarre. She realised that Lucky and Ruth, being European, might not find it so, but she certainly did. Mrs Hodgeman was an outback Australian. Her worn and weathered look and her accent said she was a woman of the land – Peggy knew such women well – but her manner, her servility was very
strange. In fact, Peggy was finding the whole household strange, a fragment of Europe, complete with its class distinction, transplanted right here in Cooma.

  Then Mrs Hodgeman disappeared and Kevin arrived with the wines, which Peggy found even more bizarre. Maarten didn’t introduce the young man – he simply announced that they were having beef tonight.

  ‘Which will it be, the Bordeaux or the Burgundy?’ he asked as he took the two bottles from Kevin and rose from his armchair to present them to Lucky, who was sitting on the sofa with Peggy.

  ‘Hello, Kevin,’ Lucky said. As always, he didn’t like the dismissive way Maarten treated the young man, but his friendly recognition did the boy no favours. Kevin ducked his head, more shy than ever with other people present.

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, Maarten,’ Lucky said, not bothering to examine the labels on the bottles. ‘I’m sure we’re all happy to bow to your judgement.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll have a palate test then.’ Maarten was pleased; he loved a discussion of good wines. ‘Decant them both,’ he said to Kevin.

  Having been careful not to make eye contact with anyone, Kevin virtually backed out of the room.

  Lucky didn’t dare glance at Peggy. He knew she found Maarten’s peremptory attitude offensive and this treatment of Kevin disgraceful, but it was just Maarten’s way, he thought. The Dutchman was trying too hard to impress perhaps, but he was lonely, he enjoyed entertaining, and he was behaving in the manner to which he’d no doubt been accustomed in his homeland. Lucky preferred the Australian way himself, and he would freely admit the fact to Peggy when they got home and she ranted about snobbery, but for now he hoped she would exercise a little self-control. When Peggy saw what she perceived as an injustice she could be very outspoken.

  ‘And how is poor Violet, Peggy?’ Maarten asked as he picked up a napkin and side plate from the large coffee table and helped himself to the hors d’oeuvres. He’d gathered that Peggy was very close to the girl, and it seemed the right thing to ask, under the circumstances. ‘I believe her physical state is stable and she won’t lose the baby, is that right?’ It was what he’d heard.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Peggy replied.

  ‘How fortunate,’ he said. ‘I was very concerned, given her outbreak at the funeral, that there may have been repercussions.’

  ‘There were none.’ Peggy’s tone was curt.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ he replied, faking sincerity. How dare the schoolteacher speak to him like that?

  ‘It must have been very hard for you, Maarten.’ Ruth tried to cover the uncomfortable gap in the conversation. She was surprised Peggy had sounded so abrupt. Surely the doctor deserved some sympathy. ‘Such a terrible thing to have happened – he was so very young.’

  ‘Indeed, most shocking.’ How like Ruth to show tact and diplomacy, he thought; she was a woman of style, unlike the crass little schoolteacher. ‘It’s always sad to lose a patient, but as you say, Ruth, one so young …’ Maarten shook his head sadly. ‘Edith and I did everything humanly possible, but he was gone, poor boy. Edith herself was most upset. I gave her several days off work to recuperate, she was so affected.’

  ‘Do you think we could change the subject?’ It was Peggy, being brittle again.

  ‘Of course, my dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.’ The little schoolteacher was showing herself in a most unfavourable light, he thought. She was not only plain, she was waspish. He sensed that she didn’t much like him. Well, the feeling was mutual, he thought.

  ‘Peggy’s quite right,’ he said, ‘it’s not a night to be maudlin. And when all’s said and done,’ he smiled at Ruth, ‘we cannot undo the past, can we?’ He looked at her for just a fraction too long, and, not sure what to say, Ruth nodded politely.

  Maarten turned to Lucky. ‘It’s your choice, my friend,’ he said. ‘What shall we talk about?’

  ‘The Cooma Show,’ Lucky said. ‘Why not? Everyone else is – only a fortnight to go now.’

  It was an innocuous and wise choice, and the awkwardness of the moment passed. Ruth had heard of little else but the Cooma Show for the past week, she said. Well, apart from Pietro, she thought. She was interested to learn all about the forthcoming event, which was obviously of such local significance.

  ‘Peggy’s the expert – she’s on the committee, has been for years.’ Lucky sensed that Peggy was regretting her abruptness. The others didn’t realise, he thought, that her brittle manner was simply her way of coping.

  Peggy gratefully seized on the chance to vindicate herself. She spoke briefly about the Show’s importance to the district and the impact the advent of the Snowy Scheme had had upon it, but she mainly amused them with stories of local rivalry.

  They were still talking about the Show when Mrs Hodgeman announced that dinner was ready.

  ‘Shall we adjourn?’ Maarten said, and he led the way through to the dining room.

