The Larnachs

by Owen Marshall

  I spend a good deal of time attempting to cheer him, but sadness is never far below the surface. Even his enthusiasm for billiards has diminished, although we play often as a distraction from his unhappiness. He is a sly devil at the game, and in normal spirits gets considerable satisfaction from his skill, crowing boyishly at victories. ‘The eye of the marksman, Dougie. That’s the thing,’ he will say, for he is capable with the gun too, and then he’ll squeeze my upper arm.

  How different now is the time we have together from that in the autumn of ’82, when Kate and I returned home from England. Father was recovering from the awful buggy accident, the most dangerous injury being a broken leg, and I still wasn’t fully fit from the fall I took at Uncle Donald’s while riding to hounds. For many weeks he was holed up at The Camp, just as he is holed up now, but for a less terrible reason. Father hates forced inaction and loves to be about. He equates movement with progress and is restless to see and do.

  Now I see more clearly the parallels, and the differences, between the two times. He had then recently married Aunt Mary, just as he has now recently married Conny, and after each wedding came an unexpected blow that confined him to The Camp. But then he had the pleasure of Kate and me coming home to be with him in convalescence, and now Kate is dead. The leg healed in time and he was gadding about again with his usual optimistic, thrusting frame of mind. Now he has suffered a wound far more serious and difficult to treat, even though I believe he can be happier with Conny Brandon than he ever was with Aunt Mary. All of us recognised that as just a marriage of convenience to make respectable her continued presence in the house, and allow him to protect his assets by legal use of her name.

  Then he, Kate and I spent a great deal of time together, in the house and also moving about the grounds and the farm in the buggy, slowly so as not to test his leg. He loves the stock. His dairy herd was the first on the peninsula and the Alderney bulls win prizes and fetch high prices. But he and I set most store by horses and that shared enthusiasm is something we both cherish. What magnificent animals — despite my accident I admire them greatly. We had well over fifty of various breeds then, fewer now: the working Clydesdales, the carriage horses including the six matched greys and six blacks, the hacks, the ponies for the girls. Father and I would go down to the Stars and Stripes field on fine days to spend time with the horses, and often visit the stables, which he had designed with almost as much care and extravagance as the house. When Father first went to Wellington as a member of Parliament, he caused something of a stir by riding his impressive white mare, Reindeer, about the city streets. It was a way to signal his arrival, I suppose, and also a challenge, as is Father’s way.

  Nothing of that seems to interest him now, and when I talk to him of the property and my supervision of it, he has an air of impatience and is quick to complain of the small return on everything he’s invested in The Camp and its associated properties. I’m not privy to all of his finances, but things aren’t as they were. It’s the whole colony, of course, not something confined to Father’s dealings. Land values are falling and defaults on loans and commissions are common. Father and Basil Sievwright still meet regularly, but there’s not the boisterous humour of earlier times and the lawyer seldom stays the night after their business as he often did.

  Last Tuesday afternoon they were talking loudly on the lion steps as Sievwright waited for his horse to be brought round, and I heard Father reminding him to sell Kaitangata Coal Company shares and buy more in the Colonial Bank. ‘Follow my instructions as promptly as you can,’ he said. ‘I feel I’ve trusted too much lately to the advice of others rather than retaining faith in myself. Too many fair-weather sailors are being found out. Damn small-minded and timid people hold everything back.’ His voice lacked the tone that formerly showed their long association and friendship, but he made an effort before the lawyer mounted, and shook his hand firmly.

  I went out and stood with him as Sievwright rode away. I asked him how serious things were. ‘Ready money, that’s what it’s all about now, Dougie,’ he said. ‘It’s not a time to realise on assets, and everyone’s out for ready money. A man’s word and best endeavour aren’t sufficient any more. I’m being pressed, but by God I’ll make it warm for any man who tests me in the courts. And your brother and sisters don’t seem to have any appetite for economy, or any ability to provide for themselves. In England and Germany they became accustomed to living well on my money.’ I reminded him that he’d wanted us to have the education he was denied. ‘Yes, and use it to advantage to make your own way in the world,’ he said. ‘But Donny has a wife and family now and still he battens on me. At his age I was appointed manager of the bank here and at your age I was chief officer for the Bank of New South Wales on the goldfields.’

