by Judy Nunn
‘It was very peaceful,’ Anne said without looking up. ‘He didn’t awake, but he whispered as he was sleeping. He seemed to be dreaming. Of his childhood, I think.’
Well, of course he would be, Charles thought. The old man had been in his second childhood for years. ‘It’s a relief to know he was not inpain,’ he replied dutifully. ‘I shall tell the doctor to make the necessary arrangements.’
He was about to leave but Anne, horrified, stopped him. ‘You can’t possibly mean to take him away now.’
‘Of course.’
‘But people will wish to pay their respects.’
‘What people?’
‘Well, Amy for one. And Stephen.’
‘You’re right, Anne.’ Charles knew that the prospect of staring at a cadaver, even for the requisite minute or so, would be the last thing Amy would wish. But of course she must be seen to do the right thing. ‘I shall send them both up as soon as they arrive home.’
‘And there’s Howard,’ Anne added. ‘Howard would wish to pay his respects.’ Sadly, she could think of no-one else.
‘Very well,’ Charles reluctantly conceded, ‘I shall have Howard informed immediately, and tomorrow morning I shall have the …’ he stopped himself from saying ‘the body removed’, ‘… the necessary arrangements carried out.’
Anne stayed by her father’s bedside for most of the night. She thought of her own life, and she thought of his. They had a lot in common, she realised. What lonely lives they had both been.
Before he’d died, when the doctor had tactfully left her alone with her father, she had knelt by the bed, her head nearly resting on the pillow beside his, to catch his whispered words in case he should be calling for her. But he wasn’t.
She heard the word ‘Turumbah’ a number of times. Was it a name, she wondered. Then ‘Murrumuru’. Yes, she knew the name Murrumuru. The Aboriginal woman who had come to the house that day … Milly. Milly had spoken of Murrumuru. Of Murrumuru and Richard Kendle. Anne knew at that moment, without a doubt, that Milly had been telling the truth. But then she had known it that day. She had known it and she had done nothing. It had been a terrible thing, she thought, to send the woman away.
Her father whispered of eels. Of eels and Murrumuru. And then he made soft shushing sounds and gently rolled his head upon the pillow. At first, Anne was alarmed. Was he distressed?
‘What is it, Father? Is something wrong? Is there something I can do?’
He must have heard her, for he seemed to want to answer. ‘The river,’ he whispered, ‘the river,’ and she could swear there was the touch of a smile upon his lips, ‘the water against the skin.’ Then, once more, he made the soft shushing sounds.
Was he a child again? Was he swimming in the river? She would never know, but Anne was glad that her father died in a world where he had once been happy.
The days which followed James’s death were amongst the blackest of Anne’s life. Not since the death of her husband had she known such despair. Whilst her father had been alive she had served a purpose, but now there was nothing. Nothing but the loathsome anticipation of six months in Europe with Charles dancing attendance upon her.
‘Cheer up, Anne,’ he said. ‘Just think, you’ll soon be in Italy, you always wanted to go to Italy. And I’ll buy you such beautiful things. Do smile for me, dear, I hate to see you so miserable.’
Once again he was ignoring his wife and Anne could sense Amy’s hurt and bewilderment. He barely even acknowledged the presence of his son. His sole attention was focused upon her.
Several days before their departure, when Stephen was spending the night with a friend Anne escaped the claustrophobia of the house and the prospect of an evening meal alone with Charles and Amy to attend a concert at the Town Hall.
Howard and his wife Helen had insisted on supper following the recital and it was well after midnight when she slipped in the front door of Kendle Lodge.
Only the downstairs night lights illuminated the house, all else was in darkness, and Anne was thankful that the household had retired. She crossed the mainliving room towards the stairs.
‘Anne.’ His voice came from out of the gloom and she looked about, startled. ‘Come and join me for a drink.’
He was seated in one of the large armchairs by the bay windows. She couldn’t see his face, only the silhouette of his legs, crossed, the brandy balloon in one hand resting upon his knee.
