Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  Kate read on, her eyes riveted to the page, her mind teeming with images, she could see this girl, she could hear her voice. Elianne Desmarais had ceased to be a remote ancestor, or even a younger version of Grandmother Ellie as conjured up by the romantically inclined Hilda Durham. She was just Ellie, eighteen years old: the same age as Kate.

  I do not doubt my husband’s love for one moment; indeed the very force of it can be terrifying. My husband would not hesitate to kill any who threatened me and were it necessary he would lay down his own life in the process. These are grave responsibilities to bear and I find myself treading warily.

  Jim often asks me what I’m scribbling about and I usually say ‘My scribblings are about us, dearest. I scribble about you and me and our love.’ That makes him happy. He does love me, of course he does, but in the only way he knows how, which is not a love I recognise as such. I am a possession to Jim – he owns me. Our coupling remains devoid of tenderness. He takes me in triumph, like a prize he has worked hard to win and has a right to lay claim to . . .

  Kate was amazed, not only by the naked candour of Ellie’s writing, but the fact that the relationship between husband and wife appeared to differ so completely from the great love supposedly shared between Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim. Were the stories she had been fed over the years born purely of her mother’s need for romance? But then she recalled the vague childhood images of Grandmother Ellie. Elegant, serene, she’d seemed a woman with a love that had sustained her through tragic times, and her support for her husband was known by all to have been absolute. Surely, Kate thought, these early writings were the result of a young woman’s loneliness, perhaps fed by disillusionment. Perhaps, like Hilda, Ellie had been overly romantic in her expectations, both of her husband and the new country to which she had been transported. Surely she must have adjusted over time.

  And there was certainly a great deal to adjust to, Kate thought, listing the discoveries she had made herself in this one short hour of reading. If Ellie was right, Big Jim had cancelled her father’s debt in order to buy her. He’d been a blackbirder in his youth, or so Ellie had been told. He’d ruthlessly killed a man in cold blood, and Ellie had witnessed the event.

  Kate found it difficult to comprehend. This was the Durham patriarch whom everyone revered, indeed considered a hero. This was the very man upon whom her father had modelled himself. She was confused. Who was she to believe? The legends passed down over three generations or the scribbles of a young woman nearly eighty years ago?

  She checked her watch. A special lunch was planned at The Big House, a farewell in her honour, as she was leaving for Sydney early the next morning; she could not afford to be late. Ten more minutes, she told herself, just ten more minutes. But she would not read on from where she had left off, barely a quarter of the way through the first ledger. She could not reveal findings such as these to her mother. She would flick through the final ledger and discover the matriarch Ellie had become, the woman whom Hilda Durham had so worshipped. Then she would feel confident in telling her mother of her find, and she would promise to translate the writings of Grandmother Ellie, or at least a selection of them.

  Kate opened the last of the ledgers. In sorting the books into sequential order, she had noted that the first entry in each was dated, after which Ellie rarely recorded a date unless it marked a specific event. The books were not diaries as such: there was no particular form to them and the entries were sporadic, random thoughts for the most part. Indeed Ellie’s ‘scribblings’ as she called them.

  The opening date in the final ledger served a dual purpose, for it did most certainly record a specific event. Kate felt the faintest shiver run down her spine as she read of the birth of her father.

  1er septembre 1914

  What a momentous occasion! Bartholomew’s dear wife, Mary, has borne him a son, Stanley James Durham. Jim is so overjoyed that his first grandchild has proved a male, one would swear he had fathered the boy himself. He struts about like the proudest of peacocks, while Bartholomew and I look on with amusement.

  It pleases me that my gentle Bartholomew appears finally to have done something right in his father’s eyes. Jim has always been such a hard taskmaster. For my part, I hope the arrival of baby Stanley will prove a distraction from what lies ahead. I know Jim is proud Edward and George have signed up, he boasts of his sons fighting for King and Country and says he wishes he could go himself. But although it will be some time before they leave for the front, surely he too must worry about the possible outcome. Even now while my boys are safely at training camp, the horrors of war play on my mind and I am filled with trepidation.

