Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘I’ve not seen you since Hannah’s funeral.’

  He nodded. ‘You are living in her cottage?’

  ‘I own it now. I have done so for nearly a year.’

  It was not a boast, there was no triumph in her tone and Paddy felt neither anger nor envy. He had long accepted that he had lost his mother’s cottage through his own stupidity.

  ‘That’s good,’ he saidsimply. ‘Ma would be pleased.’

  Anne found it a very generous statement. Touching too. ‘For goodness’ sake, come on out of the rain,’ she said, ‘it’s going to pour down any minute.’ He joined her on the front porch. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘It would be a pleasure.’

  She opened the door into the hall and he followed her through the formal front parlour and into the living room. In one corner stood a dressmaker’s dummy clothed in a girl’s pretty ball gown, beside it a table with boxes of beads, fine satinribbons and lace. Against the far wall was a large desk upon which sat books and papers, inkwells and pens.

  ‘You are a dressmaker, Anne?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘Goodness no, I do not have the skill.’ It was modesty speaking—Anne had a good eye for design and was a talented embroi-derer with a number of regular customers. Customers who would have their daughters’ ball gowns and wedding dresses embroidered by no-one other than Anne Goodlet, whose work was known for its detail and delicacy. Anne’s wealthy clients were referred to her by Howard Streatham; it was the least he could do as she refused to accept his financial assistance. ‘No, Paddy, I merely embroider and lacework the finished article.’

  ‘And you are studying, I see.’ Paddy gestured to the desk.

  ‘No, I take notation.’ He appeared a little bemused. ‘There are many people who cannot write and who will pay to have their letters written for them.’ She was aware that he was surprised to discover she was working. ‘And I teach reading and writing,’ she continued, ‘just the basicskills, as my pupils are mostly children, and immigrants with a poor knowledge of English.’ It was important to Anne that Paddy should know she earned her own living. ‘It does not make me a rich woman but I manage to get by.’

  Paddy was indeed surprised, he had presumed that her brother Charles was supporting her. He declined her offer to sit in the front parlour whilst she made the tea. ‘I should feel far too grand,’ he said, ‘and I’m in my work clothes, it wouldn’t beright.’ He gestured to his clumsy boots and heavy duty trousers.

  Paddy was always in his work clothes these days, but it didn’t mean he was working. Each morning he would queue up with the others, sometimes for hours, only to be turned away with, ‘Nuthin’ today, fellas, sorry.’ Every now and then he’d be one of the few lucky ones to get a day’s work, but more often than not he’d miss out, most of them did.

  He followed her into the kitchen and watched her bustling around efficiently. What a remarkable change, he thought. Where was the timid colourless creature she had once been? There was an animation about her now, a healthy bloomin her cheeks, a strength of purpose in her actions. Anne Goodlet was a woman no longer unsure of herself.

  ‘How is your family, Paddy?’ Anne enquired, deciding that Paddy O’Shea did not look at all well. Although his body was still huge, still strong, it was apparent that he had lost weight. His face was gaunt and there was worry in his eyes.

  ‘Fine, fine. I have a son since last we met. Ten he is now. I called him Daniel after Pa, but he gets called Dan mostly.’

  They talked about his family whilst she made the tea and then they sat by the living-room windows looking out at the rainwhich was coming down in sheets now. So heavy was it that they could barely see past the little courtyard to the harbour beyond. Strange, they agreed, how summer was Sydney’s wettest season.

  Talk of the weather and other niceties dwindled as Paddy stared, distracted, out of the window. What was he thinking, Anne wondered, and she decided to be direct. It was an ability she had only recently acquired.

  ‘Is something troubling you, Paddy?’ He looked at her. ‘You seem alittle worried.’

  ‘These are hard times, everyone’s worried.’ He realised that his reply had been brusque, even rude, and that she was genuinely concerned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently, and he told her about the bank.

  Anne was so obviously sympathetic to his plight that Paddy found himself pouring out the whole story. The stupidity of his gambling, the forced sale of the cottage, the collapse of the bank. It was a relief to talk so openly.

