Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  ‘Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids did you kill today?’

  ‘Johnson – murderer! Johnson – murderer!’

  Before long before the police and security teams had the situation under control and the motorcade was able to continue on its way, but the plan for a brief welcoming halt at Hyde Park and a leisurely procession through the city streets had now been well and truly abandoned. The president, the prime minister, the premier and the rest of the official party were to be transported along the planned route to the Art Gallery with as much haste as was humanly possible.

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ Jeremy urged, ‘we’ve got to beat them to it.’

  He started racing off through the park and Kate joined him, matching his pace. Jeremy had been among the first to fling himself down in front of the president’s car, Kate quickly following suit, but both had easily escaped the clutches of the police who’d dragged them out of the way, as had most of the other protestors. Amidst the bedlam the police had been frantically intent upon clearing the roadway to allow access for the motorcade. There’d been no time to make on-the-spot arrests.

  From the outset, the students’ idea had been to cut through the park and arrive at the Art Gallery before the official party, thereby allowing opportunity for a further concerted protest, and already demonstrators were racing on ahead.

  Kate and Jeremy, sprinting at top speed, overtook many and were with the first dozen or so to arrive. Others soon joined them. They too had moved fast and were well ahead of the motorcade, despite its speedy journey through the city streets.

  American flags had been hoisted from the many flagpoles of the New South Wales Art Gallery, and a cheer went up as the demonstrators managed, one by one, to haul them down. By the time the motorcade arrived, a single flag only remained.

  Accompanied by the chants and jeers of protestors, the members of the official party were hastily whisked from their limousines and into the art gallery. The entire exercise had been a public relations disaster. This was not at all the warm welcome intended by the Holt government; nor was it the reception the Americans had expected from their staunch ally. The demonstration had proved an immense success.

  The full measure of its success became evident in the media coverage that followed. Some of the local reportage was condemnatory, accusing the demonstrators of ruining the day for schoolchildren who hadn’t even noticed the president speed by. How heartless, they said. But the true impact resonated far and wide, the message broadcast on television screens and splashed across the front pages of newspapers around the globe. There were clearly many Australians who were not ‘all the way with LBJ’.

  ‘I think we made our point,’ Jeremy said smugly and in a huge understatement. ‘Well done, everybody.’

  The students assembled at the Empress raised their glasses and cheered, Kate as loudly as any present. Despite her recent reservations about Jeremy, she supported the protest action on every possible level. If a demonstration of such magnitude could help put a stop to Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War then she was proud to have played her part. Besides, the sooner her brother came home the better.

  Kate missed Neil that Christmas when she returned to Elianne. The two had always been close, as had all three of the Durham siblings, but the letters she’d received from her older brother over the past several months had introduced a new level of intimacy.

  There’s so much I’d like to share with you, Kate, he’d written on one occasion. As a rule, he wrote chattily and often with humour, avoiding any talk of the war, but this time he’d closed on a distinctly serious note.

  . . . so much I long to talk about and can’t with my mates over here. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a really beaut bunch of blokes – you couldn’t get better – but in this particular instance they don’t understand. I suppose I feel the need to unburden myself to a woman, which of course makes me the ‘softie of the family’ that you always said I was, but I don’t care. I’d love to pour a whole lot of things out to you, but I’m unable to in a letter, the army being the way it is. I know I sound enigmatic – sorry, don’t mean to, but the simple fact is I miss you . . .

  Several other letters had contained similarly veiled references to something he couldn’t write about and Kate started to suspect that it might be a woman. Is he having an affair? she wondered, on active duty, in the middle of a war? If so, how extraordinary.

  The latest letter, addressed to her at Elianne and arriving in mid-January, had concluded even more enigmatically. After regaling her with the raucous Christmas Eve he and his mates had spent in Vûng Tàu and the endless toasts to family and friends back home, which he vaguely recalled had reduced them all to drunken tears, he’d once again ended on a serious note.

