by Judy Nunn
It was early in ’73 Tim Kendall died, or rather, in Kitty’s opinion, gave up. Not long before his eightieth birthday he retired from the company and took to his bed. He’d served his purpose, he told his daughter as she sat by his bedside. He enjoyed talking to Kitty, he could be honest with her.
He couldn’t with Ruth. Ruth would nag him, but then he could tell she was frightened. ‘For goodness’ sake, Tim,’ she’d say, ‘get up and have a walk, just a gentle one, get some fresh air in your lungs. It’s what the doctor recommends.’ Poor Ruth, still vigorous and young for her years, she didn’t know what it was like to feel constantly worn out and exhausted.
Tim was not enjoying old age. He hated the fact that his body was letting him down, that he no longer had the stamina to run the company and call the shots. He was not one to enjoy sitting with a book, or listening to music, or taking a gentle walk now and then.
He’d tied up all the loose ends. There were trust accounts and property investments left to Ruth and Kitty so that they would be wealthy in their own right.
‘But I’m leaving my shares in the company to Wally and the partners,’ he told Kitty. ‘They’ve worked hard, they’ve earned it.’
‘You’re giving up, aren’t you, Dad?’
Kitty knew, he thought gratefully. But then Kitty always knew, there’d never been secrets between them. And he did so love the way she cut to the chase.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m bored,’ he said. ‘Tired, and very, very bored.’
A week later, Tim Kendall died in his sleep.
Having escaped the war, young Wallace Kendall had gone from strength to strength. Old Tim Kendall had died and Wallace’s own father, Wally, in ill health and rapidly aging, had retired. So, at the tender age of twenty-seven, Wallace Kendall had become the driving force behind the successful chain of Kendall Markets.
Gradually, over several years, Wallace replaced the older board members, retiring them prematurely with healthy payouts and replacing them with younger members, among them, his friend Bruce Hamilton.
Then Wally Kendall had a stroke. In 1975, at sixty-six years of age, grossly overweight, his body had finally succumbed to the years of cigars, heavy drinking and general good living.
It was a debilitating stroke and the doctor said he would never recover; in fact it was quite likely a further stroke would follow. So a live-in nurse was hired to meet Wally’s every need, and the family, his wife Darlene in particular, watched and waited for the inevitable.
Wally was reduced to a pathetic figure. Confined to a wheelchair, with no movement save for the fingers of his left hand which twitched and trembled continuously. Everything about him was twisted, grotesque: his crippled spine, his drooping right eye, his dribbling mouth. So impaired was his speech that the words he bravely struggled to muster came out as an indiscernible growl. But, unbeknown to his family, beneath the pitiful exterior, Wally’s mind was intact. His brain was as alert as ever, and his inability to communicate this was torture.
He could hear them talking about him as if he wasn’t there.
‘The lawyer said everything’s in order,’ Lucy informed her sister Julia and her stepmother Darlene, whilst Wally listened from his wheelchair only yards away. ‘Daddy kept his will up to date. Joe wouldn’t give me the details of course, but he said it’s most equitable.’
Good on you, Joe. He’d like to see Joe, Wally thought.
Wally’s lawyer, friend and ally of thirty years, Joe Davison, had visited him in the hospital, and again shortly after his return home, but he’d not been back for the past several weeks.
Bugger it, I want to see Joe. Can one of you bloody women get Joe?
Wally scowled and his eyes flashed angrily, but if any of the women noticed, they put hisgrimaces down to his affliction.
‘Right we are, pet, time for our walk.’ It was the nurse, come to wheel him out onto the verandah as she did every late afternoon.
The nurse, the bloody nurse, she was the worst of the lot. An old battleaxe. Couldn’t they have found a pretty one?
‘Comfy are we?’ she said. She always spoke at him, never to him. She never looked into his eyes for any response, expecting none.
She shoved a pill into his mouth and poured water down his throat until he gagged. Sometimes she even massaged his throat to help the pill go down, just as if he was a dog. Christ how he wished they’d get rid of her. Sack her. Sack her. Wally practised and practised the words over and over, but they always came out the same growl, and people had given up taking any notice.