‘Oh. Charles, you startled me.’
‘Come and join me.’ The brandy balloon waved towards the other armchair in the window recess. ‘Tell me about your evening.’
‘No, thank you, it is very late and I am tired.’
He leaned forward and she could see his face. ‘I said come and join me.’ It was an order. ‘Come and spend a little time with your brother.’
His words were not slurred but his manner was aggressive and Anne knew he was drunk.
‘I am sorry, Charles,’ she said, ‘but I really must retire, I am very weary.’
He put his brandy balloon down on the coffee table and crossed to her at the stairs. ‘Too weary to talk to your own brother?’ He was close to her now, his voice belligerent, his eyes angry, and she could smell the cognac on his breath. ‘Come, come, Anne, it’s been a long timesince we’ve talked as brother and sister should.’
She edged away slightly, feeling the wooden column of the stairs and the bannister railing against her back. There was nowhere else she could go. For the first time she felt genuinely frightened of him.
‘What is there we should speak of as brother and sister, Charles?’ She tried to keep her voice steady, efficient. ‘Is there family business to discuss?’
‘We should speak of our love for each other,’ he said, moving closer, one foot upon the lower step, one hand upon the bannister railing, locking her close to him. ‘You are the only family I have left in the world.’ The belligerence and anger had faded. ‘And I am the only family you have left, Anne; surely you realise that?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do, Charles.’ She couldn’t help it. Steady as she tried to keep her voice, the breath caught in her throat and she gasped the words.
She loved him, Charles thought. The emotion in her voice was proof. He had known it all along. ‘Anne,’ he murmured, ‘my own Anne.’ His love for her overwhelmed him. ‘You are the only person upon this earth who matters to me.’ As he lowered his face to kiss her, he placed his hand upon her breast.
Anne’s fear vanished in an instant, replaced once more by the repulsion and shame she had known for years. He had shown his true colours at last; even Charles could not disguise such an action as a display of brotherly affection.
With a violence and a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she pushed him from her. He swung away, comically, off balance, his hand gripping the railing to save himself from landing on his backside upon the stairs.
‘You disgust me!’ she screamed. ‘You disgust me!’
She raced past him up the stairway, and Charles looked about, nervous that Amy might appear any moment. What had he done that was so very wrong? He had another cognac and went to bed, falling into a drunken, untroubled sleep.
Anne did not sleep. All night she lay wondering what to do. There could be no further pretence, she must leave the house, but where could she go? If only she could end her life. Surely tonight must lend her the courage. She recalled the drunken lust in his eyes and the hand upon her breast. Over and over she relived his actions and her humiliation, urging herself to find the strength to make the decision. To end it all. And gradually she felt her resolution grow. But it was a resolution born of anger and, in the morning hours, she had made her decision. She would not kill herself. There would be no need, there was another way out.
She stayed in her room and avoided breakfast, venturing downstairs shortly before Charles usually departed for his business meetings. He was still in the dining room with Amy, lingering over his coffee.
‘Good morning, Amy. May I see you, Charles? In
your study?’
Amy looked taken aback, but Charles agreed meekly enough. ‘Of course,’ he said, and led the way.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked as he closed the door behind them.
‘No thank you, I shall not take up much of your time.’ She remained standing in the centre of the room, and Charles was uncertain as to whether or not he should sit behind his desk and take control of the situation as he normally would. She didn’t allow him the opportunity. ‘I shall be leaving the house and I have a proposition to put to you.’
‘Where will you go?’ Charles was so stunned he could think of nothing else to say.
‘To Hannah’s cottage. You will give me the cottage. I shall ask nothing more. I shall support myself.’
Charles could remember the events of the previous night, but he had successfully persuaded himself that he had done no wrong, he had been drunk, that was all. Now, in the cold hard light of morning, the thought that his sister might have misconstrued his actions horrified him. If she were to think for one moment that he would betray her trust, that he would violate his sacred position as her brother and benefactor …
‘Anne, last night … Please, do not misunderstand, I was drunk, I meant nothing. The way I touched you, it was simply an accident.’ He was begging. She said nothing. ‘I swear. I would do nothing to offend you. I swear I will never —’
‘We will not speak of it, Charles. We will never speak of it. Not one word. For as long as we both live.’
