by Nunn, Judy
Kate and Alan, representing the family, both spoke very movingly of their brother. But Stan did not speak of his son. Stan couldn’t. Stanley Durham sat grey-faced and silent throughout the entire service. He was flanked either side by his wife, who was quietly weeping, and his fragile father, also visibly moved, but Stan himself appeared incapable of displaying any form of emotion. Ten days after being informed of his son’s death, Stan remained in a numb state to all about him.
Following the service, Neil was buried in the military section of Bundaberg Cemetery, after which thirty or so guests were invited back to Elianne for the wake. Hilda had taken charge of all the arrangements, considering it only right and proper. ‘One must have a wake,’ she’d said to Kate, ‘as a show of respect, a select number only of course.’
When the family returned to the house, Kate and Alan helped their grandfather up the front stairs and into his quarters, all but carrying him in the process. Bartholomew could barely walk these days, but had insisted upon attending the service. Then they prepared themselves for the ordeal of the wake, which nobody wanted, including Hilda herself, but propriety must be observed.
Stan seemed barely to notice there were guests in his house. He sat in an armchair at the far end of the main drawing room, glass of Scotch in hand, sipping occasionally, but oblivious to those milling about, to Max topping up glasses, to Ivy serving finger food on silver trays, to his wife pouring tea while bravely shouldering the burden of social niceties.
When people filed up to him respectfully, as each of them did one by one, offering their condolences, he gave them a nod, but didn’t even look at them. After a while they stopped attempting to make contact and left him to himself.
Thankfully the guests did not overstay their welcome and within an hour and a half the last were taking their leave.
Ivan Krantz decided upon one final attempt to break through the impenetrable wall of Stan’s grief, or his shock or whatever it was that was rendering the man’s mind so incapable of making any form of connection. How terrible, he thought, to see Stanley Durham in such a condition.
He left his wife and son chatting to Hilda at the drawing room door – they were the last of the guests to depart – and returned to where Stan sat in his armchair.
‘Just want to let you know that I understand what you’re going through, Stan,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You and I go back a long way and I know how hard it must be. I know the plans you had for Neil and for Elianne. Well, of course I do,’ he said a little over-heartily, ‘we were a team, the three of us, you and Neil and me.’
Stan’s eyes slowly focused upon Ivan. He didn’t seem to particularly comprehend what was being said, but Ivan was nonetheless pleased to have made some sort of impact. How he’d done so he wasn’t really sure. He thought he’d sounded rather clumsy himself, but his desire being to buoy the man’s spirits, he continued as he’d intended.
‘We’ll pursue those plans, Stan,’ he said with a positivity he hoped was finding some connection. ‘When you feel up to it, we’ll throw ourselves into the business. That’s what you need, distraction. With fresh investors, ready capital is no problem – Elianne is booming. We’ll accomplish everything we intended. It’ll be a tribute to Neil. And Alan will join us. We’ll be a team just like we’ve always been, the Durhams and the Krantzes.’
Ivan glanced to the doorway where his wife and son, Henry, were chatting to Hilda, and when he looked back he saw that Stan had followed his gaze. Another healthy sign, he thought.
‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said in the pause that followed. Too much to hope the man might speak, he supposed, but there was a definite added light in the eyes, some form of perception: he’d certainly got through. ‘We’ll be on our way now.’
Ivan would have liked to offer his hand, but he didn’t push further, opting for a comforting pat of Stan’s shoulder instead. ‘My sympathies to you, Stan,’ he said. ‘I know how hard it is, believe me I do.’
Stan watched as Ivan Krantz walked off to join his wife and son. You don’t know how hard it is at all, you dumb bastard. Stan’s mind had been jolted into action and was now working overtime. Look at you there with that prick of a son of yours who never got drafted, who never went into battle – what have you ever had to fear? And the puerile attempt to jolly him along, a renewed business drive would be seen as a tribute to Neil, ‘and Alan will join us’, the dumb bastard had said. Alan isn’t Neil! Alan can never be Neil!
Lots of things were coming back to Stan as he watched the Krantz family bidding farewell to Hilda at the door.
