He stood. ‘I’m going into town,’ he said and walked out of the room.
Kate jumped up and ran after him, cornering him before he got to the front door.
‘Don’t go, Dad,’ she begged, ‘please don’t go, we need to talk.’ She stood between him and the door as if her mere presence could prevent him from leaving.
‘Why? What is there to talk about? No one seems to know what’s happened to this family.’
‘I do. Alan does. He’s coming around. He’ll be here at midday.’
Her father said nothing, his reaction unreadable.
‘Please, Dad, please, I’m begging you. We have to talk! You said so yourself, we have to talk as a family and decide what action we take –’
‘What action is there to take? We burn the diaries and pretend this whole thing never happened. We go back to the way we were: that’s what action we take.’
‘We can’t and you know it.’ She fronted him boldly, calling his bluff. ‘We can’t bury the past, Dad. We need to confront it and accept the truth, all of us. You know we do. Stay and talk to Alan. Please.’
Kate saw a flicker of something in her father’s eyes, something that appeared to her like recognition. He knows I’m right, she thought, he knows the truth has to be faced. Then the eyes went dark and the wall was up again.
‘I’ll be in my study,’ Stan said, ‘tell me when he gets here.’
He walked off. It was a little after nine in the morning, but Stan felt in need of a Scotch.
Alan arrived at ten past twelve. He’d dropped Paola off at her parents’ house, where he would join her later.
‘You’re late,’ Stan called as his son climbed from the gleaming new Belmont utility.
‘G’day, Dad. G’day, Kate.’
Alan patted the dog that had trotted down to meet him then climbed the stairs, Ben following, to where his father and sister were sitting waiting on the front verandah.
‘She told me you’d be here at midday,’ Stan said with a jerk of his head to Kate.
‘Yeah, give or take a few minutes.’
Alan wasn’t sure whether his father was joking or not. Stan was lounging comfortably in one of the wicker armchairs and seemed relaxed, but Kate didn’t look comfortable at all. He noted the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the table, and the quick look he exchanged with his sister told him yes Stan had been drinking. As usual, it was difficult to tell whether or not he was drunk though – Stan held his liquor well.
There was an awkward moment as Alan stood before his father waiting to see if a hand would be offered. It wasn’t, so he pulled up a wicker chair and sat.
‘New ute,’ Stan said.
‘Yep. Bought it for work; won’t stay shiny for long, you can bet on that.’
‘The sprocket business must be booming.’
‘Yes, yes it is thanks, Dad,’ Alan chose to ignore the sneer in his father’s tone, ‘business is going exceptionally well all round.’
‘Good on you, Al, that’s great news,’ Kate interjected before Stan could respond with another barbed comment. She wished her father would be a little more welcoming. ‘I adore the ute, can I have a drive later?’
‘Course you can.’
‘Hello, darling.’
The door had opened and Hilda stood there; she’d been watching from the front drawing room for her son’s appearance. Alan stood and kissed his mother.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘No thanks, Mum, I’m fine.’
She was about to offer him a coffee or a soft drink, but Stan the Man got in first.
‘Perhaps you’d like something stronger,’ he said, indicating the Scotch bottle.
Alan shook his head. ‘Not for me thanks, Dad, bit too early in the day.’ The moment the words were out he realised they sounded wrong and that his father would probably take it as a criticism.
‘Suit yourself.’ Stan leant forwards and topped up his glass. He was drinking his whisky neat.
‘Well if there’s anything you want I’ll be in the front drawing room,’ Hilda said brightly. ‘Just give me a call.’
‘Rightio, thanks Mum.’ Alan plonked himself back in his chair.
Hilda smiled at the sight of the three gathered around the table: her family was finally together. She wished Stanley didn’t look quite so grumpy, but at least he’d agreed to meet with his son.