To her credit, Julia had tried at first. ‘What is it, Dad? Something you want?’ But his vocal contortions sounded so like groans, that she invariably called the nurse who gave him apainkiller or a hot-water bottle, or simply adjusted his cushions and scolded him.
But Wally never stopped practising in private. He practised blinking, learning to control the involuntary fluttering of his eyelids, and he practised specific movements with the fingers of his left hand, that they might be read as messages. But most of all he practised his words. Get Joe. He concentrated on just the two.
As he thought of the words he fought desperately to move his tongue. Get Joe. But his tongue sat in his mouth like a useless piece of dead meat. Wally inwardly cursed, but he didn’t give up. Get Joe. And gradually, a month or so after his stroke, he found he could make some contact between the back of his tongue and his soft palate, producing a sort of guttural consonant.
He waited for Wallace’s visit. The women saw him too regularly to notice any difference, they’d given up looking.
‘G’day, Dad,’ Wallace said as he joined him on the verandah, bending low over the stooped formin the wheelchair in order to see his father’s face. ‘And how are we today?’ he asked loudly.
I’m not a moron, you dumb bastard, and I’m not deaf. Even his son spoke to him like he was a halfwit.
He blinked. Three times. Very hard. And he didn’t make a sound as he stared at his son.
Wallace was taken aback. Where were the groans? Where were the flickering eyelids? Then he saw the forefinger of his father’s left hand. He was no longer clutching feebly at the rug on his knees. He was tapping his forefinger. Three times he tapped. Then he stopped.
‘Dad?’ Wallace knelt by the chair. His father was trying to make contact, he knew it.
Got him. Wally fought to position his tongue, but he didn’t make a sound until he could see his son’s face very close to his.
Then ‘Heh … Hoe,’ he said, with all the force he could muster. Bugger it, it didn’t sound right.
This was more than the customary groan, Wallace thought, there was a definite sound there, his father was trying to say something.
‘I’m here, Dad, I’m here,’ he said. ‘What is it you want to say?’
Jesus Christ, boy, if only it was that simple. Wally forced himself not to make a sound. He wanted to. In his frustration, he wanted to groan and growl as loudly as he could. But he didn’t. His son was watching him, that was all he needed. He blinked his eyes. Three times, quickly. Three times, slowly. Then three times, quickly again. SOS, you stupid bugger.
Wallace got the message. ‘Oh Jesus, Dad, you’re talking to me.’
Bloody right I am.
‘You want help?’
Wally sighed with relief.
Blink once for yes, Wallace said, and Wally did.
‘Oh God, Dad, what can I do?’
Wally concentrated on the lump of useless tongue in his mouth. ‘Heh … Hoe.’
‘Heck hoe?’
Oh shit! Wally tensed his throat muscles, and with all of his might he thrust the back of his tongue against his soft palate. ‘Geh …’ Triumph. He’d made a real sound. ‘Geh … Hoe.’ The tip of his tongue wouldn’t work. He couldn’t make the ‘t’ or the ‘j’.
‘You want me to get you something, Dad?’
Wally made no movement, his eyes starting to water as he stared at his son, forcing his eyelids not to
flutter.
‘Someone. You want me to get someone.’
Wally blinked. Just once. For yes. He mustn’t get excited. And he tapped the forefinger of his left hand.
‘Joe. You want me to get Joe.’
Oh you beautiful boy. The tears welled in Wally’s eyes. He blinked. Once.
‘Time for our medication.’ The nurse was there with the pills. But neither of them took any notice. Wallace was staring into his father’s eyes as he knelt on the floor beside him.
‘Excuse me, Mr Kendall,’ the nurse said, ‘it’s time for our medication.’
‘Ach … her,’ Wally said. Wallace concentrated upon his father’s eyes. They rolled up into his head, as if Wally were raising his face to look at the nurse, which he couldn’t of course, but the eyes said it all. Then they rolled back in their sockets. ‘Ach … her,’ Wally said, staring at his son.
‘Rightio, Dad.’ Wallace winked. ‘I’ll sack her,’ he murmured, ‘and we’ll get you a pretty one, right?’
Wally wept unreservedly that night. God how he loved his son.