‘I won’t come downstairs,’ Hilda said. ‘I do hope you don’t mind seeing yourselves out, but . . .’
‘Of course we don’t.’ Gerda Krantz kissed her on the cheek. ‘Please take care, Hilda,’ she said, ‘of yourself as well as others.’
Look at them chatting as if nothing’s happened, Stan thought. Your son’s dead, Hilda, don’t you know that?
He glanced around the room. Max was at the sideboard placing several empty bottles in a cardboard box. Ivy and Kate and Alan were collecting the glasses and cups that were scattered all over the place on coffee tables and mantelpieces, even the escritoire in the corner.
There’s been a party, he thought, and then the images came back to him. He’d seen it all, Max swanning around with sherry for the ladies and Scotch for the men, Ivy offering platters of food, Hilda serving tea and biscuits. They’ve been having a party and my son’s dead!
He stood. ‘What the hell do you all think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
Everything stopped. Hilda had just closed the door following the Krantzes’ departure and she turned to him. They turned every one of them, Kate, Alan, Max, Ivy, and there was a moment’s stillness as they stared at Stan.
‘You’re having a party?’ His voice was a combination of disbelief and outrage. ‘Neil’s dead and you’re having a party!’
‘It’s a wake, dear,’ Hilda said crossing to him, ‘we held a wake for Neil. It was the proper thing to do.’
‘Proper!’ Stan roared his anger. ‘What’s proper about my son’s death?’
Hilda gave a brisk nod to Max and Ivy who quickly departed the drawing room leaving the family to themselves. Stan didn’t even notice them go.
‘What’s proper about that, woman?! You tell me. What’s proper about that?!’
Hilda wanted to weep with relief. She had thought her husband might be going mad. He’d spoken to no one, appeared to see no one, but he’d been living in mental agony: she of all people knew that – the gnashing of his teeth kept her awake every night. She had suggested time and again he see a doctor, but he hadn’t heard her. Now at last he’d come back. His rage was an excellent sign. She could comfort him now, and they could share their grief.
‘We must be strong, Stanley,’ she said. ‘But we will manage, we have one another to lean on, we can bear the pain together.’ The line between romance and reality, a difficult delineation for Hilda at the best of times, now blurred into one as relief at her husband’s return to sanity mingled with the several sherries she’d discreetly imbibed while serving tea to her lady guests. ‘We must weather the storm, you and I, my dear, just as Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim did when Edward and George were killed at Gallipoli.’ She raised a hand and gently touched her fingers to his cheek. ‘It was the great love they shared that saved them,’ she said, ‘just as our love shall save –’
‘Shut up, you stupid woman!’ Stan bellowed. He could take no more of his wife’s idiocy and grabbing her by the shoulders he shook her like a madman. ‘Shut up, shut up . . .’ she was a rag doll in his huge, strong hands ‘. . . you stupid, stupid, stupid woman!’
‘Stop it, Dad!’ Alan leapt forwards. Grabbing his father’s arm he wrenched with all his might, managing to break Stan’s grip. ‘Stop it,’ he yelled.
With one hand Stan thrust Hilda aside and caught off balance she fell to the floor.
Kate rushed and knelt beside her. ‘Are you al
l right, Marmee?’ She took her mother’s arm, about to help her to her feet, but Hilda waved her away.
‘Yes I’m perfectly all right, thank you, dear.’ Hilda preferred to stand on her own without assistance. She was undeterred by her husband’s anger. Better his rage than his resignation from life.
Stan looked down at her and, horrified to see his wife on the floor, was instantly brought to his senses. Then as Hilda slowly stood, unassisted and unhurt, he registered the hand that was holding him back. He turned to see his son still locked onto his arm. Alan was maintaining a firm grip as if to prevent him from attempting any further attack. Stan ripped his arm free.
‘Why did it have to be Neil?’ he said, glaring accusingly at Alan. ‘Why couldn’t it have been you!’ Then he stormed from the room.
Kate and Alan looked at each other. Kate’s eyes registered the shock she felt that her father should say such a thing, but the exchange between brother and sister signalled a great deal more. Without sharing a single utterance, both knew exactly what the other was thinking.
