Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  ‘Yes. We were going to tell you, Dad, but . . .’ She tailed off. But Neil died. Do you remember the state you were in after Neil’s death, Dad? Do you think you could have handled the truth then? She didn’t say the words out loud. They remained in her brain as she tried desperately to fathom her father’s mood. He was scathing certainly, cold and disdainful, but she had no idea what he was truly feeling. Is he angry about the lies he’s been fed all his life? she wondered. Is he hurting at the discovery, is the truth as painful as Alan and I feared it might be? Kate found it impossible to decipher what might be going on in her father’s mind.

  ‘Do sit down, Stanley,’ Hilda insisted, ‘and have some lunch, you haven’t eaten for –’

  ‘Read that,’ he interrupted brusquely indicating the folders. ‘When you have, we’ll talk together as a family and decide what action we take. I’m going into town. Be close at hand for your mother, Kate,’ he added caustically, ‘she may well need your support.’

  They didn’t see Stan for the rest of that day. He headed directly to the Burnett Club, where he sat in a haze of Scotch and fractured thoughts, chatting with old friends, wondering what they would say if they knew even a shadow of the truth. His daughter was not alone in her inability to fathom his mood. Stanley Durham was having trouble deciphering his own feelings. The one thing of which he could be sure was the fact that the world he had known for the whole of his life would never be the same.

  Hilda spent the entire afternoon and quite a deal of the night in the front drawing room, having retired with the armload of folders that Kate had carried there for her.

  ‘Call me if you need me,’ Kate had said, but as the day wore on she’d received no summons.

  It was well beyond midnight when Hilda finished reading the last of the diaries, after which she crept upstairs and into bed beside her husband, who had returned from town less than half an hour earlier. She could smell the alcohol on him even though his back was turned to her and as he wasn’t snoring she wondered if he might be awake.

  Stan was. He’d felt her slip quietly in between the sheets. But as they lay there in the dark, their thoughts simultaneously racing, neither said one word to the other.

  Kate had rung Alan during the afternoon.

  ‘Dad’s read the diaries,’ she said bluntly, ‘I gave them to him yesterday and he stayed up all night.’

  ‘Oh hell. What was his reaction?’

  ‘I have no idea. He’s keeping things to himself, so it’s impossible to tell. I think he might be in a state of shock.’

  ‘Yep, I’d bet on it. How about Mum?’

  ‘She’s reading them as we speak.’

  Alan sensed his sister’s concern. ‘Don’t worry about Mum, Kate,’ he said, ‘she’s much tougher than you think. Mum’s a true survivor. Dad’s the one who’ll go under.’

  ‘I think you should come around tomorrow, Al.’

  There was a pause. ‘You reckon that’s wise?’

  ‘Dad knows you’ve read the diaries. He said when Mum had read them we should talk together as a family. And family includes you.’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘No, but he should have.’

  ‘My coming around is a bold choice.’ Alan’s voice sounded a warning.

  ‘I know.’ Kate had given the matter a great deal of thought. ‘But the diaries are such a leveller, Al. They put a different perspective on our entire world – Dad must see that. This is an opportunity to reunite the family,’ she urged. ‘We’ve all been fed lies, every one of us. We should face the truth together and support each other. We’ll be stronger for it if we do.’

  ‘Yes, we need to front the old man,’ Alan said, which was surprising, for he’d made a point of avoiding confrontation the whole of his life. ‘It’ll be a make or break situation, but even if it severs any bond I might still have with him at least I’ll know where I stand. Anything’s better than this endless, bloody stalemate.’

  ‘I agree.’ Kate too was relieved the situation was to be brought to a head. ‘Let’s hope things go our way.’

  ‘What time will I turn up? I’ll take the morning off if you like.’

  ‘No need; around midday will do. That’ll give Mum and Dad time to talk. I’ll tell Dad you’re coming, we won’t spring a surprise.’

  ‘Good thinking, 99,’ he replied, one of his favourite catchphrases, and Kate could hear the wry smile in his voice as he added, ‘Given some warning the old man can shoot through if he wants to.’