  Oh dear, Kate thought. She knew all too well the next specific event that would be recorded. Edward and George had met their deaths side by side on the beach at Gallipoli. Along with hundreds of others, they had been mown down during the initial landings on 25 April 1915, the day that was to become forever known as Anzac Day.

  She moved on a dozen or so pages and there it was. The entry had been made two weeks after the family had received notification.

  Jim is inconsolable. His grief is frightening to behold. My own heart breaks as I think of my darling boys dying in that Godforsaken place. My heart breaks for all our darling boys; the whole country is in shock, but I must somehow stay strong. Jim needs me as he has never needed me before. I am all that stands between him and insanity . . .

  Kate stopped reading. She would address this harrowing material with the respect it deserved at a later date, she decided, but here clearly was an example of the love and support that epitomised the relationship between Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim. She felt more secure now in telling her mother about her discovery of Ellie’s writings. Hilda Durham would weep to hear such words from the woman she so admired.

  Another quick check of her watch told her she should be going, but unable to resist the compulsion, she flicked on still further.

  The birth of Bartholomew’s daughter in 1917 was clearly a salve to Ellie.

  Our dearest Mary has given birth to a daughter, Julia May Durham. To have a little girl join the ranks of our family is to me a great joy, particularly after losing baby Beatrice all those years ago. How I longed for a daughter.

  Julia’s arrival offers little comfort to Jim, however. Perhaps if our second grandchild had been another boy, things might be different – male heirs are all-important to Jim, and grief continues to weigh upon him immeasurably . . .

  Kate was saddened for them both, for Jim still burdened by grief two years after the death of his sons, and most particularly for Ellie, who had apparently lost a baby daughter. How strange that none of us knew that, she thought. Ellie must have kept the fact a secret even from her own children, for no member of the family had ever spoken of it. Hilda would certainly have recounted such a tragic event had it been general knowledge, and Bartholomew had never made any mention of losing a sister.

  She turned to the last several pages of the ledger. There were no dates marked in the final entries, but she didn’t get to the last one in any event. She was halted by the first paragraph she read, abrupt and shocking.

  I intend to stop my scribblings shortly. They no longer serve a purpose. What is the point in being honest to oneself when one’s whole life has been a lie? Better surely to live the lie. And that is what I shall do. I tell everyone lies. Why not myself? I lie to my husband and to my son, and even to my grandchildren. It is simpler to tell them what they wish to hear. I believe it is healthier too. Let Jim believe I love the monster that he is, and has always been. Let Stanley believe his grandfather is the hero he presumes him to be. Let Julia believe in the great mythical love shared by her grandparents. My lies protect my family . . .

  Kate read no further. She closed the book, aghast, a lifetime’s illusions shattered in one instant. A sense of panic engulfed her and she glanced about guiltily, fearful that someone might find her with this betrayal of all that her family had held sacred. One of her brothers might appear at
any minute, having been sent to fetch her.

  Fortunately there was no one in sight, and as she gathered up the ledgers she tried to reason with herself, to make sense of what she had just read. This outburst of cynicism was uncharacteristic, Ellie’s ‘scribblings’ were just random thoughts and feelings, she told herself, these views were the reflection of a passing mood, no more than that . . .

  But as she carried the armload of books to the car no attempt at logic could stop her mind reeling with unanswerable questions. Had her great-grandfather been a monster to be feared, as Ellie had openly stated? Had Ellie spent her whole life protecting her family from the man she’d married? Had she elevated Big Jim to hero status and created a mythical love in order to do so? Kate was in turmoil. What should she do? Who should she tell?

  She piled the ledgers into the boot, and just as she did so she spied Alan walking up the track. He gave her a wave.

  ‘You’ve been summoned,’ he yelled. ‘We’re all waiting, and we’re all starving.’

  She slammed the boot shut. ‘Yes, sorry, I got a bit carried away,’ she called back.

  He arrived beside her.