‘Your father was so keen to see you he’s been waiting out here on the verandah for over half an hour,’ she said with the intention of getting things off to an amiable start, ‘isn’t that so, Stanley?’ She beamed directly at her husband, who made no reply, taking a swig of his Scotch instead, so she spread the radiance of her smile around the table in general. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Have a nice chat.’
Closing the door behind her, Hilda retired to the front drawing room where, although not privy to their conversation, she would at least be able to see them through the windows that looked out over the verandah.
Stan had barred his wife from the family discussion. She had nothing to offer but romantic claptrap he said and they didn’t need any of that bullshit. ‘Besides,’ he’d added, ‘this doesn’t concern you. You’re not a Durham.’
Hilda had refused to take umbrage. She hadn’t even bothered countering with the fact that she’d borne him three Durham children. When Stan dug his heels in like this there was no getting through to him and if the discussion were to turn unpleasant she didn’t want to be part of it anyway.
With the departure of his wife, Stan turned his full focus upon his son. ‘So,’ he said, lounging back in his armchair, tumbler of Scotch in hand, ‘what are your thoughts on all this? I know your sister’s, but how do you feel?’
‘About the diaries you mean?’
‘Jesus Christ, boy, I don’t mean about the bloody weather.’
Alan and Kate shared another look. They could both see that their father’s aggression was fuelled by more than alcohol. Something else had triggered a rage that seemed to be simmering beneath the surface. Kate gave the slightest shrug, signalling to her brother she had no idea what had brought about this black mood. She knew it had not been Alan’s appearance, for she’d seen a difference in her father the moment he’d emerged from his study. Over two hours of drinking and thinking had proved a potent combination and something was stewing in Stan’s brain.
‘Where is he?’ he’d demanded. ‘Where’s your brother?’
‘It’s only half past eleven, Dad, he won’t be here until twelve.’
‘I’ll wait on the verandah. I need some air.’
When Stan had gone back to his study for the Scotch, Hilda had suggested, diplomatically, that they should have tea and scones on the front verandah as soon as Alan arrived.
‘With Ivy away I shall serve it up myself,’ she’d said, the prospect pleasing her, ‘a real family affair.’
‘No tea,’ Stan had flatly announced and then he’d informed her she was banned from the discussion.
To Kate, things had not appeared promising. ‘I’ll wait with you, Dad,’ she’d said, and the two had sat in stony silence.
Ignoring his father’s brief outburst, Alan answered with positivity. ‘I think it’s a good thing the diaries have come to light.’
‘You do, do you? Why?’
‘Because it’s high time the truth was revealed. In fact the truth’s been hidden for far too long: we should have known all this years ago.’
‘So like your sister you believe we shouldn’t destroy the diaries. That we shouldn’t pretend they never existed and go back to the way we were.’
‘We can’t, Dad.’ Alan was amazed his father could even suggest such a thing. ‘We can’t go back to living a lie.’
Stan made no reply, but gazed steadfastly at his son, his expression unfathomable.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Alan protested. Still no reply . . . ‘We’ve been living a lie for the whole of our lives, Dad,’ he argued, ‘every single one of us. For four generations! The Durham legend is a myth. We’re not the people we thought we were. Everything’s been a tissue of lies right from the start.’
‘I know this,’ Stan snapped, ‘do you think I don’t know this? I know also that you’ve been aware of these lies for the past two years and that you and your sister have been hiding the truth from me.’ He cast a cursory glance at Kate. ‘Your sister may perhaps have been attempting to protect her mother or her mother’s misguided view of the world,’ he said scathingly, ‘but what’s your excuse? You’re my son, damn it! You’re my son! You should have told me!’
Alan felt a surge of irritation so intense it bordered on anger. Oh, I’m your son now, am I? he thought. Since when did that come about?
‘He was trying to protect you, Dad.’ Kate found her father’s accusation so unjust she jumped in before her brother could answer.
‘Protect me from precisely what?’ Stan demanded.
