Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  Finally Ivan decided it was his turn. ‘I wish to propose a toast to Kate,’ he said, rising from his chair.

  Ivan, although second-generation Australian, was of German extraction. His grandfather had arrived in the area in 1890, contracted to work on the construction of the railway bridge that was to be built over the river connecting North Bundaberg to the township. Following the bridge’s completion, however, Gustave Krantz had stayed on. He’d married the daughter of a German timber man, and settled in Bundaberg working for Wyper Brothers, the hardware merchants. His only son had eventually married and moved south, where Ivan had been born.

  Despite the fact that he’d been born, raised and educated in Brisbane, Ivan considered his grandfather’s history qualified him as a local, a view with which the others were in complete accord. Ivan Krantz was a bona fide Bundy boy to the locals, and to those who lived on the estate he was one of the Elianne family.

  ‘I speak on behalf of your friends, Kate.’ Ivan looked about the table at his wife and son and the Fiorelli family. ‘We are, all of us, so very proud of you,’ he said, the others obviously in full agreement. ‘Your father told me some time ago that your acceptance into Sydney University was an extraordinary accomplishment, and now he tells me that you’ve completed your first year with distinctions in all subjects. What a remarkable achievement. We salute you.’

  Ivan raised his glass in formal salutation. He was a dapper man to whom appearances were important. Ivan believed an accountant should look like an accountant. And Ivan did. He was by no means humourless, simply practical, a quality which Stanley Durham respected. The two understood each other implicitly and were the best of friends. Stan the Man also believed in the importance of appearances.

  ‘To Kate,’ he said.

  ‘To Kate,’ they all echoed, and Kate smiled from one to the other, acknowledging the tribute.

  ‘I must say,’ Ivan added jokingly when they’d drunk to the toast, ‘I salute you also for besting your father. Few who do battle with Stan manage to come out on top.’

  There was general laughter all round as Ivan offered a further mock toast and sat.

  Ah, Luigi thought, so that explains things. The fact that Stan Durham had permitted his daughter to go to Sydney had been a source of mystery to Luigi, but clearly Stan had not been in favour of the idea at all. Kate’s triumph, therefore, was certainly no mean feat.

  ‘Si, si,’ he agreed, joining in Ivan’s joke. ‘Is not many win a fight with Stan, this is most true.’

  Luigi did not realise, in that instant, that he had crossed the line. Nor, for that matter, did Ivan.

  Stan felt a surge of anger as he watched them, chuckling away, sharing their joke from one end of the table to the other. Seated at the head as he was, he had chosen to place Ivan beside him to his left and Luigi in the more prestigious position at the far end of the table. His intention had been to avoid any element of hierarchy or snobbery and assure the Italian of his equality among friends.

  And this is how I’m to be repaid, he now thought. I’m to be mocked in my own house at my own table! He wasn’t sure who had angered him most, Luigi for his presumption or Ivan for relaying information given him in private and, even more unforgiveable, relaying it incorrectly.

  ‘I was not “bested”, I can assure you, Ivan,’ he said coldly. ‘And I can assure you, Luigi, that there was no battle fought. As you just mentioned yourself, Ivan, and as I recall telling you at the time, Kate’s acceptance into Sydney University was an extraordinary accomplishment.’ Stan decided it was Ivan who’d angered him most. Ivan should have known better.

  The table fell silent. Stanley Durham’s displeasure was so evident that even Paola Fiorelli and her younger brother, Georgio, registered something was wrong, although they had no idea what it could be.

  Their father Luigi was also unsure. Luigi realised he must have overstepped the mark somehow, but his relationship with Stan had always involved a degree of jocular familiarity. What had he done to offend? He had been honoured that he and his family had been invited to the Big House and he’d warned his children to be on their best behaviour, accustomed as they were to the big rowdy Christmas parties shared each year with their uncles and cousins. And yet it was now he who was in the wrong. How had this happened? Luigi was puzzled.

  Ivan Krantz was not. Ivan realised he’d made a mistake. He regretted the fact, but thought, Good Heavens above, it was only a joke. Why is Stan so touchy?