  ‘Come and give me a hand,’ she said, leading the way to the storage area, ‘there’s a pile of Grandmother Ellie’s books that I want to take back to Sydney.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  He followed her amiably and held out his arms as she loaded him up with the assortment of novels she’d chosen.

  ‘Crikey, they’re in good nick, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I was pretty surprised, I must say.’ She picked up the last several books, ‘you should take a look yourself, Al,’ she said, closing the trunk, ‘see if there’s anything in there you want.’

  Alan glanced down at the collection clutched to his chest: all were novels and all bore French titles.

  ‘Like a manual on harvesters or something?’ he replied.

  Kate laughed and they headed back to the car. He halted briefly at the boot, waiting for her to open it, but she didn’t, she opened the rear door instead.

  ‘Just dump them on the back seat,’ she said, ‘I’ve got other stuff in the boot.’

  ‘Rightio.’

  As she drove back to The Big House, Kate was tempted to tell Alan of her find. Despite his youth, she knew that if she were to tell anyone, it would be Alan. She’d always joked that her little brother was the ‘strong silent type’, but in truth he was. Al’s the strongest of the three of us, she thought. He doesn’t hurt as easily as Neil and he doesn’t lose his temper like me, he just closes off. The truth wouldn’t shatter him as it would Neil, and he’d never tell a soul. But then, she asked herself, what is the truth?

  Already the secret was a burden that Kate longed to share, but she knew that to shoulder her brother with the same burden at this stage would be unfair. It would be unfair not only to Alan, but also to Ellie and to Big Jim. I must keep an open mind, she told herself. I must make no judgement and draw no conclusion until I’ve read all of Ellie’s writings and know the whole truth. She would take the ledgers to Sydney and study them over the ensuing weeks.

  The family luncheon was festive, Hilda having insisted upon the serving of champagne.

  ‘If we are to lose our daughter for close to another whole year,’ she’d said to her husband, ‘then we must toast her departure in a manner befitting the occasion.’

  Kate had told her mother that she would not attempt to return home during the three term breaks allowed. ‘We get little more than a week off, Marmee, maybe two at the outside – it would be too disruptive. And I intend to study.’

  ‘Very well, dear.’ Hilda, disappointed but stoic, had decided to drown her sorrows. ‘What must be, must be,’ she’d said, and demanded champagne.

  Stan had readily agreed, although he intended to stick to beer himself, and Max had set out on ice two bottles of Dom Perignon. There was an ample supply left over from Christmas and New Year celebrations.

  Being a strictly family affair, they dined as they usually did in the pleasantly airy breakfast room, the ceiling fan alleviating the heat of midday, but despite the homely surrounds Cook had gone to some pains to provide a special luncheon. Knowing Kate’s penchant for fish, she’d baked an extremely large and extremely fresh barramundi that she’d had Max fetch directly from the fishermen’s wharf at Bundaberg Port that very morning. As she sailed stoutly in from the kitchen with the giant platter bearing its giant fish, she was given the customary round of applause. Cook always enjoyed making an entrance.

  Kate looked about at her family, at her two brothers dishing themselves hefty portions of the various salads Ivy had set out on the table, at her father pouring her mother a second glass of champagne, at her grandfather studying with avid interest the way Cook was so expertly filleting the baked fish. Such an ordinary, domestic scene, she thought, yet she felt in some way divorced from it. Something comfortable was missing, and she wondered whether perhaps she might live to regret having discovered Ellie’s ‘scribblings’.

  Plates were passed along to Cook, who served the portions of fish, after which she departed with the platter, now bearing the barramundi’s denuded backbone and head, its one visible eye glaring malevolently. When she was safely out of sight, Kate leant in to her grandfather.

  ‘Watch you don’t cop a bone,’ she whispered.

  Bartholomew smiled his thanks for the reminder. No one would dare mention such a possibility in Cook’s presence, but the occasional bone had been known to make an appearance, so he sifted through his fish with care.

  Max’s morning trip to the wharfs had resulted in more than a large barramundi: he’d also returned with the mail, which he’d collected from the post office on his way back through town.

