Henry Krantz did indeed give the impression of arrogance, possibly because he tried too hard. Like his father he was a dapper dresser, believing as his father did that in business appearances were all-important, but at twenty-five, his body already tending to the fleshy, the image he wished to portray was sadly beyond him. What should have been style and panache came across as pomposity and self-importance. Young Henry had certainly inherited his father’s head for business, but he’d missed out altogether on Ivan’s intrinsic elegance.
Despite Cook’s lavish baked dinner and Ivy’s attention to the re-filling of beer tumblers and champagne flutes, the luncheon was not a successful affair. Henry insisted upon talking business from the outset, launching into a detailed account of a further enterprise that could well be to Elianne’s advantage.
‘With the mechanisation of the sugar industry galloping ahead as it is, there are huge profits to be made for forward-thinking investors . . .’
He went on at some length, Stan the Man studiously ignoring him, and when he finally got the message that he wasn’t being listened to, he turned his attention undeterred to Durham the younger.
‘You of all people, Alan, with your expert knowledge of things mechanical would be well aware that –’
By now Stan had had quite enough. ‘Shut up, Henry,’ he growled, and Henry did, stopping mid-sentence, jaw agape. ‘This is not a bloody boardroom, boy. Give it a rest, for Christ’s sake.’
Hilda did her best to compensate, filling in the awkwardness with pleasant chit-chat. What a pity, she said, that Henry’s mother and father couldn’t be here, she did so hope Ivan and Gerda were enjoying Melbourne. ‘Such an elegant city, don’t you think? I vastly prefer it to the raucousness of Sydney myself, although in the winter of course it’s so unbearably cold, I really don’t know how people can suffer such weather . . .’
But Hilda’s social graces did little to ease the general discomfort. Henry remained sullen in the face of such an unmitigated insult. He would complain to his father, although he knew it would do no good – his father would simply say he’d asked for it trying to talk business at a Durham family luncheon. Stan ignored the table altogether, concentrating on his roast lamb, and so did Alan. Even during the height of midsummer, a baked dinner preferably lamb was always Alan’s favourite, a fact well known by Cook, but much as he was enjoying his food, Alan was wishing the luncheon was over. Even Hilda, having finally run out of chat, decided it was a lost cause and forsaking the niceties signalled Ivy to fetch a fresh bottle of champagne.
Kate looked about the table. The only person present who appeared oblivious to the tension was her grandfather. Seated beside her, Bartholomew had picked up the fine-bone china sauce jug and was clasping it gently in both hands, examining its contents, breathing in the aroma of Cook’s home-made mint sauce, which obviously evoked some pleasurable memory. He’s off in a world of his own, Kate thought. She’d seen him do it before, usually when unpleasantness threatened. Her grandfather had the enviable talent of disappearing somewhere else altogether.
Watching him, Kate wondered, as she had many times over the past two years, how much Bartholomew might know. Ellie had said in her diaries that she’d lived a lie in order to protect her children from the threat of Big Jim, but was it possible Bartholomew knew the truth, or at least part of it? Had he been aware that the great love shared by his parents was a sham, that his mother had actually considered her husband a monster?
If only Grandpa could speak, Kate thought. But then what difference would that make? He didn’t need to, did he? His mind was unimpaired, he could hear and understand. I could ask him questions, she thought. I could ask him questions and he could write down the answers. But she knew she would take no such course of action. Prior to the death of his wife and his ensuing stroke, Bartholomew had spoken often of his brothers and of his mother and father, but there had been no mention, no apparent knowledge at all of a sister who had died as a baby. Wasn’t that something of a giveaway? Most families shared such a history. Surely the omission of baby Beatrice’s existence was indicative of Ellie’s secrecy about so much more.
Kate watched her grandfather place the sauce jug back on the table with infinitesimal care as if it was something quite precious, and she thought how frail he looked, much more so than last year. He’s old and he’s suffered quite enough tragedy, she told herself, he doesn’t need to be confronted with harsh truths at the end of his life.
She switched her brain back to the present, and her voice cut through the oppressive silence. ‘Hey, Dad,’ she said, ‘isn’t it time for the toast?’
Stan Durham stopped attacking his second serve of lamb and rose to his feet.