  I know all his Australian stories from constant retelling and embellishment, although I have little recollection of the country myself. Normally he would have taken the opportunity to revisit those memories again for my instruction and his pleasure, but it was a sign of his condition that he fell silent for a while and remained standing on the steps, looking out to the fir trees that had been planted when the house was still being built, and when he, Donny and myself would often spend weekends with the workmen, staying in the cottage. He put his hand on my arm in the old, affectionate gesture. I asked if he would like to ride to see the Alderney herd, but he said he would go inside and have Conny read to him. ‘I must accept what’s happened in a philosophical manner,’ he said. ‘Many people have greater troubles. I’ll bear up. Money matters can be dealt with, but Kate is a loss terrible to me. Poor, dear Kate. Only you, Conny and little Gladys make it bearable for me here. We must support each other and come through it all the stronger and closer for the ordeal.’

  Many times, when Father was in Wellington, I had occasion to go to Basil Sievwright’s office, but he was too much the professional adviser to say any more than was necessary for the transaction between us. He concentrates on Father’s wider interests and doesn’t seem very concerned in the affairs of the peninsula property and The Camp, except to stress the need to limit expenditure and to suggest further reduction in household staff. In its heyday the place had four cooks and four gardeners, laundry and cleaning women aplenty, an ostler, a personal maid for each family member and numerous others. A butler ruled the servants more absolutely than Miss Falloon does now. Even today many people are needed to keep the place going. One girl spends all and every day tending to the kerosene lamps. I’m diligent about the farm but I can do little about house staff without Father’s agreement, and he was reluctant to make decision at a distance.

  I hope Conny will take charge of everything inside The Camp now. She has greater resolution to be mistress than Aunt Mary. Miss Falloon and Jane I find inclined to agree with my direction and then disregard it, so I’ll watch with interest to see how they fare with Conny. Certainly she began as she intended to go on. Father’s low spirits meant he had little interest in introducing her and establishing her position, but she called Miss Falloon to her the very day after her arrival, and the next morning had all the servants assembled in the large music room, where she spoke to them concerning their responsibilities and her resolve that the entire household be happy and well organised. Jane told me that Conny decided to observe the running of the household for three weeks before making what changes she thought best, and she set a time each day for Jane and Miss Falloon to meet with her, as well as stipulating that she is not to be disturbed when at the piano. ‘Oh, it’s all very military indeed, Mr Douglas,’ said Jane, who no doubt makes comparisons with my mother’s time, and then Aunt Mary’s. Conny’s sharp enough, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’d like to serve under her.

  The outside and farm workers seldom give me any cause for complaint, and in the main I enjoy my time with them. In England I was always a mere schoolboy, or a guest on the property of others. Here I’m someone in my own right, entitled to give instruction on our family holdings.

  If S
ievwright doesn’t give much away about the Larnach finances, then Donny doesn’t hesitate to give advice from Melbourne. He’s a lawyer too, but far more open in his opinions, both within the family and in public. I must admit, however, that there’s truth in his assessment of our father’s abilities. The Otago papers regularly refer to William Larnach as one of the richest men in the colony, with interests and involvements that go from one end of the country to the other, and overseas. But he is, as Donny says, an expansionist, full of optimism about potential. He possesses an instinct for a good deal, and the banking and business experience to create an enterprise. When things were going well, when finance could be easily obtained, then most things thrived, but money’s being called in now, and people like Stout, Vogel, Ward and Father are feeling the squeeze for that ready cash he talks about. Guthrie & Larnach has officially been wound up, but proceedings drag on and he bleeds money because of it.