  ‘I had a Christmas card from Julia this morning,’ Stan announced as he helped himself to the potato salad, ‘she obviously didn’t realise she’d forgotten the airmail sticker. Typical.’ Stan’s younger sister, Julia, lived in Canada with her schoolteacher husband and family. ‘She sends her love to everyone. Father actually received a letter, didn’t you?’ he added in a rare address to Bartholomew, who for the most part was invisible to his son.

  Bartholomew nodded. He’d been delighted to hear from his daughter. Her letter had been very affectionate and chatty and he’d gained a great deal of pleasure from it. Already, he was halfway through writing a response in his painstaking spidery hand.

  ‘Julia’s once-a-year duty,’ Stan said dismissively. ‘I don’t know why she bothers. It’s a case of out of sight out of mind on both sides of the Pacific; we all know that.’

  Kate found her father’s comment shockingly insensitive. The light of pleasure in Bartholomew’s eyes at the mention of his daughter’s letter had been plainly evident. She glanced at her grandfather, expecting to see hurt, but there was none. Stanley’s words had had no effect whatsoever. Impervious to insult, Bartholomew simply continued to sift through his fish. The father was equally capable of ignoring the son, Kate was glad to note.

  Stanley Durham had always been dismissive of his sister for deserting Queensland and her roots, which Kate considered most unfair. It was hardly Julia’s fault that she’d fallen in love with a Canadian. She had met her aunt on only one occasion, and Julia had seemed to her extremely kind.

  ‘Look after my father for me, Kate,’ Julia had said, ‘I can tell that he loves you.’

  Julia had come back to Elianne three years previously upon the news of her mother’s death, her first visit in nearly twenty years. She had been too late for Mary’s funeral, but she had stayed for a fortnight, hoping to be of some comfort to her father, whose stroke had quickly followed the death of his wife.

  ‘I only wish I could stay longer,’ she’d said, ‘but with three children back home, I’m needed. The tyranny of distance, I’m afraid. Australia is so very far away.’

  She’d parted with an enigmatic comment, which at the time Kate had presumed was intended to amuse.

  ‘I leave you with Stan
the Man, my dear,’ Julia had said as she’d hugged her niece warmly, ‘or is it Big Jim? Sometimes I have trouble telling the difference.’

  Now, with the topic of her aunt raised and Ellie’s words still swirling in her brain, Kate recalled Julia’s remark and found herself reading more into it than she knew she should. Surely it had been made in jest, with perhaps a touch of sibling archness, but it seemed somehow to take on a deeper significance . . .

  Stop it! She chastised herself. Stop fantasising: you’re being ridiculous. Stop thinking about the ledgers, for God’s sake. Put them out of your mind!

  But it wasn’t that easy. Throughout lunch, Big Jim featured several times in Stanley Durham’s conversation, as Big Jim so often did, and on each occasion his name was mentioned, Kate’s mind rebelled. What would you say if I told you your hero was a blackbirder, Dad? Gazing across the table at her father, always so opinionated, his confidence bordering on arrogance, his beliefs inviolable, her mind continued involuntarily to fire questions. Hey Stan the Man, what would you say if I told you Big Jim killed a person in cold blood? What would you say if I told you his wife considered him a monster . . .? Stop it, she told herself, stop it!

  ‘You’ve been rather quiet over lunch, darling.’

  They were well into Cook’s famous mulberry pie when Hilda voiced her concern to her daughter. Kate hadn’t been her usual talkative self. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Of course it is, Marmee. I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted. Just thinking of what lies ahead, lining up new digs, uni and all that.’

  ‘Yes, I sensed you were miles away. Well, I should think that’s understandable,’ Hilda patted her daughter’s hand in a vague gesture of sympathy, ‘half of you is probably already in Sydney.’

  ‘That’s right.’ How she wished she were. Kate couldn’t wait. She longed for the distraction of the big city, and of Jeremy and the discovery of sex. She needed to be away from Elianne and all she loved there. She needed to distance herself.