  I have a secret I need to entrust you with, Kate, and a favour I need to ask of you. As before I can’t write of it, and I’m sure by now these cryptic references to ‘something afoot’ have become thoroughly irritating, but my tour of duty will be over in July and I promise all will become known then. I won’t go home to Elianne on my return to Australia: I’ll come directly to Sydney and we’ll talk.

  In the meantime, a Happy New Year to you, Sis. I hope 1967 proves everything you wish it to be, particularly the outcome of the referendum. I know how strongly you’ve been fighting for Aboriginal rights and I admire your devotion to the cause, just as I admire everything about you.

  My love always,

  Neil

  Far from finding the mystery her brother hinted at irritating, Kate was intrigued. If anything his cryptic references were helpful, distracting her as they did, just a little, from the daily worry for his safety.

  ‘I get the feeling you’re not too happy about Tech, Al. Am I right?’

  ‘My oath you are, but Dad’s dug his heels in so there’s not much I can do about it. I wish he’d just let me get on with my apprenticeship – I don’t need a bloody diploma!’

  Kate smiled sympathetically. Such vehemence was rare in Alan, and she was aware of his frustration. ‘You probably know as much as the teachers do anyway,’ she said, but it appeared there was no humouring him. He just scowled darkly and gazed out at The Basin, where Paola and Georgio were splashing about in the shallows alongside the families and their children.

  It was a hot Saturday afternoon and the four had driven to Bargara, Alan at the wheel – he’d had his licence for a long time now and revelled in the freedom it afforded him. This would be their last opportunity to spend time at the beach together before Alan’s departure in two days. Having matriculated the previous year, he was to take up his apprenticeship in Brisbane as a fitter and turner, but his father had insisted he simultaneously undertake a Diploma course in mechanical engineering at the Technical College. Stan the Man considered it only proper that as a Durham his youngest son should have a qualification that set him above the average mechanic. Alan himself couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Look at them dog-paddling, will you? Georgio’s nearly as lousy a swimmer as Paola,’ he now said in a bid to make amends, aware that his manner had been unnecessarily surly. ‘Mind you the kid makes up for it at footie: by crikey, he can kick!’

  Kate followed the direction of her brother’s gaze, but Alan was not looking at Georgio. His eyes were unashamedly fixed upon Paola, which was hardly a surprise. Kate had sensed from the moment she’d arrived home that their relationship was stronger than ever.

  ‘You’ll miss her, won’t you?’ She expected the directness of her question to be met with a careless shrug or some attempt at nonchalance, but as he turned back to her the candour of his reply took her completely by surprise.

  ‘Of course I will. I always do. But we’re used to it now, both of us. And I’ll be back.’

  How incredibly assured he is, she thought. He’s become a man and a confident one at that. Her brother’s body had broadened certainly, and his face had lost its boyishness to take on the brooding Durham look, but it was his manner that most impressed. Alan was mature far beyond his
seventeen years.

  ‘I love her, Kate,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one I’ll tell, because I know I can trust you. I love her and she loves me.’ Although he hadn’t planned upon making any form of declaration, Alan found that he enjoyed saying the words out loud. ‘Mum and Dad . . . Luigi and Maria . . . they all think that my going to Tech will somehow change things, or that Paola will meet someone else while I’m away. But nothing will change. We’ve made our plans. We’re going to wait until we’re eighteen and then we’re going to tell them we want to get engaged. We won’t marry until after I’ve finished my apprenticeship and gained my Diploma, but Paola and I will be together. Nothing will stop us.’

  For Alan it was quite a speech, but as usual he was succinct and to the point. Alan never minced words. He awaited her response.

  Kate could have stated the obvious. She could have warned him that all hell was bound to break loose, but she didn’t. Why bother? He already knew. ‘I’m happy for you Al,’ she said. ‘I’m happy for you both.’ She smiled. ‘And I have to admit, just a little envious.’ She was, she realised. She’d never experienced the depth of feeling these two shared. She didn’t love Jeremy; she never had.