  The talk that Kate had presumed would take place between her parents proved remarkably brief.

  Hilda awoke to an empty bed the following morning, her husband having risen early to take himself off to his study, but he made an appearance at the breakfast table an hour or so later. Stan obviously chose to confer with his wife in the presence of their daughter, a fact which rather surprised Kate, who had assumed her parents would have a private talk before the subject was introduced for general family discussion.

  ‘Nothing, thank you,’ he said to Cook, who was serving Hilda’s cheese omelette. Cook herself was waiting table. Ivy had every second weekend off and was currently being driven to the station by Max, where she would catch the train to Brisbane to stay with her sister.

  ‘A piece of toast at least, Stanley,’ Hilda insisted, ‘you haven’t eaten for –’

  ‘Yes, yes, very well, very well,’ Stan said tetchily and he took a slice from the rack on the table. He helped himself to a pat of butter and spread it on the toast, wondering why he was being forced to perform such a trivial action when his world was disintegrating about him, and wondering also how his wife could sit there calmly eating a cheese omelette. The sight irritated him intensely.

  ‘So,’ he said when Cook had returned to the kitchen, ‘I take it you’ve read these “diaries” as Kate calls them?’

  ‘I have,’ Hilda replied.

  ‘And what was your reaction to their many revelations?’

  Hilda put down her knife and fork. ‘I was shocked.’ She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin. ‘I was deeply shocked, I must admit.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ he said drily.

  ‘To think that for all those years the great love shared between Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim was a lie . . .’ Hilda shook her head, perplexed. ‘Who could have dreamt such a thing possible?’

  ‘I see.’ Stan studied his wife with disdain, as if she was some form of sub-human species. ‘And this revelation proved a greater shock than the discovery that you’d married into a family with black blood in its veins?’

  Hilda knew that she’d come up with the wrong answer, but in the face of her husband’s derision she remained surprisingly unflustered. She had formed her own conclusions and refused to stray from her path.

  ‘Naturally, the relationship with Pavi Salet and its outcome is the greatest shock of all, Stanley,’ she said. ‘I understand the ramifications that this entails for the family. But I cannot personally find Grandmother Ellie’s actions reprehensible. She was lost and alone, cast adrift after the death of her daughter –’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Stan barked and Hilda lapsed into silence, aware that she was being judged, but not particularly caring. Stanley had never understood matters of the heart. Most men don’t, she thought as she picked up her knife and fork and re-addressed her omelette.

  Kate had found her parents’ exchange fascinating. She understood her father’s reaction to his wife’s apparent superficiality, for her mother’s fixation with romance could indeed be irritating. But something in their brief dialogue, and particularly in Hilda’s response to her husband’s contempt, had changed the views of a lifetime. In the past, Kate had considered her mother’s fey other-worldliness a sign of weakness, a trait that left Hilda vulnerable and prone to ridicule. She realised now how wrong she’d been. Hilda’s ability to romanticise was her greatest strength.

  Just look at you Marmee, Kate thought, studying her mother, whose focus was now solely u
pon the omelette before her, you’ve provided yourself with the perfect escape. Alan’s quite right. You’re a survivor. More than a survivor, you’re indestructible.

  Stan wanted to hurl something at his wife. Watching her eat, so imperturbably and with her perfect table manners, he wanted to upend the impeccably laid table and send things crashing to the floor. But what was the point? He looked down at his buttered toast, knowing that if he attempted to eat it he’d choke.

  He stood. ‘I’m going into town,’ he said and walked out of the room.

  Kate jumped up and ran after him, cornering him before he got to the front door.

  ‘Don’t go, Dad,’ she begged, ‘please don’t go, we need to talk.’ She stood between him and the door as if her mere presence could prevent him from leaving.

  ‘Why? What is there to talk about? No one seems to know what’s happened to this family.’

  ‘I do. Alan does. He’s coming around. He’ll be here at midday.’

  Her father said nothing, his reaction unreadable.

  ‘Please, Dad, please, I’m begging you. We have to talk! You said so yourself, we have to talk as a family and decide what action we take –’

  ‘What action is there to take? We burn the diaries and pretend this whole thing never happened. We go back to the way we were: that’s what action we take.’