‘I promise,’ he said desperately. ‘I promise you, Anne, I shall not —’
‘But there is something else I shall speak of, something I shall make public to whomsoever I can, if I have to. And it will ruin you, Charles.’ He waited, speechless, for her to continue. ‘If you do not give me the cottage,’ her voice was as steady as a rock, the strength of her resolve unshakable, ‘I shall make it known that there is an illegitimate line in the Kendle family, a line of Aboriginal descent.’
Charles stared at his sister in disbelief, and Anne found, to her astonishment, that she was relishing the moment. ‘Just think, Charles, black bastards bearing the Kendle name. You will be a social outcast.’
He was powerless, as she had known he would be, and one week after the family had left for Europe, Anne moved into Hannah’s cottage in Windmill Street.
‘What a grand one it is this evening.’ Paddy clinked his bottle against Spike Monroe’s and together, huddled in their winter coats, they swigged their ale as they watched the vividpinks and reds of the sunset which fanned the sky over Woolloomooloo Bay.
They were sitting in the gardens of Kendle Lodge. In the arbour near the wall, right at the very end. ‘The master never comes down here,’ Spike had assured Paddy.
In the six months since he had seen Anne and decided on his plan, Paddy O’Shea had been busy. It had been easy to befriend the old gardener, easier than Paddy could ever have hoped. Simply a matter of admiring the garden through the big iron gates at the side.
Spike had invited him in and the two men had struck up a friendship that very day. Spike had taken immediately to Paddy’s Irish charm. ‘The master will have no Irish in his employ,’ he confided, ‘but little does he know he has one right here in his own gardens. I was born in Killarney,’ the old man chortled. ‘Course I was only a babe when Pa came out to the new country, so the brogue is gone, but I’m Irish through and through.’
Paddy didn’t have the heart to tell Spike that he’d never set foot upon the Emerald Isle, that he’d been born in the Rocks in the heart of Sydney. ‘Dublin,’ he said, ‘we hail from Dublin.’ Well, his father Daniel had, hadn’t he, Paddy thought, and as he talked, his brogue grew thicker. ‘Tis a beautiful garden, it does you credit.’ Spike glowed with pride and nodded agreement. ‘I’ve looked up at it often from down there in the Loo,’ Paddy continued, gazing out over the valley, ‘and thought how I’d love to watch a sunset from this very spot.’
‘Then you shall, you shall.’ Spike’s weather-beaten face cracked into a grin. ‘Come back this evening and we’ll watch it together.’
It had become a habit after that. Each Friday—the night the master went to his club, Spike confided—Paddy arrived with two bottles of ale just prior to sunset, and they sat side by side in the arbour admiring nature’s brilliance.
Paddy took his time gleaning information from the old gardener, asking few questions, waiting for answers to present themselves naturally. There was no hurry, he told himself as he perused the layout of the house and made his plans. He would have no trouble scaling the wall, and the lock on the inside of the gates was simple to operate. He would open them first to allow for a quick escape. The vine-covered trellis by the side of the balcony looked strong enough to support his weight. That would give him access to what he learned was the master bedroom.
‘The mistress is home,’ Spike had whispered one evening, pointing up to the open French windows and hustling Paddy out of sight. ‘Come quickly,’ he said as they scurried down to the arbour, ‘most often she steps out onto the balcony to watch the sunset.’
Over the next several months, Paddy observed that Amy Kendle, when at home on a Friday, more often than not went back inside once the sun had disappeared below the horizon, extinguished the bedroom light then presumably went downstairs to dine in her sitting room. And, when she did so, she did not close the French windows.
