by Judy Nunn
‘I’m ringing about Councillor Bernard Williams,’ the male caller said.
‘Yes, what about him?’ It was an hour and a half later and, with the exception of one lesbian caller who had taken offence at Mike’s suggestion that lesbians be labelled ‘female gays’, all the calls had been one-sided. ‘Have the thing banned’; ‘It makes me ashamed to be a Sydneysider,’ ‘Bloody disgraceful, that’s what it is’. The show was becoming boring. Mike had expected a bit more feedback from the militant homosexuals out there; maybe he’d cancel the interview with Nile.
‘It’s his duty,’ the male caller said. ‘His duty to stand up and be counted.’
‘Counted as what?’
‘Gay, that’s what.’
Mike glanced up at his producer on the other side of the recording booth’s glass panels. They shared a brisk nod and the producer dialled Mike’s investigator; they’d need to do some research for Mike to back up the story in his weekly newspaper column.
‘Ummm …’ ponderous tone, ‘… may I ask who’s calling?’
‘I’d rather not give my name,’ the voice with the effeminate twang replied, ‘but I can promise you I have my facts straight. And, for the sake of we, the gay minority, people like Bernard Williams should come out of their closets and back our cause.’
‘Why?’ Mike adopted the voice of concern whilst he incited the caller. ‘If indeed your claim is correct, and of course it may well be slanderous, why should Councillor Williams expose his private life for public examination?’
‘Because we, the gay minority, will never win social acceptance whilst there are those like Bernard Williams who hide their homosexuality as if it was something to be ashamed of.’
‘I see, I see,’ Mike said, delighted with the turn the show had taken. The switchboard was lit up with incoming calls. ‘Well, if you’d like to stay on the line, we’ll get back to you shortly.’
He wouldn’t, at least not until the radio station had checked with their legal eagles, they didn’t want to risk a law suit.
‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘we have a number of calls waiting, in fact the switchboard isgoing mad.’ Voice of command once more. ‘What do you think, all you out there listening? Do you believe in “outing”? I’m Mike Lowe and I’m waiting to hear from you. Yes, Gwenneth?’
‘Cheers,’ Jason said. ‘To talkback radio, and to the idiots who rule the airwaves, long may they live.’ He and Wallace clinked glasses.
They were sitting by Wallace’s pool, in their Speedos, celebrating, just the two of them, taking advantage of the lull in proceedings before chaos took over and the bulldozers arrived to demolish the property next door. Wallace would move into his city penthouse when they did. They hadn’t asked Bruce Hamilton to join them, because he hadn’t approved of their tactics.
‘Do you know what your pal Bruce said to me?’ Jason remarked as he swigged back his Bollinger. ‘He said,’ and he adopted a heavy ocker accent, “‘You’ve ruined that poor bloody man’s life.”’
Jason laughed as he topped up their glasses from the bottle in the ice bucket. ‘Dear God, Wallace, I don’t know how you maintain a friendship with that man, he’s so square. I mean, really, pet, there’s such a thing as being altogether too straight.’
‘Yeah, well he’s got a point,’ Wallace growled, ‘we did ruin the man’s life.’
Bernard Williams had been forced to retire from council office after twenty-five years of loyal service. But Wallace didn’t really give a shit whether they’d ruined Bernard’s life or not—Jesus, they’d ruined enough lives, bankrupted enough people, why the hell start feeling guilty now? What annoyed him was that Jason was camping it up in his presence and such effeminacy, directed at him, seemed to intimate that the two of them shared something in common. Well they bloody didn’t. Just because, on a few drunken occasions, rat-arsed with booze and high on cocaine, he’d let Jason muck around a bit meant nothing. It wasn’t as if they’d had sex or anything. A little mutual masturbation, that was all, schoolboys did it behind dunny doors. He’d let Jason go down on him a few times too, but that didn’t mean a thing either. Christ, Wallace thought, when he was high on coke and randy as hell, he couldn’t give a fuck who sucked him off.