  ‘Sydney University’s Veterinary Science course, upon which Kate has embarked, has the strictest intake quota.’ Placing his hands on the table before him, Stan addressed the gathering as if he was giving a lecture, and indeed he was. ‘Kate’s matriculation – at the age of sixteen, I might add – was so impressive that her application for enrolment was accepted over dozens of students who were a year her senior. She has been offered a Commonwealth Scholarship to the most prestigious university in the land! What father could fail to be proud of such academic achievement?’ He paused fractionally as if defying anyone to differ, which of course no one did. ‘My daughter went to Sydney with my full blessing and approval.’

  ‘Of course she did, dear.’ Hilda, seated beside him, thought how frightfully pompous he sounded, but she placed her hand over his in a gesture of solidarity. ‘Kate has always had your total support. She knows that, we all do.’ Glancing across to Ivy, who was standing at the servery awaiting instruction, Hilda signalled the girl to start clearing away the dishes. Then she turned once again to her husband. ‘Shall we have a little more champagne before the pudding?’ she suggested.

  ‘We shall indeed.’ Stan gave a wave to Max, who was also standing by awaiting orders. Max was the most senior of the household staff and served as butler, although the term was never used. Max was simply Max.

  Hilda’s calming influence had had the desired effect and as Max disappeared to fetch more Dom Perignon the awkward moment passed.

  Hilda and Kate did not look at each other. In fact they assiduously avoided any form of exchange, wary of betraying Stan in his lie. Both remembered, only too vividly, the confrontation between father and daughter.

  ‘Don’t you realise what an honour it is for me to be accepted into Sydney Uni, Dad?’ Kate had pleaded desperately. ‘Particularly being a Queenslander. Sydney rarely accepts Queensland Vet Science students: their course is hugely overcrowded. Queenslanders always go to Brisbane –’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘Because Sydney has accepted me, that’s why!’ Kate had wanted to scream in her frustration. Why was he being so obtuse? ‘Because my matriculation marks were the highest. Because they believe I’m academically gifted. Because among the applications they received from all over the country they chose to accept me! Why do you want to stand in my way? You should be proud of me. Shouldn’t he, Marmee? Tell him for God’s sake. He should be proud.’

  ‘Let her go, Stanley,’ Hilda had said. ‘Let her go to Sydney.’

  But Stan hadn’t even glanced at his wife. He was annoyed. ‘What’s wrong with a Queensland university? You’re looking down on your own kind now, are you, girl? You think you’re too good for us.’

  ‘That’s not true at all.’ Dear God he was being tiresome, she thought, tiresome and pigheaded. She was a Queenslander to her bootstraps and proud to be so, as he damn well knew. ‘Townsville would offer as good an education I’m sure,’ she said wearily, ‘it’s just that –’

  ‘Then that’s where you’ll go.’

  ‘No it’s not, Dad.’

  They’d stood their ground, facing each other off like a pair of duellists. She is openly defying me, Stan thought. How dare she! ‘You’ll bloody well do as you’re told, girl.’

  ‘No. No I won’t do as I’m told,’ she calmly replied. ‘We’re talking about the next five years of my life. It’s my right to choose where I live those years.’ That was the real truth of the matter, Kate realised. She was flattered to be accepted into Sydney University, it was true, but th
e city itself was the major attraction. She’d never been further south than Brisbane, and even then she’d been locked away in a boarding school. She wanted to experience life in a big city with all it had to offer. Much as she loved her home, Kate wanted to become part of a world that was far removed from Elianne. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she’d said, ‘but I’m going to Sydney Uni with or without your permission, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

  ‘Oh isn’t there?’ he’d sneered. ‘And what about money? You think you can live without an allowance, do you?’

  ‘Certainly, if need be. I’ll get a job waiting tables or serving in a shop – a lot of students do.’

  Stan had known then that he’d lost the battle, that she’d go to Sydney, that he’d give her an allowance – no daughter of his would wait tables or serve in a shop!

  The general buzz of conversation had returned to the table, and from her central position beside Bartholomew, Kate looked down towards the far end where her father was now chatting to Ivan. Or rather Ivan was chatting to her father. Perhaps the poor man is apologising for his faux pas, Kate thought, although why he should feel the need was beyond her.

