Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  To Stan, Frank Madigan was a man’s man. You’d never pick him for a Southerner, Stan thought, he’s more like one of us. If this is Kate’s choice then she’s done very well for herself. An excellent match indeed.

  The following day Kate took Frank on a long walk around the estate. Cobber plodded along behind, not attempting to match their pace, just hoping to keep them in sight, and on the occasions when they slowed down Ben rounded them up in his customary Cattle Dog fashion with a mock nip to the heels, but it was habit only. At nine years of age, Ben too was less active than he’d once been.

  As they went, she gave him the full guided tour explaining the history of Elianne, but in a way she’d never done before, so much now relating to her personal knowledge of Ellie and Big Jim. She had told him all about the diaries and how they had so dramatically changed her life. Kate found it extraordinarily liberating to talk so freely of her family and the past.

  They finished up at the mill, standing in its eerie stillness, the toffee smell clinging to the air, no sound from the giant machines but the metallic clink here and there of a maintenance mechanic’s tools. Frank was in awe: he’d never seen a sugar mill.

  ‘You should be here during the crushing season,’ she told him.

  She introduced him to Luigi, who was working alongside the several others.

  ‘You come to my daughter’s wedding tomorrow, is good,’ Luigi said, shaking Frank’s hand enthusiastically, pleased to meet Kate’s new friend.

  ‘Yes, I’m very much looking forward to it: thank you for inviting me, Mr Fiorelli –’

  ‘Luigi, Luigi . . .’ The Italian turned to Kate, arms outstretched in a typically flamboyant gesture. ‘Who call me Mr Fiorelli, eh? Who call me Mr Fiorelli?’

  Frank grinned. ‘Thank you, Luigi.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you come, you come. After we have big party at my brother’s home, much singing, much dancing, is big day tomorrow.’ Luigi was excited beyond measure at the prospect of his daughter’s wedding.

  The next morning, Stanley Durham stood on the front verandah, watching the exodus. Look at them, he thought, all deserting me, the whole bloody household, and probably every staff member and worker as well. He had made no complaint about the fact, however, even allowing Max the use of his Mercedes. But he’d refused to acknowledge the occasion. They might just as well have been heading off for a picnic at Bargara. Stubborn to the end, Stan the Man was making a statement with his silence.

  Max opened the passenger door for Hilda while his wife, Maude the cook, and young Ivy, both dressed in their Sunday best, piled into the back seat. Frank was driving one of the mill’s Land Rovers, which he and Kate had collected from the garage the preceding day, and he climbed into the driver’s side, leaving Kate to linger on the verandah as he knew she wished.

  ‘You could still change your mind, Dad,’ she whispered in her father’s ear.

  Stan ignored her. ‘Have a pleasant time,’ he called loudly for the benefit of all, and Kate gave up. She pecked him on the cheek. ‘See you later,’ she said and started down the steps.

  Ben bounded ahead, presuming he was coming along for the ride. ‘Stay,’ she ordered, and the dog dropped, dejected but obedient. ‘Where’s Cobber?’ The Labrador was nowhere to be seen. She looked up at her father. ‘Where’s Cobber?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Stan said. ‘Go on now.’ He shooed the whole lot of them away with an annoyed wave of his hand as if they were insects. ‘I’ll find the dog, Kate, go on now, go on.’ And he walked off into the house.

  The church was crowded not only with family and friends of the bride: the groom’s party too was well represented, for Stanley Durham was alone in boycotting the event. His friends did not shy from attending a Catholic wedding. A host of Elianne employees was there alongside the Krantzes and many business acquaintances of Stan’s who now had dealings with his son. And the young Apex Club members were of course present in force, led by Alan’s closest mate Charles Watford, who had accepted the role of best man.

  ‘You sly bastard,’ he’d remarked when Alan had asked him, ‘you never said a bloody word. Why didn’t you tell us?’

  Alan had shrugged off the enquiry with his customary nonchalance. ‘Didn’t think it was necessary, Charlie.’

  ‘You were scared we’d take the mickey out of you being a Mick, I’ll bet that was it.’

  ‘Yep, something like that.’