Each evening, after whispering a hurried goodnight to Spike at the gate, Paddy remained in the shadows and watched. He watched the butler light the lamps in the garden, and he flattened his back against the wall as the man checked the lock on the side gate. Then he watched as the butler disappeared through the servants’ entrance, presumably to check all the locks from within. And each time he watched, he noted that not once, when the mistress was at home, were the French windows at the far end of the balcony closed. They remained open, as she had obviously instructed they should.
Two hours later the bedroom lights were once more lit, and the French windows closed. By Amy Kendle. He could see her clearly. A further half hour later the lights were again extinguished—the mistress had retired for the night.
The windows became an obsession with Paddy. They were the way into the house. And they were open for just two hours, and then only on a Friday when the mistress was home.
As balmy autumn slid into winter and the evenings grew chilly, Paddy started to worry that perhaps, on the next Friday night Amy stayed at home, the windows would not be left open.
‘Getting a wee bit cold, Spike,’ he said one evening. ‘I’ll not be coming much longer, not until the spring.’ Paddy was paving the way. If, following a burglary, and with no plausible explanation, he failed to arrive for their weekly rendezvous, the old man would put two and two together. Spike was naive, but he was not a fool.
‘Get away, a young man like you, and an Irishman at that, where’s your spine? A bit of cold does a man no harm.’ Paddy’s visits had become the highlight of Spike’s week and he didn’t want them to end. ‘It’s a tot of rum we want these nights,’ he said, swigging the last of his ale, ‘a tot of rum’d warm you up.’ But Paddy kept hinting that the next time he came might be the last as he watched for the open windows on the balcony and pretended to shiver beneath his heavy winter coat with the large false pockets sewn inside. He didn’t like the cold, he said to Spike. It was the one thing he didn’t miss about Ireland, he’d gotten used to the Australian sun.
Paddy blessed his luck. There they were, the open windows. He nearly hadn’t come tonight, there was the threat of a storm in the air, and surely she wouldn’t leave the windows open during a storm.
‘Quick,’ Spike pointed up to the balcony, ‘she’s home,’ and they hurried to the end of the garden. ‘I didn’t think you’d come, what with the weather and all.’
‘I came to say goodbye,’ Paddy replied. ‘Only till the spring,’ he added, noting Spike’s disappointment. He’d grown fond of the old man. ‘Let’s toast to it,’ he said, handin
g Spike his ale. ‘To the spring.’
They clinked their bottles and drank. ‘What a grand one it is this evening,’ Paddy said and they swigged again from their bottles as, huddled against the chill night air, they watched the brilliance of the setting sun captured amongst the gathering storm clouds.
Amy Kendle pulled her wrap around her shoulders and stepped out onto the balcony to admire the view for a moment or two. She noticed the clouds gathering and wondered briefly whether she should close the windows, then decided not to.
She found the bedroom airless and claustrophobic and Charles refused to allow her to open the windows at night, fearing a chill. Friday evenings, when her husband was at his club, were the only times she could open the room up to a breeze.
She wished that she had the courage to leave the windows open all night, the chances being that upon his return Charles would sleep in the spare room adjoining his study anyway. But she daren’t take the risk. If he came to their bed after a night at the Australian Club, he would be affected by alcohol and prone to aggression.
Outside, in the garden, Spike Monroe reluctantly locked the gate and retired to his room in the servants’ quarters. He would miss his friend. An Irishman who loved sunsets. Why, he and Paddy were soulmates, they were. Spike decided he would have a tot of rum or two after his dinner and drink to an early spring.
In the shadows, Paddy watched as the butler went about his nightly duties. The lamps were lit, the gate was checked and the man disappeared through the servants’ door.
Paddy collected the rocks he’d stored in the nearby bushes over the past month or so and, placing them beside the six foot high stone wall, stepped up, grasped the top and scaled it with ease.
He dropped to the ground on the other side and remained crouched for several seconds, trying to choose a shadowed path through the glare of light from the gas lamps. There was none. The whole garden was illuminated. Including the trellis. Too late to worry about that. Paddy had planned this night for months and he was not backing out now.