  ‘Tis a devil of a thing, Anne, the gambling lust. Had I not succumbed to it, I would have had no need of the bank, never did trust them anyway. I would still own this very cottage.’ He realised how insensitive hisremark must have sounded. ‘No offence intended, I assure you,’ he hastily added. ‘If I can’t own the place myself, you’re the first person I’d wish to see have it, I swear.’

  Anne smiled, no offence had been taken. ‘It must have angered you dreadfully when Charles purchased it,’ she said. ‘I was always surprised that you did not refuse his offer and wait for another.’ She didn’t register his stunned reaction as she continued, ‘But now of course I realise—the demands of the bookies would have necessitated a swift transaction.’

  ‘Kendle purchased it?’

  ‘Why yes of course. Surely you knew?’

  ‘No. The real estate fellow said it was a businessman. Ididn’t enquire any further.’

  Anne wondered whether she should tell Paddy the truth. Yes, she decided, he had a right to know. ‘Iam very much afraid, Paddy, that you were the sole reason Charles made the acquisition. He boasted of it to his wife. “I have taught Paddy O’Shea a lesson”, that’s what he told Amy.’

  Paddy stared blankly at her. It had been late on a Friday night when Cocky’s heavies had done him over. The cottage had been snapped up first thing Monday morning. He’d blessed his good luck at the time. But it had not been good luck at all. Charles Kendle had known all the while that the cottage would be on the market that very day. The realisation overwhelmed Paddy. It had not been the bookies who called in Cocky. It had been Charles Kendle.

  ‘I don’t know how he did it,’ Anne was continuing, ‘but he said that he had planned it, he boasted to Amy that he had. He hates you, Paddy, ever since you attacked him at Hannah’s funeral. You humiliated him, and he won’t have that.’ She sensed his anger, and hoped she would have no cause to regret telling him all this.

  ‘You must not think of revenge, Paddy. Charles is a vindictive man, and powerful. It will do you no good to retaliate.’

  Paddy wasn’t listening. He had made a decision. Paddy would steal from Charles Kendle everything that was owed to him, and then he would steal more.

  ‘Please, Paddy, promise me,’ Anne implored.

  ‘Promise you?’ He forced his mind back to the present. He must not rush things, such a crime must be carefully planned, there was plenty of time. ‘Promise you what, Anne?’

  ‘That you will not attempt revenge. Charles could destroy you. And he would, believe me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Anne,’ he smiled his reassurance. ‘Don’t you worry for one minute. Now tell me,’ he changed the subject, ‘how did you come by ownership of the cottage? Your brother didn’t give it to you, surely.’ It was quite obvious from the tone of her voice when she spoke of him that Anne despised her brother.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered after a moment’s pause, ‘he gave itto me.’

  ‘What,’ Paddy said scornfully, ‘from the goodness of his heart?’

  ‘No. Not from the goodness of his heart. But he gave it to me.’ Paddy had been so open with her that Anne felt she owed him an explanation, but she could give him none. She could not tell him the truth. She could tell no-one the truth. ‘Would you like some more tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Her face was flushed, Paddy noticed, as she fiddled with the teapot. He had no wish to distress her. ‘The rain has eased,’ he said, looking out of the
bay windows. ‘I must be on my way.’

  They parted warmly at the door, Paddy promising to visit her again. And Anne watched him from the front porch as, shoulders hunched, collar turned up, he walked down Windmill Street through the rain.

  She thought of him a lot that night as she lay in her bed unable to sleep, and she wished she could do something for him. But even if she wanted to, she could hardly give Paddy back his cottage. It was all she had. Not only was it her one financial asset, it was her very sanity. Living alone in the cottage, Anne had come to know a freedom she had never before experienced. And she had come to know a person whom she had never known existed. A person called Anne Goodlet, who was no longer a mere shadow existing on the periphery of other people’s lives.

  Anne was convinced that the cottage had saved her life, for during the two years prior to her move, there had been days of such black despair that she had found the task of living almost beyond endurance.

  It had all started the day of Milly Kendle’s visit, when Charles had kissed her and left her standing beside her father’s bed, paralysed with shock and shame.