  Following the wedding, the bride’s party, beribboned limousine to the fore, led the troops to Alfonso’s home where the reception was to be held al fresco in the rambling grounds surrounded by cane fields. The gathering was once again eclectic, but with a flavour purely Italian.

  Volare oh oh

  Cantare oh oh oh oh

  Cousins Lucia and Gio were the featured vocalists of the so-called ‘Fiorelli Family Band’ but whenever a favourite song was played no one could stop the whole clan from joining in and, ‘Volare’ being a favourite, Gio’s solo performance was rather lost in the sea of boisterous voices.

  The huge backyard of Alfonso’s house was festooned with white. The magnificent giant fig in the western corner was swathed in white streamers, Gio having climbed to the top to fling them about with gay abandon; white satin bows hung like unripened fruit alongside the lush orange spheres of the mango tree; the bushes and shrubs that lined the yard’s perimeter were draped with satin ribbons, some artistically, some haphazardly, depending upon the personality of the family member who had draped them; and in pride of place on each of the white-clothed trestle tables set up to accommodate a hundred guests was a massive floral decoration of Christmas lilies. Alfonso had certainly succeeded in his determination to do his younger brother proud.

  The Fiorelli family had agreed that, given Stanley Durham’s antipathy to the marriage, it was advisable the reception be held at Alfonso’s house rather than Luigi’s, which was part of the Elianne estate, but the choice of venue had proved advantageous. Popular as Luigi’s home was for family gatherings it could never have accommodated such numbers.

  The band segued on to ‘Ciao Ciao Bambina’ at Alfonso’s insistence, Domenico Modugno being a personal favourite. Lucia sang the lyrics in Connie Francis fashion, but she too was drowned out by the other clan members, ‘Ciao Ciao Bambina’ being another family favourite.

  The five-piece band consisting of drum kit, bass and rhythm guitars, piano accordion and violin, was set up on the verandah. The Fiorelli cousins were not untalented and played regularly at family functions, Alfonso often joining in on his harmonica and his brother Enzo occasionally featuring on the mandolin. The five younger members were in particularly fine form on this most auspicious of occasions, having been diligently practising for weeks.

  Paola and Alan were not joining in the family sing-along. They were on the dance floor that had been laid out on the grass beside the verandah, swaying gently in time to the music, oblivious to anything but each other, Paola the picture of bridal beauty in her classical lace wedding gown. Never had she been happier and never had Alan seen her more radiant. He’d been greatly relieved when she’d announced two weeks previously that she was not pregnant, although she’d boldly added that she wouldn’t have cared in the least if she were.

  ‘Canzone Napolitana,’ Maria called out when ‘Ciao Ciao Bambina’ came to an end. She and the other wives were mingling about with trays of hors d’oeuvres prior to serving the main meal, while Luigi and Alfonso stood at the drinks table refilling glasses of beer and red wine.

  Alfonso’s wife Claudia took up the call. ‘Si, si,’ she cried, ‘Canzone Napolitana.’

  Young Georgio who was on the piano accordion obligingly struck up with ‘O Sole Mio’ and the other members of the band joined in. No Italian wedding was complete without a bracket of Neapolitan songs, certainly no Fiorelli wedding anyway.

  Several songs later, after ‘Santa Lucia’, the band took a break, the wives and daughters disappearing into the house to fetch the food while several of the younger men cleare
d the floral arrangements from the tables.

  Paola automatically joined the women as they set off for the kitchen, but her mother waved her away, telling her to mingle with her guests.

  ‘A bride does not serve food,’ she said.

  Alan also mingled, finding himself at one stage chatting to Ivan Krantz, who was uncharacteristically open in expressing himself.

  ‘Your father will come to his senses before long, Alan,’ he said. ‘Stan can’t keep closing himself off the way he has since Neil’s death. He needs you.’

  Alan was surprised by Ivan’s show of concern, although as usual he gave away very little himself. ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ he said, ‘I personally doubt he needs me at all, but there’s not much I can do about it anyway.’

  ‘You can be there for him when he finds out he’s no longer cock of the yard,’ Ivan said, ‘I’ve a feeling it might come as a bit of a shock.’