Wallace immediately replaced the nurse, giving no reason to his sisters and Darlene other than the fact that his father should have someone prettier to look after him, seeing as he always had an eye for the women. Which didn’t go down at all well with Darlene, but when he insisted upon footing the nursing expenses himself, she agreed without further argument. And several days later Joe Davison visited.
Wallace deliberately chose a Saturday when the house would be empty. He gave the new nurse the afternoon off, and as he led Joe into the study he told the maid not to disturb them. He’d told no-one but Joe of the contact he’d made with his father.
Communication didn’t take long with Joe. He’d brought along an alphabet chart which he sat on Wally’s lap. All Wally had to do was point, with his left forefinger, at the letters he wanted.
Joe was moved by the sight of his old friend trying so desperately to communicate, and more than a little guilt-ridden. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you for a while, Wally, but I didn’t think there was much point. I didn’t know.’ His shrug was deeply apologetic.
‘O … K.’ Wally laboriously pointed at the letters.
Joe had been mystified as to the need for secrecy. ‘But the girls’ll be thrilled to know they can talk to their father,’ he’d said over the phone when Wallace had suggested they say nothing to them for the moment.
‘Oh, of course I intend to tell them, but it only happened the other day, and Dad decided one thing at a time. He thought that everybody crowding in at once might be a bit much, and you’re the first person he wants to see.’ Joe had been flattered until Wallace had added, ‘Oh, and he’d like you to bring along his will.’
‘I believe it’s your decision not to tell the girls?’ Joe studied Wally’s eyes for any sign of surprise; he didn’t trust young Wallace for an instant. ‘I believe that you wanted to see mefirst?’
Wally pointed to ‘Y’ for yes. He wasn’t sure about the decision not to tell the girls, he’d simply gone along with Wallace’s suggestion, but he’d certainly wanted to see Joe. Now more than ever.
‘There’s some changes you want made in your will, I believe?’
‘Y’ for yes.
‘Of course.’ Joe didn’t like it one bit. ‘Wallace, if you’d mind leaving us.’
Wallace hesitated and looked at his father.
‘Y’ for yes. Go on, boy. Out. Joe, a stickler for protocol, would never discuss a will in the presence of one of the beneficiaries, or anyone else for that matter. Good old Joe. Straight as a die.
Wallace reluctantly left the room.
Forty minutes later, Joe closed the study door behind him and joined Wallace in the lounge room.
‘I could refuse to accept this will on the grounds that your father was not of sound mind when he changed it.’ He saw the fear in Wallace’s eyes. ‘But of course he is of sound mind, and we both know it. And with his present mental abilities, I doubt you’d have much difficulty gaining medical opinion to that effect.’
Wallace relaxed.
‘But you’ll have no cause to do so,’ Joe continued. ‘Your father wishes to change hiswill and I cannot convince him otherwise. Although it will cause an irreparable split in your family, Wallace. I hope you realise that.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joe,’ Wallace feigned surprise. ‘My father’s will ishis own affair.’
Cheeky young bastard, Joe thought. God only knew how he’d done it. But then even as a boy Wallace had always been able to wrap his old man around his little finger.
‘I suggest you let the girls know they can speak to their father,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll be ringing Darlene tomorrow to tell her as much myself.’
‘Oh, I intend to tell them tonight, Joe. Of course. Like you say, they’ll be thrilled.’
Wally Kendall died of a massive stroke two months later. His shares in Kendall Markets, his cash and his property investments, were all divided equally between his wife and three children. But it was Wallace Kendall who, alone, inherited the family home.
Julia and Lucy were horrified. It had been common knowledge that their father had intended to leave the old house to all three of his children. It wasn’t so much the money, although the property was worth a fortune. The three of them had made an agreement that the old home would remain intact, even if one sibling purchased it from the others. Their children and their children’s children, they had all agreed, would be free to experience the idyllic childhood they themselves had had in the old house down on the harbour.
‘Why did he do it?’ Julia demanded.
‘You were always his favourite, Wallace,’ Lucy said. ‘Perhaps that’s why.’
To the credit of both women, neither of them blamed Wallace. But even as he shook his head, mystified and apologetic, he could have told them why.