‘Oh, she’s getting titchy, is she?’ Jason said in reply to Wallace’s taciturn growl. He was deliberately goading him, aware that the more he queened it up, the more defensive Wallace would become, and the more butch and aggressive his manner. All of which was very amusing to Jason. Even a bit of a turn-on too. They’d had two bottles of Bollinger and, what with the late afternoon sun beating down on their seminaked bodies, Jason was feeling quite horny. ‘Oh dear, she’s turning a bit, I do declare.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Jason.’
‘Want another bottle?’
‘No, it’ll put me to sleep. I’m going to the opera with Melanie tonight, it’ll be hard enough to stay awake as it is.’
‘What about a line of coke then?’ Jason dropped the queen act altogether. ‘That’ll wake you up,’ he gave a lewd wink and played masculine camaraderie, ‘put you in the mood for Melanie later on.’
‘Yeah.’ Wallace grinned. He’d had the best sex with Melanie when he was coked up, he didn’t actually find her all that attractive when he wasn’t. Still, he wasn’t marrying her for her sex appeal. He needed a wife and she had all the right qualifications: she had class and her father was a judge.
‘You cut it up while I have a dip,’ he said, diving into the pool and powering his way to the other end.
As he sat watching, Jason wondered whether Wallace would ever admit that he was gay. Probably not. He would most likely play it straight for a few years, batting occasionally for the other side; he’d sire a family, then years down the track discover that his ‘adventures’ with men were far more appealing than his wife, but even then he wouldn’t admit to homosexuality. Jason had seen it all before.
Hell, he thought, Melanie was one of the best looking women in Sydney. A splendid creature. Raven-haired, tall, slim, and elegant. Jason was a great admirer of beauty. If Wallace preferred a torrid, coked-up night with him, as Jason knew he did, rather than a fuck with his magnificent fiancée, then what was the prognosis for their future marital passion? Oh well, Melanie would find out in time. And by then she’d be more than compensated by the generous trust accounts set up for herself and whatever children she’d borne. Which was why Wallace was marrying her after all.
Funny, Jason thought, as he rose from his chair, that it had been good old, straight, square Bruce Hamilton who had inadvertently led Wallace to the altar.
‘You need to set up some family trust accounts, Wallace,’ Bruce had said. ‘What about your sisters?’
‘Bugger them,’ Wallace had replied.
‘Well, their children then.’
‘Bugger them too.’ Wallace had decided to take a wife instead.
Funny, Jason thought, that good old, straight, square Bruce Hamilton had no idea his mate Wallace was a poofter. Jason went inside to cut up the coke.
Melanie Kendall respected her husband. She respected what he’d done with his life, amassing a fortune, heading a corporation, befriending the world’s rich and famous. She wasn’t sure if she loved him, but she loved the life he offered her.
Their wedding had received the fanfare of publicity such an extravaganza demanded. The guest list had been straight out of Who’s Who, and Melanie’s bridal gown had been designed by Gucci. They had honeymooned in Rome, a suite at the Hassler, then Milan and Paris for some shopping. Then, en route home, a week in the penthouse at Hong Kong’s Peninsula Hotel.
Melanie had loved it all, and on their return to Sydney the whirlwind of her life hadn’t lessened. If anything it had intensified. True, she didn’t see much of her husband, but that was to be expected, he was a very busy man. In the meantime there were the gala opening nights, the charity premieres, the formal dinners and balls. She was invited by the doyens of Sydney society to be on several high-profile c
ommittees; she presented the Humanitarian of the Year Award at the Variety Club’s Christmas dinner and was guest speaker at the Black and White Committee’s annual businesswomen’s luncheon. As Wallace Kendall’s wife, and an elegant and beautiful woman, Melanie was feted by all.
Pregnancy disrupted the pattern of her life, but not for long. Shortly after the birth of her daughter, the women’s magazines boasted pictures of ‘the Kendall Rose’. Little Rose Kendall, born with her mother’s raven hair and violet eyes, was pictured in Melanie’s arms. Mother and daughter, dressed in beige satin and lace, gazed out at the reader. Both serene. Both beautiful.
Several months later, with an army of nannies to protect her from the more sordid and mundane aspects of motherhood, Melanie continued her fairytale existence.