  Alan found the remark jarring. He’d presumed the man’s concern had been directed towards him, but he’d obviously been wrong: Ivan’s show of sympathy had been intended for his old friend Stan Durham. His manner and choice of expression, however, seemed unnecessarily arrogant. Ivan Krantz has certainly changed over the past year or so, Alan thought.

  ‘Sure, I’ll be there for him,’ he replied with a shrug that said why should I? If upon Ivan’s advice Stan chooses to sign the estate away to investors, then let him, Alan thought. Elianne was Stan the Man’s to do with as he wished. And if Stan the Man remained ignorant of the fact that he was losing control, then that too was his choice. Any warning he’d been offered had long gone unheeded – Stanley Durham had been living in the past for years.

  ‘If my father ever decides to talk to me again, Ivan, I’ll certainly be there for him,’ he said, ‘in the meantime . . .’ Another shrug sufficed and he wandered off to mingle elsewhere.

  The women brought out the food – giant platters of meat, bowls of steaming pastas, salads and breads, wave upon wave – the guests were called to table and the feast began.

  The speeches were as abundant as the food, and the wine also flowed freely. Bottles and dishes were unceremoniously handed around tables, fresh supplies fetched regularly by those members of the family elected to keep an eye on the proceedings and the afternoon grew progressively raucous.

  Toast after toast was made from the bridal table, and following dessert when the speeches had finally run out and the meal was drawing to an end, the young band members leapt for the verandah to start up afresh, this time with a tarantella.

  Alan and Paola were once again first on the dance floor, others quickly joining them and Luigi, prompted by a nudge from his wife, rose and offered his arm to the mother of the groom.

  ‘You would like to dance, Mrs Durham?’ he asked.

  ‘Why thank you, Luigi.’

  Hilda was having a splendid time. She would have preferred champagne to red wine herself and, unaccustomed as she was to the style of food served, she’d initially found it all a little rich. But as the day had worn on, she’d realised that everything seemed to go very well together and that the lack of table service at a function she’d assumed should have a formal tone didn’t matter in the least, in fact it contributed to the freedom of the atmosphere. Even the raucousness, of which she’d been somewhat critical to start with, was a display of affection, she’d decided, and really quite uplifting.

  ‘What a lovely reception, Luigi,’ she said as they danced. Hilda had always loved to dance although it seemed such a long time since she’d last stepped on to a dance floor. The Italian was light on his feet, she noted, and led well: he was a good dancer.

  ‘Si si,’ Luigi happily agreed, ‘much food, much music, Italian wedding is good.’ He glanced at the newlyweds nearby and when he looked back at her his expression was serious. ‘I am proud that my daughter she marry your son, Mrs Durham,’ he said. ‘Your son he is a good boy.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Hilda smiled. ‘I am proud too that my son is marrying your daughter, Luigi. Paola is a fine young woman. And from now on as your daughter’s mother-in-law I insist you call me Hilda.’

  Luigi gave one of his irrepressible grins. ‘Very good, Hilda.’ He twirled her under his arm and passed her along to Alan. ‘Now we swap – you dance with your son,’ he said breaking up the couple and gathering his daughter in his arms.

  It was mid-afternoon when the newlyweds left, Paola in her pretty, floral going-away dress waving out of the open car window as Alan drove off, the tin cans that Charlie and the Apex boys had tied to the Holden’s rear bumper bar rattling away noisily. Alan laughed at the racket and gave Charlie a wave, but he would rid himself of the cans before reaching the main road for there was a five-hour drive ahead. Not that that in the least daunted him. Alan loved driving.

  ‘See you at Christmas,’ the Fiorelli cousins called after them.

  Alan and Paola were off to the Gold Coast for a one-week honeymoon at the Surfers Paradise Hotel and would return several days before Christmas in time for the family festivities.

  After the couple’s departure, many of the older guests left, including Hilda, whom Max drove home to Elianne together with his wife Maude and young Ivy. Ivy was most reluctant to leave. She’d danced at least a half a dozen times with Gio Fiorelli and could have gone on all night, he was by far the best partner she’d ever danced with, and Ivy was an excellent dancer. He’d said he was going to the Palais on Saturday night, however, and had suggested they meet there, a proposition which Ivy had graciously deigned to consider, although in truth the prospect excited her no end.