  ‘We can’t and you know it.’ She fronted him boldly, calling his bluff. ‘We can’t bury the past, Dad. We need to confront it and accept the truth, all of us. You know we do. Stay and talk to Alan. Please.’

  Kate saw a flicker of something in her father’s eyes, something that appeared to her like recognition. He knows I’m right, she thought, he knows the truth has to be faced. Then the eyes went dark and the wall was up again.

  ‘I’ll be in my study,’ Stan said, ‘tell me when he gets here.’

  He walked off. It was a little after nine in the morning, but Stan felt in need of a Scotch.

  Alan arrived at ten past twelve. He’d dropped Paola off at her parents’ house, where he would join her later.

  ‘You’re late,’ Stan called as his son climbed from the gleaming new Belmont utility.

  ‘G’day, Dad. G’day, Kate.’

  Alan patted the dog that had trotted down to meet him then climbed the stairs, Ben following, to where his father and sister were sitting waiting on the front verandah.

  ‘She told me you’d be here at midday,’ Stan said with a jerk of his head to Kate.

  ‘Yeah, give or take a few minutes.’

  Alan wasn’t sure whether his father was joking or not. Stan was lounging comfortably in one of the wicker armchairs and seemed relaxed, but Kate didn’t look comfortable at all. He noted the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the table, and the quick look he exchanged with his sister told him yes Stan had been drinking. As usual, it was difficult to tell whether or not he was drunk though – Stan held his liquor well.

  There was an awkward moment as Alan stood before his father waiting to see if a hand would be offered. It wasn’t, so he pulled up a wicker chair and sat.

  ‘New ute,’ Stan said.

  ‘Yep. Bought it for work; won’t stay shiny for long, you can bet on that.’

  ‘The sprocket business must be booming.’

  ‘Yes, yes it is thanks, Dad,’ Alan chose to ignore the sneer in his father’s tone, ‘business is going exceptionally well all round.’

  ‘Good on you, Al, that’s great news,’ Kate interjected before Stan could respond with another barbed comment. She wished her father would be a little more welcoming. ‘I adore the ute, can I have a drive later?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  The door had opened and Hilda stood there; she’d been watching from the front drawing room for her son’s appearance. Alan stood and kissed his mother.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks, Mum, I’m fine.’

  She was about to offer him a coffee or a soft drink, but Stan the Man got in first.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like something stronger,’ he said, indicating the Scotch bottle.

  Alan shook his head. ‘Not for me thanks, Dad, bit too early in the day.’ The moment the words were out he realised they sounded wrong and that his father would probably take it as a criticism.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Stan leant forwards and topped up his glass. He was drinking his whisky neat.

  ‘Well if there’s anything you want I’ll be in the front drawing room,’ Hilda said brightly. ‘Just give me a call.’

  ‘Rightio, thanks Mum.’ Alan plonked himself back in his chair.

  Hilda smiled at the sight of the three gathered around the table: her family was finally together. She wished Stanley didn’t look quite so grumpy, but at least he’d agreed to meet with his son.

  ‘Your father was so keen to see you he’s been waiting out here on the verandah for over half an hour,’ she said with the intention of getting things off to an amiable start, ‘isn’t that so, Stanley?’ She beamed directly at her husband, who made no reply, taking a swig of his Scotch instead, so she spread the radiance of her smile around the table in general. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Have a nice chat.’

  Closing the door behind her, Hilda retired to the front drawing room where, although not privy to their conversation, she would at least be able to see them through the windows that looked out over the verandah.

  Stan had barred his wife from the family discussion. She had nothing to offer but romantic claptrap he said and they didn’t need any of that bullshit. ‘Besides,’ he’d added, ‘this doesn’t concern you. You’re not a Durham.’

  Hilda had refused to take umbrage. She hadn’t even bothered countering with the fact that she’d borne him three Durham children. When Stan dug his heels in like this there was no getting through to him and if the discussion were to turn unpleasant she didn’t want to be part of it anyway.