  ‘It’s good to have an ally, I must say.’ He grinned, his face reverting to its former boyishness, and she resisted the urge to hug him, jumping to her feet instead.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’m boiling. Let’s join the dog-paddlers.’

  Before her trip home for Christmas, Kate had again contemplated sharing the secret of Ellie’s diaries with Alan. After almost two years, she had nearly finished translating the ledgers, there was just one more to go, and throughout the entire process she had relived every moment of their revelations. She welcomed the prospect of sharing the burden. But the timing was wrong, she’d decided. Alan’s life was about to undergo a radical change; he didn’t need the added pressure.

  Perhaps she’d tell Neil when his tour of duty was over and he returned in July. She always said ‘when’ not ‘if’ to herself, by way of affirmation that Neil really would come home. Yes, that’s the best plan, she thought. By then she’d have finished the translation and he could read the diaries for himself. And he was now capable of handling the truth. Far from being the family ‘softie’ as she’d jokingly accused him it was quite clear the army had strengthened him immeasurably.

  The following day a farewell luncheon had been planned for Alan along traditional family lines, complete with champagne, at Hilda’s insistence. ‘I refuse to toast my son’s future with a glass of beer,’ she’d announced when Stan had said he’d prefer to stick to Four X.

  Ivan’s son, Henry, was to be present as representative of the Krantz family. ‘Mum and Dad are in Melbourne,’ he’d told Hilda when she’d rung to invite them, ‘Dad has a series of meetings with investors and Mum likes to head south whenever she can during the summer.’

  Stan had harrumphed at the news and the fact that no apology had been offered. There had been a time when Ivan Krantz would have jumped to any required height upon the merest click of his good friend Stanley Durham’s fingers, but those days were clearly over. Stan felt like telling young Henry not to bother turning up, but he didn’t. Ivan remained a close friend, and far too much investment was at stake to risk a parting of the ways. Elianne was reliant upon Krantz & Son.

  Alan had wanted to invite the Fiorellis as well, but his mother and father had suggested they keep the lunch strictly a family affair.

  ‘It’s easier on Cook, darling,’ Hilda had said mildly. ‘Four more guests entails a great deal of extra work.’

  He didn’t bother countering with a query about the Krantzes’ invitation. And since when had the number of guests worried Cook, whose favourite saying had always been ‘the more the merrier’? The reason behind the Fiorellis’ exclusion was all too pathetically obvious, but it didn’t matter anyway: he’d already arranged to take Paola for a drive in the late afternoon. They’d make their own farewells in private, which was vastly preferable.

  With only six to table they dined casually in the breakfast room, although Cook and Ivy had gone to great pains to create a celebratory atmosphere, laying out one of the heavier lace tablecloths, the best silverware and the cut crystal champagne flutes.

  ‘You’re at the other end, son,’ Stan said peremptorily as he seated himself in his customary chair at the head of the table.

  Alan dutifully took up his position while Hilda and Kate sat either side of Stan as was expected, leaving the other two chairs for Bartholomew and Henry. Being a sign of pecking order, seating was always important to Stanley Durham, and most particularly today. Under no circumstances would he have young Henry Krantz placed at the foot of the table, a position that would have been reserved for his father had Ivan been present. Henry was an uppity little prick with tickets on himself.

  Henry Krantz did indeed give the impression of arrogance, possibly because he tried too hard. Like his father he was a dapper dresser, believing as his father did that in business appearances were all-important, but at twenty-five, his body already tending to the fleshy, the image he wished to portray was sadly beyond him. What should have been style and panache came across as pomposity and self-importance. Young Henry had certainly inherited his father’s head for business, but he’d missed out altogether on Ivan’s intrinsic elegance.

  Despite Cook’s lavish baked dinner and Ivy’s attention to the re-filling of beer tumblers and champagne flutes, the luncheon was not a successful affair. Henry insisted upon talking business from the outset, launching into a detailed account of a further enterprise that could well be to Elianne’s advantage.