So when did it start to go wrong? Melanie couldn’t be sure. Around the time Rose was two, she supposed.
It wasn’t the lack of sex, she’d become accustomed to that, even grateful. For quite a while now Wallace had demanded anal sex, which she detested, but to which she submitted. When he’d told her that, since childbirth, she’d become ‘looser’ and less exciting, and that he enjoyed ‘a tighter fit’, she’d supposed it was her duty to comply. Fortunately, he wasn’t demanding.
But Wallace’s whole demeanour had changed. He’d become tense and irritable, and she presumed it was something to do with business. The sharemarket crash in late ’87? But it hadn’t appeared to affect them too badly. She queried Jason about it.
‘No, no, we have Tricontinental on our side,’ he assured her. ‘We can weather any storm, believe me.’ He patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t you worry about Wallace, sweetheart, he’s just got a few things on his mind.’
It wasn’t that Melanie was stupid, far from it, but they had kept her well out of the picture. Her profile as devoted mother and wife, tireless charity worker and glamorous socialite served a far more valuable purpose than any corporate involvement might have done.
It was in fact Bruce Hamilton who was making Wallace tense. They’d weathered the storm of the share crash it was true, but Bruce had been keeping a close eye on Tricontinental.
‘They’re going to go under, Wallace,’ he insisted, ‘or they’re going to have to call in repayments at a moment’s notice. They have a commitment to just twenty-six clients which exceeds thirty per cent of their entire capital base. It’s unrealistic. If those borrowers go under, then Tricontinental goes with them.’
‘Rubbish! They’re owned by the State bloody Bank of Victoria, how can they go broke?’ But Wallace worried nevertheless. Christ knew where Bruce got his information, but he was good at his job. The Kendall Corporation was built like a house of cards—if one came down, the others would tumble. Wallace needed Tricontinental’s endless credit.
Bruce was right. By March ’89 the amount lent to Tricontinental’s thirteen biggest clients, of which the Kendall Corporation was one, had risen to an incredible $1.7 billion, and their parent, the State Bank of Victoria, was in crisis. Wallace and Jason had to move quickly.
Melanie was given just one week to organise the packing of the family’s clothes and personal possessions. These were to be shipped on ahead, together with whatever valuables and furnishings Wallace could discreetly remove. He’d already transferred money overseas. They were leaving in ten days, he told her, a night flight, with hand luggage only. And she was to tell no-one.
A month after the Kendalls’ departure, Bruce Hamilton was arrested. Wallace and Jason hadn’t told him of their plans, he’d been deliberately left behind as a smokescreen. Bruce realised as much, but made no attempt to escape, staying instead to answer the charges.
Jason Bruford had travelled on a false passport and could not be traced, the newspapers said. Not at the moment anyway, but it was only a matter of time. Wallace Kendall was safely ensconced with his family in Brazil, living a life of luxury while his companies crumbled. But again, the newspapers reassuringly reported, it was only a matter of time before he would be extradited, the government had given its assurance of that.
By the time Bruce Hamilton was finally sentenced, the thousands of small stockholders who had put their trust in the Kendall Corporation, and whose life savings had been wiped out, had to be satisfied with hissix-year gaol term. Jason Bruford had not been found, and Wallace Kendall had not been extradited. Justice had not been served, the stockholders protested. But there was little they could do about it.
Rob Farinelli was taking his parents to lunch. They’d met him at Wodin and Wodin, Solicitors, in the Australia Square Building so that he could show them his new offices, complete with reception room and personal secretary. Rob had worked for the massive law firm for ten years, but it had taken him all this time to get a plush office like the other senior lawyers. He knew exactly why, but he didn’t care.
‘Pretty impressive, eh?’
‘About time too,’ Kitty said, ‘you’ve certainly earned it.’
They said goodbye to Samantha, blonde, twenty-three and very pretty, and as they stepped into the lift Artie said, ‘Joanna cannot be too happy about a secretary like that.’
‘She wasn’t at first. “Swap her for an old one”, that’s what she told me.’ Rob laughed. His wife was certainly feisty, she reminded him a little of his mother, that’s why he’d married her. Well, they said men married their mothers, didn’t they?