  Kate understood why her father had been so over-defensive. He was not accustomed to admitting defeat. He’d even claimed non-surrender as a family dictum. ‘“Never say die”, that was Big Jim’s motto,’ Stan had boasted over the years. ‘Never give in. Never admit defeat. That’s the Durham way.’

  As Kate studied her father, he turned to meet her gaze, either sensing he was under scrutiny or expecting to be, or perhaps both. Their eyes met, and the smile they shared was instantaneous. Both recognised the truth. Stan’s declaration, pompous though it was, had been more than a matter of self-preservation. Stan was proud of his daughter. He was immensely proud. And his daughter knew it.

  ‘Did you see them in Sydney, Kate?’

  ‘See who, what?’ Kate’s attention was diverted by her brother Alan. Seated opposite her, Alan was flanked on either side by Paola and Georgio Fiorelli. The three, who had been friends their entire lives, were engaged in earnest conversation.

  ‘The Beatles,’ Alan said in a way that seemed to intimate she hadn’t been paying attention. ‘A gang of us tried to see them in Brisbane, but the teachers wouldn’t let us out of school. They thought we’d be caught up in a riot.’

  ‘Did you see them, Kate?’ Paola asked eagerly. She was an attractive girl, with thick dark hair tied up in a pony-tail.

  ‘Not in performance, I didn’t go to the Stadium, but yes I did see them.’

  ‘Really?’ Paola was wide-eyed with excitement. ‘Did you get to meet them?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Kate laughed. ‘I stood outside the Sheraton Hotel in the pouring rain with hundreds of others.’

  ‘Ringo wasn’t there though, was he?’ Alan said assertively, as if trying to catch her out.

  ‘No, he was ill in hospital according to the newspapers. There was a replacement drummer, I don’t know –’

  ‘Jimmy Nicol.’ Alan nodded knowingly. Then he added in an aside to Paola, ‘Ringo joined them in Melbourne for the rest of the tour.’

  He’s showing off, Kate thought, and she wondered why. It wasn’t at all like Alan to show off. Quietly confident in his own right, Alan usually left others to claim centre stage.

  ‘Ringo was with them when they came to Brisbane,’ Alan said to Paola. ‘I would have seen him if only they’d let us out of school. Ringo’s my favourite.’

  ‘Paul’s mine,’ she replied.

  ‘Me and Paola saw A Hard Day’s Night at the pictures in Bundy,’ thirteen-year-old Georgio piped up.

  Alan was caught out. He hadn’t seen the film yet. ‘Ringo came up with that title, you know.’

  ‘Did he?’ Georgio was successfully distracted by the non sequitur.

  ‘Yep, A Hard Day’s Night, they got the title from something Ringo said. He’s a lot smarter than people give him credit for.’

  Alan continued to ignore his sister as he led the discussion into which member of the Beatles was the most influential, but Kate didn’t mind. The reason for her brother’s uncharacteristic behaviour was becoming patently obvious. Alan was out to impress Paola. How interesting, she thought. The two had grown up in each other’s company, sharing each other’s childhood, attending primary school together in South Kolan, but during this past year there’d clearly been a shift of balance in the relationship. It was not difficult to see why. Fifteen-year-old Paola was now a very pretty girl, and fifteen-year-old Alan had noticed.

  The Christmas pudding arrived, huge and impressive, carried on a giant silver platter by none other than Cook herself. Cook’s name was actually Maude, but the only person who called her Maude was Max, for the simple reason that Max was married to her. To everyone else she was known always as Cook. It was a term of respect. Cook was far more than a name: it was a title.

  The appearance of Cook and the pudding drew a round of applause from the guests and successfully called a halt to Alan’s dissertation on John Lennon. Kate smiled to herself. It was touching somehow to see her little brother so fiercely asserting his masculinity. She hoped that Paola was impressed.

  Two weeks later, just after breakfast, the family and all five household staff members assembled in front of The Big House for the presentation of Kate’s eighteenth birthday present. Bartholomew Durham actually allowed himself to be assisted down the front stairs by his daughter-in-law in order not to hold up the proceedings. Kate herself was blindfolded and shepherded by her brothers, one on either side, out the main doors and down the stairs to the large circular driveway, the dogs following and joining in the excitement. There, Neil whipped off the blindfold and they all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ while she stared open-mouthed at the brand new Holden Premier Sedan in gleaming gun-metal grey with white roof, bucket seats and leather upholstery.

