Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  ‘Isn’t he terrible?’ Paola said during the drive home. ‘A film as wonderful as that and he spends the whole time looking up at the sky.’

  Or at you, Kate thought. ‘Didn’t you like it, Al?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much,’ he said, his eyes on the road as he drove. ‘I thought it was a bit soppy.’ He smiled apologetically into the rear-vision mirror at Paola, who was seated in the back. ‘Not enough action for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not enough action?’ She was appalled. ‘They get chased by Nazis!’

  ‘Yeah, but only in the last few minutes and nobody’s killed.’

  ‘Your brother has no taste at all, Kate,’ Paola said. ‘Unless it’s a gangster film he’s not remotely interested.’

  ‘You’re lucky. It used to be cowboys and Indians.’

  ‘It still is.’ Alan accepted their ragging good-naturedly. ‘And if I can’t get a dose of either, I’ll look at the stars.’

  Alan didn’t actually care what film he saw. All he could think of was the day when he’d have his licence and be able to drive Paola into town without someone else sitting in the front seat. He was sick of being treated like a child. And more importantly, he was sick of being made to appear a child in Paola’s eyes. But he was grateful to Kate.

  ‘It was beaut having the Holden tonight,’ he said as they pulled up in the front driveway after dropping Paola home. Kate had no idea whether there’d been a good-night kiss; she’d discreetly looked the other way as he’d walked Paola to the door.

  The two of them climbed out of the car and started up the main steps of the Big House.

  ‘Thanks, Kitty-Kat,’ he said.

  ‘A pleasure, Al-Pal,’ she replied.

  They smiled; they hadn’t used those nicknames for years.

  How different everything is, Kate thought a little later as she lay in her bed, the lamp still on, gazing about at the familiar things that surrounded her; strange how everything can look the same and yet be so different. But then times have changed, she told herself. Alan’s grown up, Neil’s off at army camp, I’m at university . . .

  But try as she might, she couldn’t distract herself from the truth. The changes in her life and her brothers’ lives were part of the natural transformation she’d sensed on her trip home the previous Christmas: she could not ignore the difference that now existed. This difference went far deeper than simply growing up and moving on: it was reflected in everything she saw around her. Even the past, now viewed through different eyes, would never be the same. The diaries had made sure of that.

  Reaching out her hand, she switched off the bedside lamp. She must not think about Ellie. She’d determined that during this trip home she would put the diaries from her mind. An impossible task, she was aware – their revelations would always be with her – but to dwell upon the unanswerable questions they raised was a pointless invitation to torment. She rolled on her side, willing herself to sleep.

  ‘You and I must visit Elianne House today, Kate.’ The following morning over breakfast Hilda made her solemn announcement. ‘We must pay our respects.’

  ‘How can we?’ Kate replied bluntly. ‘It’s gone.’

  Stan and Bartholomew glanced up from their plates, both mildly surprised by her brusqueness, but Alan stifled a smile as he tucked into his eggs and bacon. He loved his sister’s lack of pretension.

  Hilda was not amused, however, by what she saw as her daughter’s blatant irreverence. ‘I am fully aware of that, Kate,’ she said, piqued and more than a little hurt, ‘but we must pay tribute to the demise of Elianne House. As a measure of respect to Grandmother Ellie if nothing else,’ she added tightly.

  ‘Of course.’ Kate smiled an apology. She hadn’t meant to sound terse; it had not been her intention to offend. As a rule she was happy to indulge her mother’s need for drama, but for some reason the words had just popped out that way. ‘We’ll go straight after breakfast, Marmee, I promise.’

  A half an hour later, Kate pulled the Holden up in the front driveway of Elianne House or rather the untidy remains of what had once been the front driveway, for vegetation had steadily claimed the grounds of the old home. As for the house itself, there remained no visible sign that here had once stood an early Queenslander of impressive dimensions and gracious design. Verdant growth had reclaimed the site with a greed that seemed to denounce humanity’s right to have ever built here in the first place, vines and bushes and grasses vying for supremacy over the rubble and remnants that lay buried beneath.

  The women climbed from the car, Kate circling to stand beside her mother.