  ‘With the mechanisation of the sugar industry galloping ahead as it is, there are huge profits to be made for forward-thinking investors . . .’

  He went on at some length, Stan the Man studiously ignoring him, and when he finally got the message that he wasn’t being listened to, he turned his attention undeterred to Durham the younger.

  ‘You of all people, Alan, with your expert knowledge of things mechanical would be well aware that –’

  By now Stan had had quite enough. ‘Shut up, Henry,’ he growled, and Henry did, stopping mid-sentence, jaw agape. ‘This is not a bloody boardroom, boy. Give it a rest, for Christ’s sake.’

  Hilda did her best to compensate, filling in the awkwardness with pleasant chit-chat. What a pity, she said, that Henry’s mother and father couldn’t be here, she did so hope Ivan and Gerda were enjoying Melbourne. ‘Such an elegant city, don’t you think? I vastly prefer it to the raucousness of Sydney myself, although in the winter of course it’s so unbearably cold, I really don’t know how people can suffer such weather . . .’

  But Hilda’s social graces did little to ease the general discomfort. Henry remained sullen in the face of such an unmitigated insult. He would complain to his father, although he knew it would do no good – his father would simply say he’d asked for it trying to talk business at a Durham family luncheon. Stan ignored the table altogether, concentrating on his roast lamb, and so did Alan. Even during the height of midsummer, a baked dinner preferably lamb was always Alan’s favourite, a fact well known by Cook, but much as he was enjoying his food, Alan was wishing the luncheon was over. Even Hilda, having finally run out of chat, decided it was a lost cause and forsaking the niceties signalled Ivy to fetch a fresh bottle of champagne.

  Kate looked about the table. The only person present who appeared oblivious to the tension was her grandfather. Seated beside her, Bartholomew had picked up the fine-bone china sauce jug and was clasping it gently in both hands, examining its contents, breathing in the aroma of Cook’s home-made mint sauce, which obviously evoked some pleasurable memory. He’s off in a world of his own, Kate thought. She’d seen him do it before, usually when unpleasantness threatened. Her grandfather had the enviable talent of disappearing somewhere else altogether.

  Watching him, Kate wondered, as she had many times over the past two years, how much Bartholomew might kn
ow. Ellie had said in her diaries that she’d lived a lie in order to protect her children from the threat of Big Jim, but was it possible Bartholomew knew the truth, or at least part of it? Had he been aware that the great love shared by his parents was a sham, that his mother had actually considered her husband a monster?

  If only Grandpa could speak, Kate thought. But then what difference would that make? He didn’t need to, did he? His mind was unimpaired, he could hear and understand. I could ask him questions, she thought. I could ask him questions and he could write down the answers. But she knew she would take no such course of action. Prior to the death of his wife and his ensuing stroke, Bartholomew had spoken often of his brothers and of his mother and father, but there had been no mention, no apparent knowledge at all of a sister who had died as a baby. Wasn’t that something of a giveaway? Most families shared such a history. Surely the omission of baby Beatrice’s existence was indicative of Ellie’s secrecy about so much more.

  Kate watched her grandfather place the sauce jug back on the table with infinitesimal care as if it was something quite precious, and she thought how frail he looked, much more so than last year. He’s old and he’s suffered quite enough tragedy, she told herself, he doesn’t need to be confronted with harsh truths at the end of his life.

  She switched her brain back to the present, and her voice cut through the oppressive silence. ‘Hey, Dad,’ she said, ‘isn’t it time for the toast?’

  Stan Durham stopped attacking his second serve of lamb and rose to his feet.

  ‘Of course it is, how remiss of me,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Kate. Glasses charged, everyone.’ How could he have allowed himself to be so distracted from the true purpose of the lunch by that dumb prick Henry, he thought as Ivy scuttled about replenishing everyone’s drinks.