  With the departure of his wife, Stan turned his full focus upon his son. ‘So,’ he said, lounging back in his armchair, tumbler of Scotch in hand, ‘what are your thoughts on all this? I know your sister’s, but how do you feel?’

  ‘About the diaries you mean?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, boy, I don’t mean about the bloody weather.’

  Alan and Kate shared another look. They could both see that their father’s aggression was fuelled by more than alcohol. Something else had triggered a rage that seemed to be simmering beneath the surface. Kate gave the slightest shrug, signalling to her brother she had no idea what had brought about this black mood. She knew it had not been Alan’s appearance, for she’d seen a difference in her father the moment he’d emerged from his study. Over two hours of drinking and thinking had proved a potent combination and something was stewing in Stan’s brain.

  ‘Where is he?’ he’d demanded. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘It’s only half past eleven, Dad, he won’t be here until twelve.’

  ‘I’ll wait on the verandah. I need some air.’

  When Stan had gone back to his study for the Scotch, Hilda had suggested, diplomatically, that they should have tea and scones on the front verandah as soon as Alan arrived.

  ‘With Ivy away I shall serve it up myself,’ she’d said, the prospect pleasing her, ‘a real family affair.’

  ‘No tea,’ Stan had flatly announced and then he’d informed her she was banned from the discussion.

  To Kate, things had not appeared promising. ‘I’ll wait with you, Dad,’ she’d said, and the two had sat in stony silence.

  Ignoring his father’s brief outburst, Alan answered with positivity. ‘I think it’s a good thing the diaries have come to light.’

  ‘You do, do you? Why?’

  ‘Because it’s high time the truth was revealed. In fact the truth’s been hidden for far too long: we should have known all this years ago.’

  ‘So like your sister you believe we shouldn’t destroy the diaries. That we shouldn’t preten
d they never existed and go back to the way we were.’

  ‘We can’t, Dad.’ Alan was amazed his father could even suggest such a thing. ‘We can’t go back to living a lie.’

  Stan made no reply, but gazed steadfastly at his son, his expression unfathomable.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Alan protested. Still no reply . . . ‘We’ve been living a lie for the whole of our lives, Dad,’ he argued, ‘every single one of us. For four generations! The Durham legend is a myth. We’re not the people we thought we were. Everything’s been a tissue of lies right from the start.’

  ‘I know this,’ Stan snapped, ‘do you think I don’t know this? I know also that you’ve been aware of these lies for the past two years and that you and your sister have been hiding the truth from me.’ He cast a cursory glance at Kate. ‘Your sister may perhaps have been attempting to protect her mother or her mother’s misguided view of the world,’ he said scathingly, ‘but what’s your excuse? You’re my son, damn it! You’re my son! You should have told me!’

  Alan felt a surge of irritation so intense it bordered on anger. Oh, I’m your son now, am I? he thought. Since when did that come about?

  ‘He was trying to protect you, Dad.’ Kate found her father’s accusation so unjust she jumped in before her brother could answer.

  ‘Protect me from precisely what?’ Stan demanded.

  ‘Neil had just died and you were vulnerable . . .’ Kate’s reply was wary: they were approaching tricky ground. ‘Al thought you might have trouble handling the truth.’

  ‘The truth about my slut of a grandmother, you mean?’ Stan knocked back his Scotch in one hit. ‘The truth that there’s black blood in the Durham veins.’

  ‘No.’ Alan didn’t need his sister to answer for him, nor did he feel the need to tread warily, better to have it all out in the open, he thought. ‘The truth about Big Jim being a dreadful human being,’ he said.

  Stan the Man’s eyes locked with his son’s and his very silence seemed to hold a challenge.

  It was a challenge his son took up willingly. ‘We all know how much you idolised Big Jim, Dad.’ Alan’s response was reasonable, his tone calm but firm; he’d controlled his irritation. ‘Everyone knows. Hell not just the family, the town, the region, the whole sugar industry. Big Jim was your lifetime hero. You modelled yourself on the man. Discovering the truth was bound to shatter you – Kate and I both knew that.’