  ‘Good God,’ she said in amazement, ‘it’s disappeared completely.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hilda replied, ‘isn’t that terrible? After seventy-five years Elianne House has been wiped from the face of the earth, just like that, gone forever. It’s more than terrible,’ she said, her face a mask of tragedy, ‘it’s shameful that such a thing should have been allowed to happen. The past has been stolen from us, Kate.’

  Which is probably not a bad thing, a voice in Kate’s brain said, but she remained silent as together they stared at the mass of tangled growth that had sprouted to claim its own with such ferocity.

  ‘Big Jim built the house for Grandmother Ellie in 1890,’ Hilda said pensively, still seeing in her mind’s eye the old home in all its grandeur. ‘Elianne House was a gift of love.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Kate marvelled at the fact that she felt absolutely nothing. Surely this is a healthy sign, she thought, with a vague sense of relief. If only she could put her knowledge of the past behind her with the same ease as she could Elianne House, then perhaps . . .

  Hilda, having turned to look at her daughter, was now studying her astutely as Kate gazed out at the landscape.

  ‘You’ve changed, Kate,’ she said.

  Visited by an unrealistic fear that her mother might somehow have divined her thoughts, Kate started guiltily. ‘Changed?’ She tried her best to sound casual. ‘In what way?’

  ‘You’re confident now.’

  ‘Since when have I not been?’ What a strange remark, Kate thought.

  ‘I mean that you’re at home with your beauty, dear.’ Hilda examined her daughter’s face, clinically, unashamedly, like a doctor examining a patient for infinitesimal signs of a condition. Yes, she thought, Kate is no longer a virgin. She wears her womanliness like a badge and my goodness how it does suit her.

  ‘Oh my darling,’ she said fervently, overcome by a sudden surge of emotion, ‘I do hope he loves you. You deserve someone who can offer you true love.’ Then in typically mercurial fashion, the feyness vanished to be replaced by maternal practicality, and questions darted like arrows. ‘Who is he, dear, tell me? What does he do? Would I like him?’

  Relieved though Kate was that no supernatural divination had taken place, she found her mother’s perceptiveness confronting. Rather than avoid the issue as she would normally have done, however, she chose to answer in all honesty.

  ‘He’s a university student, Marmee,’ she said, ‘and I don’t know if you’d like him. His name is Jeremy, he’s just finished his Bachelor of Arts and intends to go on to his Masters, and I’m not sure if either of us knows what “true love” is.’ She smiled, not wishing to sound callous. ‘To be quite honest, I think it’s a strictly fairy tale term.’

  ‘Oh, you modern young career women,’ Hilda gave an exasperated wave of her hand, ‘I don’t understand your cynicism, really I don’t.’ She wondered briefly whether she should offer a mother’s cautionary advice about ‘taking care’, but it hardly seemed necessary. Kate was far cleverer than she could ever hope to be. Besides, this was the sixties: things had changed. There was the contraceptive pill. Girls knew how to look after themselves these days.

  She looked out again to where the old house had once stood. ‘Perhaps it is wise after all to be cynical,’ she said wistfully. ‘Perhaps you’re right to keep your expectations to a minimum. Not everyone is destined to experience a great love.
’

  Kate felt a stab of irritation. Hilda was wandering down some wishful lane to the past again, a past of her own invention.

  ‘Time to go home,’ she said briskly. She was no longer prepared to pander to the fantasy.

  Any consideration Kate may have once given to the sharing of Ellie’s writings, at least in some part, with her mother had gone. She had decided not even to share them with her brother Alan. Not yet anyway. The diaries must remain a secret for the moment, their future uncertain. She had already embarked upon the painstaking exercise of their translation, which she intended to complete in time, but to what end she wasn’t sure. Perhaps for posterity – they were documents of historical interest after all – or perhaps to be kept locked away for future generations of Durhams. She might possibly, when she had completed their translation, let Alan read them for himself, thereby gaining a confidant who could help her decide upon a course of action. Right now she was certain of only one thing. She could not expose her parents to the lies and deceit upon which their lives had been based.

  Private Neil Durham was granted ten days’ leave over Christmas and the New Year, his arrival home completing the family reunion.