  Where was she? Peggy wondered as they entered the room. It certainly wasn’t Cooma. A dining table that could have seated twelve was set for four with Dresden china, silver cutlery, damask napkins and crystal wine goblets. A huge floral arrangement was placed at the far end of the table as if to disguise the absence of other guests, and a candelabra with four lit candles sat in the centre, alongside two huge silver domed platters, a crystal bowl of steamed green vegetables, a silver gravy boat and a condiment set. Mrs Hodgeman stood by, waiting for them to be seated, and Kevin hovered beside her, a decanter of wine held reverently in his terrified hands.

  Maarten indicated where they were to sit and, as Lucky pulled out Peggy’s chair and sat beside her, the brief look she gave him spoke multitudes. He had told her that Maarten was a lonely man, and she understood what he meant now. Maarten Vanpoucke longed for more than company, she thought. He longed for another world.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Maarten said, seating himself beside Ruth, ‘but with just the four of us I thought we’d keep the meal simple, Australian style, and forgo an entrée. But I promise Mrs Hodgeman will make up for it with dessert.’

  Kevin poured a taste of wine for Maarten, and Mrs Hodgeman unveiled the platters – eye fillet already carved, glistening pink, and roast vegetables laid out decoratively in rows. As she started to serve, Maarten swirled the wine in the glass, held it up to the light, sniffed it and gave a satisfied nod.

  While Kevin filled the guests’ glasses with the utmost care, the conversation from the lounge room continued.

  ‘The best thing about the Cooma Show,’ Lucky announced, ‘is the ball. I’m sorry, Peggy,’ he said in mock apology, ‘but you can keep your prize heifers and wood-choppers and showjumpers. For me, it’s the ball.’ He grinned at her. Remember, his eyes asked, remember when you invited me to the ball and flaunted our relationship the way you did?

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes answering that she remembered vividly. How could she forget? ‘The ball is always exciting, particularly if you’re fond of dancing.’ They’d danced till they were ready to drop that night.

  The intimacy of their exchange was quite obvious to the others, but of far greater interest to Maarten was Ruth’s reaction to it. She was happy for Lucky, he realised as he glanced at her. She was actually happy that her husband had found a new love. The two had severed their ties completely: she was free. Maarten felt exhilarated.

  ‘You must come along with us, Ruth.’ Peggy hauled herself back to the conversation, a little flustered, aware that she and Lucky had been eminently readable. ‘We could invite Rob Harvey and make up a four.’

  Behind his spectacles, Maarten’s eyes flashed angrily. How dare the little schoolteacher interfere, and who was this Rob Harvey? Of what importance to Ruth was he? He distracted himself by examining his glass of wine, giving it a swirl, another inhalation.

  ‘Rob Harvey and I are just friends,’ Ruth gently corrected Peggy. She wanted no misunderstanding – she wasn’t ready to be paired off with anyone yet.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought …’ Peggy realised th
at in her flustered state she’d been rather tactless, so she decided to make a joke of it. ‘Just as well,’ she said, ‘he’s a terrible dancer.’

  ‘So I gathered.’ The women shared a smile. It was another reference to the night they’d met and they liked each other for it.

  Maarten’s anger turned instantly to elation. Ruth had been sending him a message – she wanted him to know she was unattached. She was already attracted to Maarten Vanpoucke; the chemistry they’d always shared was making itself felt.

  ‘I’m very fond of dancing myself,’ he said, smiling at the schoolteacher; he forgave her now. ‘In fact, I’m quite an expert in the tango.’ He turned to Ruth. ‘But they probably don’t tango in Cooma,’ he said, intimating a worldliness they had in common. She must have noted that the two of them were a cut above the others: the schoolteacher was crass, and for all his style Lucky had developed a common Australian streak.

  ‘I don’t tango, I’m afraid,’ Ruth said. ‘I never learned how.’ Maarten seemed to be inferring they shared a love of the tango, she thought. It was rather odd.

  ‘Ah well,’ he smiled forgivingly, ‘perhaps I can teach you. I’ve learned from the best – no-one tangos as they do in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been to Buenos Aires?’ she asked with interest.

  ‘Yes, I worked there briefly after the war for a Dutch medical centre,’ he replied. He wondered why he’d brought up Buenos Aires; he’d never spoken of the place since he’d been in Australia. Probably just to impress her, he thought. But it had paid off, he’d caught her attention.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go there,’ Ruth said. ‘Is it as colourful as they say?’

  ‘More so. More colourful than one can imagine.’ He would take her to Buenos Aires, he decided. He would take her anywhere in the world she wanted to go.

  ‘Do start, everyone,’ he said. He would have preferred to have continued his personal conversation with Ruth, but Mrs Hodgeman had served them all and left the room.

  ‘A toast.’ He raised his glass. ‘To old friends reunited, and to new friendships forged.’