‘But she and Sam get on really well now,’ he added. ‘Sometimes they even gang up on me.’
Kitty and Artie had presumed they’d be dining somewhere in the central business district, but instead they took a water taxi from Circular Quay to Watsons Bay on the southern harbour headland. Rob had booked a table at Doyle’s Restaurant, by the beach, where they could sit and enjoy the panoramic view of Sydney.
‘Your farewell lunch,’ he said. ‘Had to make it special. I’ve taken the afternoon off work.’
‘But we are having a farewell dinner tomorrow with you and the family,’ Artie said.
‘Yes, I know, and you’ll spend all your time playing Grandma and Grandpa. This way we get to talk.’
Kitty nodded her approval. They didn’t have their son all to themselves very often. Arturo always enjoyed playing with his two grandchildren, but Kitty found the combined energies of a four-and five-year-old a little wearing. And she and her daughter-in-law were very competitive.
It was a hot January afternoon, and Kitty and Artie were flying to Europe in two days’ time. The occasion was not a particularly happy one, being the funeral of one of Artie’s older brothers, but his death had not been unexpected, he’d been ill for some time. They’d decided to stay in Europe for six months, to visit family and to holiday in Tuscany throughout the spring and into the summer. They hadn’t been overseas since Artie’s diagnosis.
Rob took his father’s wrist to steady him as they stepped together from the water taxi onto the jetty at Watsons Bay. It disturbed him to see his father’s once handsome face so gaunt and sunken, and to feel the bones of his wrist so very brittle and thin. Artie had been given a clean bill of health, his cancer having been inremission for the requisite five years, but no-one seemed able to explain his inability to gainweight. He was as appallingly haggard and thin as he had been when the cancer was ravaging his body. He always said he felt fine, but he obviously didn’t; he was weak, and sometimes inpain, Kitty suspected, although the doctors could find nothing wrong.
They ordered a seafood platter, as the waiter opened a bottle of white wine, then Rob proposed the first toast. ‘I congratulated you on the phone, Dad, but we haven’t made it official yet. Here’s to Son of a Migrant,’ he saidraising his glass, ‘may it be a bestseller.’
They toasted Artie’s novel, the third he had written and the first to finally be published.
It had been Kitty’s encouragement which had given Artie the strength to persevere through his despondency; indeed, it had been Kitty’s idea which had formed the very basis of the book.
‘Write about the next ge
neration, Arturo,’ she’d said. ‘Write about your son and his life and the work that he does, there’s a story in that.’ She’d been right.
During his illness, Artie had left his job and worked from home, devoting himself to his books, which, although works of fiction, had been loosely autobiographical. Of his first two, the publishers had said that, well written as they were, there was nothing new in them. European immigrants’ stories were old hat. The story of Arturo’s son, however, was a different matter. And Rob didn’t mind being the fictional hero in his father’s book. He was flattered. Nevertheless, he meticulously proofread the manuscript to ensure that his character and those of the other protagonists were suitably disguised.
Rob Farinelli, fresh out of university, had been an up and coming member of the Labor Party in the mid-seventies. Devoted as he was to the left’s policies, particularly the formal abolition of the White Australia Policy, and to the Prime Minister’s personal beliefs in Aboriginal rights and multiculturalism, Rob had been shocked and disillusioned by the dismissal of the Whitlam Government in 1975. So disillusioned in fact that he quit all thoughts of a political career and accepted a position with a successful law firm instead.
He quickly became disillusioned there too. He was expected to make unpalatable compromises and to constantly take the easy way out. ‘But we can win this case,’ he’d argue. ‘Let’s go in and fight.’
‘Accept the out-of-court settlement and shut up, Rob,’ he would be told by the senior partners.
Things finally came to a head when he was handling a negligence claim for a wharfie. The defence brought up Rob’s friendship with the militant trade unionist, Max Brown, and a picture of the two of them appeared in the newspapers. The intimation that there was some nefarious aspect to their friendship meant little in court, but the newspaper innuendoes had done their damage, as had been intended, and Rob’s credibility had been undermined.