  ‘My God, just look at you,’ Stan said, holding his son at arm’s length, a proprietorial hand on each shoulder. ‘Army life suits you, my boy, there’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Dad’s right,’ Kate said, eyeing her brother up and down admiringly. ‘I never realised you were so handsome.’

  She was joking, but it was true nonetheless. He had always been good looking, but now Neil’s body had filled out, the musculature clearly defined; he was not only fit, he was strong and it showed. But more than that, Kate registered a new self-assurance in her brother, a new manliness.

  Neil laughed and hugged her. ‘You’re not too bad yourself, Sis.’

  The Christmas luncheon was a repetition of the previous year with the same intimate gathering of family and friends. The Krantzes were there – Ivan with his wife and son – and the Fiorellis – Luigi, his wife and two children, foregoing their customary extended family gathering for the honour of dining at The Big House. But there was a subtle shift in relationships, or so it seemed to Kate. Surely Ivan is a little less deferential, she thought, his manner a little bolder. It would make sense of course. Ivan was no longer dependent upon Elianne for a living. Elianne was only one in any number of Krantz & Son clients, the most important admittedly, but just one nonetheless. Ivan and his son were doing very well, she’d been told.

  ‘We’re branching into some exciting new investment areas, Stan,’ Ivan said. ‘We’d love to run them by you, wouldn’t we, Henry?’ Henry nodded. ‘These are thrilling times for the sugar industry. Times of expansion, times of change –’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’ll talk later,’ Stan said dismissively as he reached out and speared another slice of turkey from the platter. ‘Now’s hardly the time.’

  There had been occasions in the past when Kate had felt herself cringe at her father’s arrogant treatment of others. She didn’t now. She thought it crass of Ivan to talk business over the family Christmas lunch, and she wasn’t the only one. Glancing at her mother, she caught Hilda’s eye peering over the rim of the champagne glass she’d just lifted to her lips. Poor form, Hilda’s eye said, pushy, vulgar. Hilda, too, was pleased to see Ivan put in his place. And put in his place Ivan was. He backed down immediately.

  ‘Of course, Stan, of course,’ he said with a bonhomie that denied the insult he’d just been delivered, ‘wrong time to talk, I agree.’ He beamed at his son. ‘We tend to get a bit carried away with the excitement of it all, don’t we, Henry?’

  Henry nodded again. Neither of them wanted to end up on the wrong side of Stan the Man.

  Kate was briefly distracted from the interplay of friction by her grandfather’s quiet signal for the hot mustard. She passed him the pot for a second time and watched with amusement as Bartholomew piled another heaped spoonful onto the side of his plate. Then, as she ate her own meal, she looked around at the gathering.

  It isn’t just Ivan, she thought. The table seemed fraught with undertones, or was it just her imagination working overtime? The glances her father kept darting at Alan and Paola seated together with eyes for none but each other clearly signalled his disapproval, which was hardly surprising. But there was a guardedness also from Luigi, who every now and then scowled in the young couple’s direction, he too distracted by the attention they were paying each other.

  Maria Fiorelli nudged her husband. Kate was not the only one who’d noticed Luigi’s ill humour.

  ‘Non rovinare le cose, Luigi,’ she whispered.

  Luigi re-directed his scowl to his wife. What did Maria mean? How was he spoiling things?

  ‘Guardo a voi. Non cipiglio. È Natale.’

  ‘Ah. Scusa.’ Luigi hadn’t even realised he’d been scowling. Maria was quite right, he told himself, he mustn’t spoil Christmas. He painted on an obliging smile, which looked rather fake and foolish and Maria smiled gratefully in return.

  Maria Fiorelli was not overly concerned about her daughter. She was of the same mind as Hilda Durham, the argument she’d presented to her husband having been very similar to that proffered by Hilda to Stan.

  ‘It is a first love and an innocent one, Luigi,’ she’d said when he’d voiced his worry. ‘Alan is a good boy. He would not take advantage of Paola. You of all people would know this.’