‘I love this place, Dad,’ he’d said during the several afternoons he’d had Wally all to himself, before Joe’s visit. He’d looked out at the harbour and the tennis court, the jetty and the swimming pool. ‘The times we’ve had here, eh? I tell you, I wouldn’t change this place for a million quid.’
Good on you, boy. Wally loved hearing his son talk like this, it brought back all the memories.
‘Remember the time I fell out of the mulberry tree and broke my nose?’ Wallace knelt in front of the wheelchair and wiggled his nose comically. ‘See, it never healed straight.’ It was true, Wallace’s crooked nose was at odds with his otherwise handsome face.
There were many such reminiscences during those afternoons, until Wallace dropped the bombshell. ‘Pity the girls want to demolish the house,’ he said, fondly patting the verandah railing upon which he was sitting. ‘Whatever they put up, it’ll never be the same.’
What? His father’s horrified eyes blinked twice for no.
‘Yeah, it’s a bugger, isn’t it?’ Wallace agreed. ‘But you know women, they like modern things.’
Two more blinks. And his father’s breathing was becoming agitated.
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He knelt by the wheelchair. ‘But there’s nothing I can do.’
Oh yes there bloody well is. One blink. For yes.
Wallace looked puzzled for a moment or so, and then realisation appeared to dawn. ‘Well, yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I suppose there is. I suppose if you left the place to me, then we’d know that it’d be safe.’
One blink.
Easy. It had been that easy.
Three years after his father’s death, Wallace demolished the old family home to build his harbourside mansion, and indoing so alienated his sisters forever.
It was very unrealistic of them, Wallace thought. Who on earth maintained such architectural dinosaurs? Who on earth kept hold of rambling old colonial houses on harbourside frontages where every square metre of land was worth a fortune? Romantic rubbish. His sisters were businesswomen, they should recognise progress.
But Julia and Lucy wanted nothing more to do with their brother. As members of the Kendall Markets board of directors, they were forced to deal with him however. That changed a few years later when all ties were severed. It seemed that the family business was not enough for Wallace, he wanted to expand. He had ambitious ideas which could make millions for Kendall Markets if the board wished to be adventurous.
But they didn’t. Kendall Markets had no desire to invest in Wallace’s entrepreneurial schemes. So he sold his shares, mortgaged his mansion and, with a healthy cash base and breakthrough concepts, was welcomed with open arms by the Tricontinental Merchant Bank.
As a borrower, Wallace Kendall met Tricontinental’s guidelines to perfection. He had the ideas and the cashflow and Tricontinental, unlike other merchant banks, was prepared to be as supportive as necessary.
This was 1980 after all. Gone were the days when people borrowed at low, and realistic, interest rates. Now, with financial deregulation, credit was unlimited and the banks encouraged their clients to borrow heavily. There was money enough for everyone, they would all grow wealthy together.
When Wallace left Kendall Markets, he took with him his fellow board member and lifelong friend, Bruce Hamilton. He needed Bruce’s sound financial commonsense to temper the flamboyance of Jason Bruford.
Jason Bruford, Harvard-educated corporate lawyer, thirty-three years of age, just one year younger than Wallace, was confident, groomed and smooth-talking. He’d made a deep impression on Wallace from the moment they’d first met, which was at one of Packer’s lavish annual functions designed to impress his publishing syndicate’s major clients and associates.
‘Good God, man, you have all these assets, all this cash at your fingertips, and you’re not expanding?’ Jason had appeared horror-struck with disbelief. ‘You should move with the times.’
It had been Jason Bruford who had inspired Wallace. Indeed, the man remained a force to be reckoned with throughout the rapid growth of what was to become the Kendall Corporation. But Wallace remained the power behind the throne, despite the fact that he modelled himself upon Jason. Within only months of their meeting, Wallace had dropped his earthy Australian image. Gone were the casual work clothes and in their place sleek designer suits. These days Wallace dressed impeccably, and carried a slim, black briefcase wherever he went, just as Jason did, though he drew the line at growing a pencil moustache like Jason’s. A pager was always at the ready in the top pocket of his jacket, and he wore dark glasses when it wasn’t necessary.