‘Of course it is, how remiss of me,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Kate. Glasses charged, everyone.’ How could he have allowed himself to be so distracted from the true purpose of the lunch by that dumb prick Henry, he thought as Ivy scuttled about replenishing everyone’s drinks.
‘I propose a toast to our son . . .’ Stan shared a smile with Hilda, who breathed a sigh of relief that some form of normalcy had returned to the gathering. ‘After achieving a fine matriculation Alan is about to embark upon his Diploma of Engineering and I know he will do us all proud.’ He raised his glass in true patriarchal fashion. ‘To my son,’ he said, ‘to Alan,’ and they all followed suit.
‘To Alan,’ they chanted.
When the seemingly interminable lunch was over, Henry took his departure with a stilted thank you to his hosts. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether Stan would offer the customary handshake.
Stan did. ‘Give my best to your parents,’ he said amiably enough. He could tell Henry was desperately nervous. Good, he thought, insufferable little prick.
‘I will indeed, they’re bound to phone tonight.’ Henry winced at the bone-crushing clasp, which he could swear was even more brutal than usual.
When Henry had gone, the family went their separate ways, Bartholomew returning to his quarters and his latest book, Hilda weaving her way off for ‘a bit of a lie down’ and Stan retiring to his study and his paperwork, leaving the younger members to fill in the remainder of the day as they wished.
‘Well the lamb was good,’ Alan drily remarked.
‘Poor Henry,’ Kate said, ‘he’s so terrified of Dad.’
‘For once I’m on the old man’s side. Henry’s a pompous bore.’
She couldn’t disagree with that. ‘Want to go for a swim in the dam?’
He checked his watch. ‘Not enough time. I’m picking Paola up at half past four.’
‘Ah, of course.’ She should have known. ‘Do you want to borrow the Holden?’
‘No thanks.’ He registered her surprise. ‘Too conspicuous,’ he explained. ‘I always use a Land Rover from the mill. Ted signs one out to me and half the time no one even knows who’s driving the thing, let alone who the passenger is.’
‘That’s smart.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is, but I don’t want to be smart.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t want to sneak around, it’s bloody annoying. I’d much rather be open about everything.’
‘Of course you would.’ She smiled brazenly as she threw out the challenge. ‘Well the offer’s there, Al, if you want to flaunt it on your last day you’re welcome to swan around in the Holden.’
The smile he returned her was wry. ‘Crikey, Kate, I’d be in it like a shot if the choice was mine – I couldn’t give a damn what turn Dad put on – but I’d only be making trouble for Paola. She’s playing a cat and mouse game at home. Luigi doesn’t say anything to her face, but she knows he disapproves. Better we keep things as low-key as possible – for now anyway.’
‘Fair enough.’
Forty minutes later, Alan drove out of the massive garage that housed the pool of work vehicles: the Land Rovers, the Holden utilities, the Blitz trucks and more. He circled around the rear of the towering mill and pulled up behind the nearby sugar shed, where Paola stood waiting in the shadows. It was their customary rendezvous point during the slack season. When he was home on holiday during the crushing the mill and its surrounds was a hive of human activity and finding time alone was far more difficult. They were forced then to meet down near the pumping station and make do with a walk along the track that, during childhood days, had been forged through the tumble of growth beside the river.
She climbed hastily into the passenger side, sinking low in the seat so that she was not visible to anyone they might pass. She would remain that way until they had left the property and were on the Bundaberg–Gin Gin road heading into town.
Like Alan, the need for subterfuge annoyed Paola. She was tired of the game being played out between her and her parents. Whenever she returned home, her father would glower suspiciously at her, while the glances her mother darted him halted any challenge about where she’d been or with whom. If he’d asked, she would have told him – it was clear he knew anyway – but her parents had obviously agreed to avoid confrontation on the assumption that she and Alan would get over their childhood crush now that he was joining the work force and the adult world. Well they’re wrong, Paola thought. They’re very, very wrong.
Pretty little Paola Fiorelli was no longer the shy, insecure girl she’d once been. She’d developed a steely side. Paola was a young woman in love, prepared to defy her parents, her religion and her entire upbringing.