  Anne did not know for how long she remained standing there, all she knew was the hideous realisation that her brother desired her. ‘I have your best interests at heart, Anne,’ he’d said, but she had seen far more in his eyes than sibling affection. As he had lowered his face to hers, she had seen lust in his eyes. Then his lips had brushed hers with a lover’s touch, leaving her in a state of dazed horror.

  In the months that followed, she studiously avoided her brother. Whenever he addressed her, she stared at the floor. Each morning she prayed that she would not encounter him at the back door or in the main hall when she was leaving the house. Her daily walks grew longer, her outings to the galleries, to concerts and the theatre grew more frequent and, finally, she insisted that she take her meals with her father in his room. Mealtimes were the most awkward she had found. Susan was now married and living in Melbourne, and Anne was marooned with Amy and Charles, feeling his eyes upon her, aware that he desired her more than he desired his own wife who was making empty conversation across the table.

  Charles Kendle was obsessed. His sister, the creature over whom he had had total power, was withdrawing more and more from him and, as she did, so the need to bring her back under his control grew stronger and stronger.

  He was not disturbed by the fact that Anne was in his thoughts when he made love to his wife. It was not unnatural, he told himself, to love his sister. She was reliant upon him, he must protect her, she must love him equally in return.

  At night, as Charles felt his body meld with Amy’s, he and Anne were one. And when Amy sighed her satisfaction, it was the acquiescence of his sister which Charles experienced. Only then could he find pleasure in his own release.

  ‘You have taken your evening meal with Father every night for the past two weeks, Anne.’ Charles’s anger was evident. ‘I consider it extremely rude.’

  She had popped into the dining room as Charles and Amy were seating themselves at table and made her announcement as a matter of courtesy, as she had for the past fortnight. Each time Charles had simply said, ‘If you must’, and she had disappeared upstairs for the ensuing two hours, after which she had returned to bid her brother and his wife goodnight before retiring.

  Charles would have no more of this. How dare she deprive him of her company. She owed him far more than she owed their father.

  ‘Iam sorry you consider it rude, Charles.’ She focused upon the floor as she always did when addressing him these days. ‘But Father has become more feeble of late, and if he is not supervised, I fear he will not eat properly.’

  ‘Mrs Marett can supervise his feeding. She can feed him by hand if need be.’

  ‘Mrs Marett is not his daughter.’

  Amy looked up, surprised. There was no insolence in Anne’s tone, but she was answering back to Charles.

  ‘I am his daughter,’ Anne continued, her gaze still directed at the floor, ‘and much as I do not wish to displease you, I must insist that I take my meals with him, for the sake of his health.’ It was not altogether a lie, James’s health was indeed deteriorating, as was his interest in food.

  Amy waited for the outburst of anger.

  ‘I see.’ Strangely enough, Charles was calm. Although he wanted her to look at him, he found her subservient attitude attractive, even as she took a stance against his wishes. He did not wish to frighten her. He wished her to admire him. ‘I do not mean to be inconsiderate, Anne. Your care of the old man is admirable.’ Amy’s eyes flickered from one to the other, she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Perhaps you will take your Sunday evening meals with us, that would not be too much to ask, surely?’

  ‘Of course, Charles.’ She nodded obediently. ‘May I go to Father now?’

  ‘You may.’

  The Sunday evening meals became an endurance test for Anne. When Charles personally filled her wine glass, ignoring the butler, she knew he didso in order to feel the touch of her fingers as he passed it to her. Constantly he queried her about her activities, ensuring that the entire mealtime conversation revolved around her, and that she would be forced to look up from the table. When she did, and caught his eyes feasting upon her, she flushed and looked back down at her untouched plate.

  Anne served her time like a prisoner at Kendle Lodge, her only respite the old man upstairs, her only moments of peace spent in the gloomy room of her dying father.

  There was just one light at the end of the tunnel and, for Anne, the weeks could not pass quickly enough. Charles, Amy and their son, Stephen, were shortly to depart for Europe, the tripbeing Charles’s graduation present to Stephen who, at twenty-three, had recently completed his Bachelor of Arts degree at Sydney University.