‘He didn’t mean it, dear. He’s upset as you can see . . .’ Hilda tried desperately to reassure her son.
Alan gave a shrug as if he didn’t care, which wasn’t true. Despite the knowledge that Neil had always been his father’s favourite, the words had cut deeply. But his eyes remained locked with Kate’s. They were thinking of the diaries and the extraordinary fact that Big Jim had said the same thing in very much the same way over fifty years ago.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jim told me last night that of all his three sons, he would rather have lost Bartholomew. ‘The wrong boys died at Gallipoli,’ he said, ‘why couldn’t it have been him?’ Shocking words, unforgiveable words, but at least he does not say them in Bartholomew’s presence – for that I am thankful.
It is grief speaking of course: Jim remains inconsolable. As indeed am I. Every day that passes is empty without my two beautiful boys. But I must continue to be strong as I have these past months, for it is my strength alone that will save Jim from the blackest of despair that threatens to destroy us all. And there is my darling Bartholomew, whom I must protect at all cost, and his dear wife, Mary, and their baby son. We still have a family, if only I can convince Jim of this. There is a reason to go on.
Big Jim Durham had been inordinately proud of his sons when they’d volunteered. And they’d done so without his bidding – they’d surprised him with the news. ‘We’re off to war, Dad,’ they’d announced, and Big Jim had been fit to burst. In his opinion every able-bodied man in the land should enlist.
‘I envy you lads,’ he’d said, ‘off to fight for King and Country as you are. What an honour, what an adventure, dear God, if they’d take a man in his fifties, I’d be going with you I swear.’
Bartholomew had also volunteered. All three brothers had ridden their horses into town and presented themselves at the recruitment centre that had been set up in Bundaberg. Recruitment centres had sprung into being in every country town throughout the land, and young men were queuing by the thousands. But as things had turned out, when it came to the physical Bartholomew had been found wanting. A weak heart, the army doctor had told him. He’d been a nice enough man in his brusque way. ‘Nothing to worry about unduly, son,’ he’d said, ‘but enough to make you ineligible, I’m afraid. Can’t have hearts that are going to conk out on us under the strain of battle now, can we.’
‘What a rotten thing to happen.’ Young George had been most sympathetic. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’
‘It was probably that bout of glandular fever you had when you were little, Bartholomew,’ big brother Edward had said; he too was sympathetic. ‘Not to worry,’ he’d added in an attempt to make amends for the injustice that had been served upon his brother, ‘someone has to stay here and protect the home front.’
The brothers had always been close, although sibling rivalry repeatedly raised its head between Edward, the eldest of the three, and George the youngest, both of whom were assertive by nature and fiercely competitive. Given the four-year age difference, Edward had been the uncontested leader during their childhood, George frustratingly mounting challenge after challenge only to lose, while Bartholomew, in the middle, had taken the position of peacemaker.
Things had not changed as they’d progressed to manhood – indeed the rivalry had become more intense. George had grown stronger and bigger and as the playing field had evened out Bartholomew’s peacemaking skills were regularly called upon. The balance had always been a good one and continued to be so.
Big Jim was not in the least surprised to learn that Bartholomew had failed to pass the army’s medical examination. He made his views evident that very same night as he and his wife prepared themselves for bed.
‘Well, it’s to be expected, isn’t it.’ he said when Ellie voiced her worries about the discovery of Bartholomew’s weakened heart condition. ‘He might not be the youngest, but he’s always been the runt of the litter.’
Ellie detested the way Jim was so disparaging of Bartholomew, even speaking at times with contempt. Throughout the boy’s childhood he had considered Bartholomew’s peaceful nature a character flaw. He was proud of the aggression his other sons displayed and openly encouraged their competitiveness, pitting one against the other. The fact that Bartholomew chose not to compete he saw as the epitome of weakness. Ellie didn’t. Ellie saw it as a show of strength, a silent rebellion from a boy who had no desire to conform. She admired her son’s resilience, and did her best to protect him whenever possible from his father’s bullying.