‘How was the farewell lunch?’ she asked, looking up at him from the depths of the passenger seat.
‘The roast lamb was good.’
She laughed. ‘That bad.’
‘Yep, that bad. Henry Krantz talked business, Dad told him to shut up and after that everything went downhill.’
‘Just as well we weren’t invited then.’
‘Yep.’ He drove on a little further and they turned into the main road. ‘Safe now,’ he said.
She sat up and wound down the window, the warm afternoon wind streaming through, whipping her hair into a fierce black frenzy. Scraping the unruly mess back from her face, she reached behind her head, deftly twisted a pony tail and locked her hair at the base of her neck in a knot of its own making.
Alan just loved the way she did that.
They drove over the bridge and upon reaching Bourbong Street turned right, away from the town centre, heading for Queens Park, the favoured haunt of many a young courting couple.
Alan pulled the Land Rover up in the rear grounds of the Hospital and when they’d alighted they took each other’s hand to wander the narrow paths that meandered through the park. They were comfortably silent, words unnecessary, although the ache of their imminent parting rested between them.
Upon reaching their favourite spot beside the river’s steep banks, away from the paths and the eyes of others, they came to a halt and wordlessly gravitated into each other’s arms.
Their kiss was tender, but full of the longing they both felt. Passion was never far away. Alan fought a constant battle to keep himself in check, and he wondered sometimes if Paola knew just how sexual a creature she had become. The fullness of her breasts against his chest, the softness of her lips, the inviting moistness of her mouth . . . God it drove him mad. But inevitably it was he who was the one forced to call a halt – Paola didn’t seem to recognise when enough was enough.
Paola in her innocence may have been unaware of the extent to which she aroused him, but she was not unaware of her own longing. Just turned seventeen, she was undeniably beautiful, but it was love that lent her the confidence she’d always lacked. Far from feeling self-conscious about her Italian looks as she once had, she now revelled in her appearance. Alan loved the way she looked, and if Alan found her beautiful, then she felt beautiful. She was his, her beauty belonged to him, and she yearned to please.
Paola’s desire to please was a continual test of Alan’s powers of restraint and today was no exception. Despite the passion mounting on both sides, he broke away, as he always did, in order to create some physical space between them. She must surely have been aware of his erection.
They stood, a little breathless, looking down the steep banks to the river far below, where the late afternoon light played prettily across the water’s surface.
‘I’ll miss you,’ she said after a minute or so. He nodded; he’d miss her too. ‘It’ll hardly be the same as boarding school, will it?’ she added lightly. ‘You won’t be locked away with hundreds of other boys. I suppose I should worry.’
She’d tried to sound as though she was making a joke, but he sensed her concern.
‘No need,’ he said simply. ‘Why would I look at anyone else? I love you.’ Alan, as always, was a man of few words.
‘I love you too.’
They kissed again, very gently. Then they sat on the grassy riverbank, his arm about her, her head resting upon his shoulder, and gazed down at the glistening water.
A half an hour or so later, as the light faded and the day began its transition to dusk they left the park and drove back to Elianne.
Two weeks after Alan’s departure, Kate returned to Sydney. She was relishing the prospect of fourth year. There were some who found the veterinary science course gruelling, but to Kate, who was academically gifted, it presented little hardship: she enjoyed her studies.
University and the multi-faceted existence she led in Sydney continued to stimulate Kate on every level, but it was her commitment to the fight for human rights that added true purpose to her life, and this year promised a major breakthrough in the campaign most dear to her.
‘They’ve set a date for the referendum,’ she said as she unlocked the front door. She’d arrived home late Saturday afternoon to discover Jeremy sitting on the doorstep of the little cottage in Campbell Street. He’d been waiting for nearly an hour he’d said, disgruntled, but she hadn’t listened, she was too excited. ‘They told us at the meeting this arvo: 27th of May. It’ll be announced to the media on Monday.’
‘Great,’ he said in a manner she found rather lacking in interest.
They stepped inside and he closed the door behind them.
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ she said critically. ‘Charlie Perkins and the gang have been working day and night, Aboriginal rights groups have been campaigning all over the country – you could at least sound pleased that the date’s finally been set.’