  I know he’s drawn Alfred Brandon into land speculation. I assume Conny is aware of her brother’s involvement. I hope the association remains without recrimination on either side, for Father can be hasty at times and Alfred was initially cool about the marriage itself. I know for a fact that before the wedding he asked Father what settlement he was prepared to make on Conny, and was dissatisfied with the answer: no settlement, just the pledge of a loving husband to support her and provide for her in his will. The de Bathe Brandon family have an assumption of privilege, but there’s no evidence of significant importance in their past. Most in the colony are in the same position, and that’s the main reason they’re here, I imagine. I’ve had little opportunity to get to know Alfred. He’s nine years older and he patronises me also because I lack the gloss that Oxford has given him.

  Donny, Colleen and Alice are even more uneasy, for a contrary reason: the fear that Father will leave everything to Conny, and so our inheritance will be lost, including the money Mother brought to her marriage. I’m prepared to trust Father, and Gladys is too young to understand the matter. He’s been generous to us in the past, and has told me several times that he intends The Camp eventually to be mine. I see nothing in Conny that leads me to think she is hostile to the rest of us, and Father has never been one to be led by the nose in anything! Perhaps Conny has yet to learn that.

  If Kate were alive, she may have been the one to achieve family harmony. She saw no reason for people to be at odds, and thought goodwill and toleration would solve everything. We all loved her; Conny liked her. Donny is offhand and scoffs at Father’s third marriage. No fool like an old fool, he says openly, though he admits Conny is a fine figure of a woman, and has no particular animosity towards her, or the Brandon family. For Colleen and Alice something more personal seems to be at work, which I don’t fully understand. No one expects them to see Conny as their mother, but they also make it clear that they don’t recognise her as Father’s wife in the way to which she’s entitled. Colleen bridles because Conny’s less than a decade older than her, and more than twenty years younger than Father. It’s embarrassing when they’re in society together, Colleen and Alice say. The way Father displays Conny and attempts to play the younger man. It’s like a slap in the face for our mother. In some female fashion they seem to find it logical to blame Conny for Father’s wish to have her.

  For myself, I hope to make a more reasonable, less immediate judgement. And I won’t have Gladys prejudiced by her sisters’ opinions. At her age she’s still essentially of the household and must be allowed the best opportunity to be happy with her father and Conny when she is home from school. Colleen and Alice prefer not to come to The Camp. They have much of their lives elsewhere and make obvious their preference for other company.

  I met Conny first in Wellington as the daughter of Father’s friend, just one of a rather self-assured and outspoken tribe. The marriage was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the family, and to Father’s wider acquaintance. Of the four de Bathe Brandon daughters she’s the eldest and prettiest. Personally I find her figure too slight. She’s petite, and my admiration is more aroused by fuller proportions. Also, she persists in wearing her hair tightly drawn back, as if to prove she’s a modern woman. She carries herself well, and is free from the simpering confusion or conscious archness that so many women affect, but her shrewd interrogations can be disconcerting.

  Her father was a great supporter of education and gave his daughters unusual opportunity for accomplishment. I’m not much interested in music, but Conny is agreed to have special talent there. What I do appreciate is her ability to converse on a wide range of topics, and her confidence to substantiate her opinions. She’s formidable in argument, is Conny de Bathe Brandon, and Father delights in that, despite not brooking opposition in others. Men allow good-looking women a latitude they won’t give to plain females and fellow males. But Father’s accustomed to getting his own way, and when the novelty of Conny’s independence wears off, maybe some sparks will fly.

  Two nights ago I had another of my dreams. We were dining formally, with Father at the head of the table talking about the newly built ballroom. I think all of the family were there, except Donny’s wife, who’s unwelcome. Others sat with us, but without place settings, or any food, and their faces were indistinct. Mother, Aunt Mary and Conny sat side by side, and, as is the way in dreams, there seemed nothing untoward in that. Father was calling on each of us in turn to twirl about the room. ‘Dance, Kate,’ he cried happily, and she got up obediently. Then, ‘Dance, Eliza’ and ‘Dance, Mary, Colleen and Alice’, and they did, quite unconcerned and with concentration to perform to their best. ‘Dance, Donny and Gladys.’ But when Conny was called on she didn’t reply, or rise, just kept on with her meal. Father merely laughed and continued to call us up, until all except Conny, even the shadowy, unnamed guests, were dancing in the dining room under the ornately carved ceiling as if that was the accepted practice. Yet I was embarrassed to find that my old injury had returned in full, so that I could move only clumsily and with pain. All other dancers seemed graceful, while I was a fool, and tried to avoid being in Father’s sight, or Conny’s. My last awareness in the dream was that there were a great many plates of assorted nuts on the table that I hadn’t seen before, and the time began to feel like Christmas. Conny remained seated and alone, yet quite composed and looking away from the dancing. What strange visits we pay in our sleep.