  ‘Happy birthday, Kate,’ Stan said as he handed her the keys.

  When hugs had been exchanged and the general delirium had died down, the staff departed and Bartholomew wended his way back up the stairs, independently this time, at his customary snail’s pace. It was then that Stan, with a glance at his wife, attempted to put a proviso on the gift.

  ‘We thought it might perhaps be best if the car stayed here at Elianne –’ he started to say, but he didn’t get any further.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dad.’ Kate laughed out loud, as if he’d actually been joking. ‘You can’t give me a car and then tell me not to drive it.’

  Yes, Stan supposed, that did sound a bit silly – it had been Hilda’s idea and Hilda was often unrealistic. Kate was an experienced driver, after all. She’d been driving on the estate since she was fourteen years old, as had all three of his children – indeed Alan had been driving since he was twelve. But a sense of trepidation remained nonetheless. The traffic in Sydney was horrendous. On the numerous trips he’d made himself over the years, he’d always hired a chauffeur-driven limousine. Never once had he chosen to drive the city streets himself.

  Kate was aware of her father’s misgivings, and also of the reasons for them. Of course Stan Durham would find Sydney traffic daunting. He was the product of a time that had moved more slowly than the sixties, and he was accustomed to wide, open spaces.

  ‘I’ll be careful, Dad, I promise.’ She gave him another hug. Then she added cheekily, ‘It’s only a city you know, like Brisbane but bigger,’ and Stan felt thoroughly patronised.

  Kate turned to her brothers. ‘Do you want to come for a drive?’

  ‘Rhetorical question,’ Neil said with a grin. ‘Where’ll we go?’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ She looked from one to the other.

  ‘Bargara,’ Alan replied boldly, knowing it was probably further than she’d intended. ‘We could go for a swim.’

  ‘Rightio. Grab your togs.’ Then the thought occurred that it might be a courtesy to check with her parents. ‘Is that all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ her mother rep
lied, ‘just so long as you make sure that you drive very, very carefully.’ Hilda herself had never driven a vehicle in the whole of her life. She didn’t know how, and had no desire to learn. ‘If you’re going to loll around on the beach,’ she added, ‘you might want to take along a picnic lunch. I shall ask Cook; I’m sure she’ll be happy to prepare some sandwiches.’ She started towards the stairs. ‘Now I really must go inside, Stanley, it’s becoming altogether too hot out here in the driveway.’

  ‘Make sure you’re back by late afternoon,’ Stan called over his shoulder as he joined his wife. ‘Cook’s planned a special birthday dinner.’ Even Stan the Man deferred to Cook.

  As her parents left, another thought occurred to Kate.

  ‘Hey, Alan,’ she said, ‘why don’t you ask Paola to come along?’

  ‘All right,’ he replied, doing his best to sound casual, ‘good idea.’

  ‘Better ask Georgio too.’

  ‘Yep,’ Alan said regretfully.

  But as fortune would have it, Georgio was playing football that afternoon, so Alan and Paola had the back seat all to themselves.

  They drove the fifteen miles to Bundaberg, crossing over the old bridge that forded the Burnett River and into the centre of town. Solid, grand and ornately designed, the old Burnett Bridge had served Bundaberg’s traffic since the birth of the century.

  A number of heads turned as they drove up and down the main road; Neil waved through the open passenger window to the people he knew. ‘You can feel the envy from here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, she’s a bit conspicuously new, isn’t she,’ Kate smiled and gave the steering wheel an affectionate caress, ‘I might have to muddy her up a bit.’

  They paraded up and down the entire length of Bourbong Street, Bundaberg’s massively broad main thoroughfare, where vehicles were parked down the centre of the road and on both curbsides, and where bustling shops and businesses did a roaring trade. They passed pretty Buss Park and the elegant stone building that was the School of Arts, and they passed the imposing clock-faced tower of the post office. Rising above the general cityscape like a giant exclamation mark carved out of stone, the post office clock tower was the unmistakeable symbol of Bundy.