  Luigi did. If there were any one boy in whom he would place his trust it was most certainly Alan Durham. Luigi had been a true friend and mentor to Alan for the whole of the boy’s life; he knew the boy better than did the boy’s own father. But what if over time the relationship between Alan and Paola developed into something more serious? The two could not marry.

  His wife was quick to address his fears. ‘And if it were ever to become serious,’ she continued, ‘you would always have an ally in Mr Stan.’ Unlike her husband, Maria was not on first-name terms with Stan the Man. She did not wish to be: respect demanded their employer remain ‘Mr Stan’ at all times. ‘Mr Stan would never allow his son to wed a Catholic,’ she said.

  ‘So you do not think I should forbid Paola this friendship?’

  ‘No. That would only make matters worse. And here is something else to think upon, Luigi. Alan’s presence will protect Paola from less desirable youths who may come sniffing about. Best we leave things as they are for now. When she is of age we will remind her of the nice Catholic boys she has grown up with. Or we will write home to see if someone there has a son worthy of our Paola.’

  ‘Very well, Maria, I will trust in your wisdom. We will say nothing.’ But despite his wife’s common sense, Luigi did not stop worrying.

  Nor did Stan Durham, and as both families maintained a pained silence, the only two oblivious to the undercurrent of disapproval were Alan and Paola.

  Throughout the main course, the customary toasts were made to friends and family, but Stan ensured the principal toast was reserved for Neil and his forthcoming tour of duty in Vietnam.

  ‘To Neil and his military service to this country,’ he said solemnly, rising to his feet.

  There was a shuffling of chairs as the others quickly followed suit, glasses raised. ‘To Neil,’ they said.

  ‘So when do you think they’ll send you over there?’ Ivan asked when they were once again seated.

  ‘None of us knows for sure,’ Neil said, ‘but not for a while yet. We’ve got close to another five months of training to go, so I reckon around May some time.’

  The general discussion then not unsurprisingly turned to the war in South Vietnam and not unsurprisingly Stan was quick to express his opinion. Stanley Durham was very much in favour of Australia’s commitment.

  ‘Communism’s spreading like a rampant bloody disease throughout Europe and now Asia,’ he said, downing his knife and fork and pushing his plate from him. ‘If the Reds take South Vietnam we’ll be next in line you can bet on it. They have to be stopped.�
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  Prior to his son’s conscription, Stan had shown little interest in the conflict in Vietnam, which had seemed to him so very far away. A civil war in a remote Asian country couldn’t possibly affect us here at Elianne, he’d thought, if indeed he’d given the matter any consideration at all. He was of quite a different mind these days and, never one to dither, his views were as always black and white. Shades of grey rarely entered Stan’s arguments.

  ‘But you surely don’t believe,’ Ivan said, ‘that mandatory national service is the answer.’ He cast a deferential look to Neil, intending no disrespect. ‘I mean Australians said no to conscription twice during the First World War. To introduce it now, and without a referendum, seems a radical move by the government, don’t you think?’ Ivan Krantz was only too relieved that his son Henry had missed out on the government’s national service lottery by a good two years.

  ‘If conscription is what it takes to stem the spread of communism then yes I most certainly do,’ Stan declared emphatically. ‘Our boys are being called up to serve a noble cause and they should feel proud to be a part of it.’

  Ivan didn’t agree at all, but he retired from the discussion, knowing argument would be futile; and besides, he had no wish to cross Stan.

  Kate felt intensely irritated. Ivan’s views obviously differed from her father’s and he was an intelligent man – he should have answered back. She wasn’t sure which aspect of the exchange irritated her most, her father’s belligerence or Ivan’s lack of spine, but she found herself diving in.

  ‘What about those who oppose the very principle of war?’ she demanded, squaring up to her father across the table. ‘What about those who are against the taking of human life? Should they be conscripted? Is it right they should be forced to do what they believe is morally wrong?’

  Silence descended. Even the clink of cutlery ceased.

  ‘Yes,’ Stan said, glowering darkly at his daughter. ‘Sacrifices are made in a war: men kill and are killed. Cowards cannot be tolerated.’ He shifted his focus, directing his attention solely to Neil. ‘If my son is to answer his country’s call, then so must the sons of others.’