‘I take it you’re not at all concerned about the doctor’s report,’ she said icily, staring at him in the dressing-room mirror as she sat brushing her hair.
‘Why should I be? The doctor told him it was nothing to worry about.’ Jim could see from the cold green glint of her eyes that his glibness annoyed her. He didn’t like it when Ellie was annoyed. ‘I’m not being heartless, my dear,’ he assured her. ‘They have to select only the very fittest, you must understand that. They can’t afford to accept men who might let others down under pressure. It’s a safety measure only, believe me. Now come to bed.’
Ellie allowed herself to be mollified. ‘I’m very glad he’s been turned down,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure dear Mary is too. Bartholomew should be by her side when the baby comes.’
Jim laughed. ‘By her side? I don’t think so. Hardly a place for a man – childbirth is women’s business.’
‘I didn’t mean literally of course,’ she said crossing to the bed where he was propped against the pillows waiting for her. ‘But what if Bartholomew had passed the medical test? What if he went off to war and didn’t come back?’ The thought sent a chill down Ellie’s spine. ‘His child would be deprived of a father.’
‘I would be the child’s father, Ellie,’ Jim said heartily as she climbed in beside him, ‘we’d have another Durham and I’d raise it as my own.’
This time his glibness bewildered rather than annoyed, she found his cavalier attitude to the war mystifying.
‘Do you not fear for our sons, Jim?’ she said resisting just a little as he drew her to him, looking into his eyes, trying to fathom his reasoning. ‘Do you not worry for their safety?’
‘You worry enough for both of us, my love.’ He buried his face into the curve of her neck, breathing in the smell of her, running his hands over her body, feeling the flesh beneath the nightgown. ‘Let the boys have their adventure. The war will be over in no time and they’ll be home with such stories to tell.’
Now, four months after the deaths of Edward and George, Big Jim continued to despise Bartholomew for surviving his brothers. He didn’t say so out loud in his son’s presence – not through any concern for Bartholomew’s feelings, but rather in order to avoid incurring Ellie’s displeasure. He had no wish to further upset the wife whom he adored and who, like he, was grieving deeply. It was true, however, that he had always disapproved of the way Ellie had mollycoddled their mi
ddle son. The boy was spineless and should have been whipped into shape years earlier. Now, Big Jim couldn’t stand being in his presence, couldn’t stand the very sight of him. Bartholomew was a constant reminder of all he had lost.
Bartholomew was fully aware of his father’s feelings. Big Jim’s contempt was nothing new to him: he’d suffered it for years. He’d long ago acknowledged he was a disappointment to his father and had refused to feel guilt, but he did now. Bartholomew felt guilty that he should be alive when his brothers were dead, and Big Jim’s silent, ever-present condemnation compounded his guilt tenfold.
Big Jim’s escape was the Burnett Club, where he had the sympathy of all and where he drowned his sorrows in imported Scotch or rum produced by the Bundaberg distillery, dependent upon his mood at the time. Huge man that he was and with a high tolerance for alcohol, he rarely displayed overt signs of drunkenness, but the liquor proved a welcome distraction and the club kept him away from the son he couldn’t bear to look at.
Bartholomew’s escape was work. Work and family – baby Stanley was now nearly one year old, having been born while Edward and George were still in training camp. But above even family, it was work that took precedence. While his father wallowed in self-pity and liquor at the Burnett Club, Bartholomew threw himself into the running of the mill, shouldering the burden of management in the absence of Big Jim and personally taking on the tasks of skilled workers, all the while pushing himself tirelessly, day after day after day.
His wife and his mother worried for his health. ‘You mustn’t overtax yourself, my darling,’ Mary said time and again.
Ellie echoed her: ‘You must slow down, Bartholomew.’ But all their protests were to no avail. Bartholomew was insistent that with a wartime shortage of skilled labour it was imperative he take on whatever job he could, and he was right. Without his intervention on all levels, and most particularly his inspiration to his workers, Elianne’s production would have been drastically diminished. Indeed the mill may well have ceased to function at all during that crushing of 1915.