  ‘How very ungrateful of you, Anne,’ Charles had said when she had steadfastly refused to accompany them.

  ‘I know it must appear so Charles, but father’s condition is deteriorating so rapidly I could not possibly leave him.’

  At first, Charles had cursed his father. Ineffectual to the last, James Kendle couldn’t even die efficiently.

  Upon consultation with James’s physician, however, Charles discovered that the old man was likely to die at any minute.

  ‘He’s failing fast, I’m afraid,’ Dr Muggleton said.

  ‘How long?’ Charles demanded.

  ‘Well,’ the doctor shook his head gravely, ‘I doubt whether he will last longer than a fortnight or so. I’ve not told Mrs Goodlet,’ he added. ‘Her own condition issomewhat delicate, I fear, she really must look after her health.’

  ‘She will be in good hands, I assure you,’ Charles replied. ‘We leave for Europe insix weeks and the change of scenery will be just what she will need to ease the grief of her tragic loss.’ And Charles concerned himself no more with the irritation of his father’s lingering death.

  Upon Stephen’s return home from St Paul’s College a month prior to their departure for Europe, life at Kendle Lodge resumed asemblance of normality.

  ‘Richard Windeyer eh?’ Charles was most gratified to hear of Stephen’s friendshipwith the son of so prominent a man as the recently knighted William Charles Windeyer, Supreme Court judge.

  ‘Yes sir, Richard also rooms at St Paul’s,’ Stephen boasted enthusiastically, enjoying the unaccustomed attention from his father. ‘He’s a grand fellow and we’ve become very good friends.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. I should like to meet the Windeyer boy.’

  As he listened to his son talk of college life and the friends he had made, Charles felt his old envy resurface. The envy he had always felt for the automatic social status granted those with a university education. He cursed himself for refusing the opportunity when his father had offered it; he’d been so eager to join the family business.

  Howard Streatham had been Oxford educated, Charles often thought bitterly, which explained why Howard was socially acceptable to people like the Wunderlichs. Despite the fact that
every major roomin Charles’s house now boasted a Wunderlich ceiling he had not as yet been welcomed into the Wunderlichs’ artisticcircle of friends, a fact which constantly irked him.

  ‘You must bring young Windeyer home and introduce him to us,’ he said, ‘when we return from Europe.’

  Anne was thankful for the distraction of Stephen’s presence, but she nonetheless counted the days until she would be free of Charles. For a whole six months she would have the house to herself, just she and her father and the servants. She might even persuade the butler to carry James downstairs, he had always so enjoyed sitting in the garden. Although he was very fragile these days, perhaps it would not be wise.

  Despite the fact that Anne continuously worried about her father, she refused to accept the imminence of his death. She hung on the doctor’s words. ‘He’s bearing up well enough, Mrs Goodlet,’ he said. ‘You must not stress yourself so, you have your own health to consider.’

  Only two weeks to go. Charles was becoming impatient. Muggleton’s prognosis had proved incorrect. Charles was angry with the doctor and lividwith his father. The old man should have been in his grave by now.

  It was Saturday. Amy was lunching with friends, Stephen was sailing his yacht on the harbour and Charles returned home in the late afternoon from several hours’ work at the office to find Dr Muggleton waiting for him in the drawing room. He knew in an instant.

  ‘Mr Kendle,’ the doctor said, rising from his armchair, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

  Thank God, Charles thought, at last.

  ‘Mrs Goodlet sent for me at around two o’clock, but I’m sorry to say there was nothing I could do. He passed away about a half an hour ago.’

  But Charles wasn’t listening, he was already halfway up the stairs.

  Anne was sitting in the chair, hands clasped, wrists leaning against the bed as if she had been praying. She was quietly contained, but had obviously been weeping. Charles crossed to stand beside her and look down at his father.

  Emaciated, paper-thinskin stretched over a skull which appeared as fragile as egg-shell, James nevertheless seemed at peace. His eyes were closed beneath sunken lids and hiswithered hands were gently crossed upon the counterpane.