  Kate and Frank, who had also danced themselves into a state of near exhaustion, made their farewells towards the end of the afternoon. The numbers had by then halved, but the party was still in full swing, the younger set clearly intending to go on until all hours.

  They arrived home at The Big House as dusk was falling to discover Stan the Man seated in one of the cane armchairs on the front verandah with Ben curled up asleep at his feet. Kate was most surprised to see her father apparently waiting for them, but she took it as a good omen.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she greeted him as she trotted up the stairs. Ben rose to meet her at the top, tail wagging, but in a rather subdued mood. ‘We had a marvellous time –’

  ‘Your dog’s dead,’ he said tersely.

  ‘What?’ She halted before him.

  ‘Your dog’s dead. I shot him.’

  Halfway up the stairs behind her, Frank also halted. Is this some sort of sick joke? he wondered. Stanley Durham was a tyrant given to unreasonable behaviour, that much was plain, but the man surely hadn’t shot his daughter’s dog in some act of malice.

  ‘You shot Cobber?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing else I could do.’ Her father’s shrug appeared careless. ‘I looked for him as soon as you’d gone. He was down in the bushes outside the laundry, still alive but paralysed – had to be a snake.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘On the floor in the laundry,’ Stan said. ‘I knew you’d want to examine him.’ As she turned to go, her father reached down and grasped Ben’s collar in order to prevent the Heeler following her.

  Kate glanced at Frank as she went back down the stairs and he accompanied her around to the rear of the house where the laundry was situated.

  She turned on the lights and they stepped inside to where Cobber lay covered by a tarpaulin.

  They both knelt and Frank watched as she lifted aside the tarpaulin and examined the body. The dog had been neatly shot through the brain.

  She inspected the snakebite wound high on the right shoulder. ‘An Eastern Brown, I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘Browns can be aggressive and they hold their necks high when they strike.’ She stroked the dog tenderly. ‘Poor old Cobber,’ she murmured, ‘good old boy, I hope you didn’t suffer too much. I’m glad Dad found you.’

  Frank watched as she crooned to the animal who had been her companion since childhood
days. ‘Good old boy,’ she said continuing to stroke him, ‘good boy Cobber.’ He could tell she was moved and waited for the tears, intending to comfort her when they came. But they didn’t.

  ‘Goodbye, old friend.’ She gave the dog one final caress, replaced the tarpaulin and rose to her feet. ‘Well, he had a fine innings,’ she said as Frank rose to stand beside her. ‘Thirteen years – you can’t complain about that.’

  ‘It’s sad though,’ he said, ‘it’s very sad.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘it’s sad.’ Kate sensed he was expecting her to shed a tear, and she could have if she’d wished, Cobber’s death was indeed moving, but a rebellious voice inside was saying, We’re tougher than that up here, mate, we’re Queenslanders. ‘At least I didn’t have to shoot him myself,’ she said, ‘it’s painful when you have to kill your own dog. At least Dad saved me that.’

  ‘All right, I get the message,’ Frank acceded with a smile, ‘you’re tough and I’m a city slicker.’

  She gave a light laugh acknowledging the way he’d read her mind, but then they always seemed to know what the other was thinking. ‘Exactly,’ she said.

  Kate did not know what Frank was thinking, however, when five minutes later they joined Stan on the front verandah, where he remained sitting in the gloom, his hand still resting on Ben’s collar.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Kate bent down and kissed her father on the cheek.

  ‘Said your goodbyes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. I’ll have a couple of the boys bury him in the morning.’ Stan released his hold on the dog’s collar and stood. ‘Go to bed, Ben,’ he ordered and the Heeler obediently set off down the stairs to the kennel around the side of the house, the kennel that would now seem so empty without his old friend.

  ‘I’m going to my study,’ Stan said, ‘I’ve got work to do. Cook says she’ll be serving up a light supper at nine.’ He patted his daughter’s arm. ‘He was a good dog, Cobber.’ Then he left the two of them alone on the front verandah.