  Since she’s been at The Camp, I’ve become aware of Conny’s considerable estimation of herself, and a certain sharpness, even asperity, in her observations concerning other folk. She can be especially hard on the people she’s been introduced to here in Otago, and doesn’t seem to care that her witticisms can sometimes give offence. She’s a great one for women’s advancement, and quite determined to take an active part in pushing for the vote, even arguing the point with parliamentarians she meets socially. I don’t doubt her quick mind, but she can be dismissive of those with a lesser intelligence, especially if they’re ignorant as well. She doesn’t conceal her impatience with silly or shallow people.

  Soon after her arrival at The Camp, she offended some of us in the family by mocking an Otago Witness cutting in the family scrapbook, recording musical items my sisters and I had given in Mr Young’s barn in aid of the Hooper’s Inlet school organ fund. Donny’s wife was there too and sang ‘Remember me no more’ and ‘Across the far blue hills, Marie’. Alice played the violin, Colleen Welsh airs on the harp, and I sang ‘Goodbye’ and ‘For ever’. All very bucolic no doubt, and Conny’s criticism was of the music chosen rather than individuals, but she was hurtful all the same without intending it. ‘No doubt it was all for a good cause,’ she said, ‘and the organ remains an inspiration for the schoolchildren.’ Alice in particular got in a great huff and came to The Camp even less afterwards.

  People talk, of course, about the difference in their ages, but when Father’s recovered from the loss of Kate, I think they could well be happy. Conny will make him a suitable wife in many ways. She’s used to the life of a politician
, and she’s an accomplished hostess. Father likes having people of his choice around him: lively conversation, music, even gossip and practical jokes. Aunt Mary was never comfortable, or successful, in being equal partner at such gatherings.

  I wonder, though, how Conny will find life at The Camp rather than in Wellington. Dunedin is over an hour away, and now that Father is no longer in Parliament they may be here much of the time. Both Mother and Aunt Mary found life here isolated and preferred the Manor Place house in town. Mother never got used to the cold, or to the rawness around her.

  I’m selfish enough to be concerned, too, for the way in which their residence at The Camp may affect my own position. When Father regains his interest in affairs, I’m unlikely to retain full control of the day-to-day running of the property, and all the effort I’ve put into establishing myself, and proving my competence, may be for nothing.

  It’s also put a damper on having my own friends at The Camp, not just because of Kate’s death, but because Father doesn’t think much of them, apart from Robert, whose father is a business friend. Robert has come from England and, like me, doesn’t completely fit in with the set here. Father finds us too idle, and not resolute enough in forging careers for ourselves. He doesn’t reflect that there may be other roads to fulfilment apart from his own self-help and industry. It’s just as well he knows nothing of some of the weekends in his absence: Robert, Hugo and others lairing with me outrageously. He accepted the story I gave him regarding the damage to the wishing well, and the disappearance of his peacocks.

  Such mobbing times weren’t my favourites in any case. Too many of the people came to enjoy hospitality that they hadn’t the inclination, or the resources, to return. The Camp and I were used: friends invited friends who brought acquaintances. Donny’s nature is inclined to such largesse, but he’s seldom with us now. Some fellows regarded the women servants as part of the extended hospitality, and on two occasions the consequences were both embarrassing and costly for me. I’ve only once given in to a dalliance with one of the maids, a loose-limbed, forward girl who gave me considerable pleasure despite her love bites, but who became increasingly demanding of my attention. Thankfully she didn’t conceive and I found an excellent position for her in Oamaru, and gave her five pounds besides.