‘Neil had just died and you were vulnerable . . .’ Kate’s reply was wary: they were approaching tricky ground. ‘Al thought you might have trouble handling the truth.’
‘The truth about my slut of a grandmother, you mean?’ Stan knocked back his Scotch in one hit. ‘The truth that there’s black blood in the Durham veins.’
‘No.’ Alan didn’t need his sister to answer for him, nor did he feel the need to tread warily, better to have it all out in the open, he thought. ‘The truth about Big Jim being a dreadful human being,’ he said.
Stan the Man’s eyes locked with his son’s and his very silence seemed to hold a challenge.
It was a challenge his son took up willingly. ‘We all know how much you idolised Big Jim, Dad.’ Alan’s response was reasonable, his tone calm but firm; he’d controlled his irritation. ‘Everyone knows. Hell not just the family, the town, the region, the whole sugar industry. Big Jim was your lifetime hero. You modelled yourself on the man. Discovering the truth was bound to shatter you – Kate and I both knew that.’
Kate wondered momentarily whether Alan might be taking the wrong tack, she would not have pushed the Big Jim issue herself. But neither she nor her brother could have foreseen the reaction that followed.
‘You should have told me,’ Stan roared at the top of his voice. ‘You should have told me!’ He stood and hurled the whisky tumbler over the verandah railings with all the force he could muster; it shattered against the side of the brand-new Belmont.
Alan and Kate both sprang to their feet. Had their father gone insane?
‘What kind of a son are you,’ Stan yelled. ‘You knew the truth and you kept it from me! You knew that my life had been made a mockery and you said nothing! What kind of a goddamn son are you!’
‘I’m a damn sight better son to you than you ever were to your father!’ Alan stood his ground. Normally he would have turned and walked away, but not this time. This time he needed to hit back. He didn’t even care that his father’s lunatic rage was not directed at him at all, but at Big Jim. Alan had had enough.
‘You’re right, Dad,’ he said cuttingly, ‘you’re dead bloody right. Your whole life’s been a mockery. You modelled yourself on a hideous man! You lauded him to the skies! “Big Jim built Elianne from nothing”, how many times did we hear that as kids. “Big Jim created this empire!” Well bugger that! Your
father
made Elianne, and what thanks did he get from either Big Jim or you?!’ Alan, who never lost his temper, was now angry. ‘Bartholomew saved Elianne from ruin through two world wars and you ignored him the whole of your life because you were so busy worshipping Big bloody Jim!’
‘Get out,’ Stan roared, ‘get out of my house!’
‘You idolised the wrong man, Dad! Well I’m glad you know what a bastard your hero was! I hope the truth hurts! I hope it hurts like hell!’
‘Get out of my house!’ Any minute Stan would launch himself at his son. ‘Get off my property!’
Alan’s anger was spent. ‘Willingly,’ he said and as he turned to go, he saw for the first time the group huddled at the open front door, his mother, together with the two household staff. Max had a protective arm around both Hilda and his wife, Maude the cook, prepared to usher the women out of harm’s way should the situation turn violent, as it certainly threatened to.
‘And don’t you ever come back to Elianne again,’ Stan yelled, ‘you hear me? Don’t you ever set foot on my land again!’
‘That’s perhaps something else you should know, Dad.’ Alan turned back to his father. ‘This isn’t your land. It hasn’t been for some time. You don’t own Elianne. The investors do. A bunch of businessmen in Amsterdam hold the majority of shares – former Dutch East-Indies traders, I believe.’ Stan stared blankly at his son. ‘You’re not even aware of that, are you?’ Alan continued, not maliciously, but in the knowledge he was twisting the knife. ‘You’ve been selling off shares in Elianne for years. This land is no longer the exclusive property of the Durham family. In fact, except for this house, nothing belongs to you. You’re no more than a glorified manager.’
‘You’re lying.’ Stan continued to stare at his son in disbelief. ‘You’re lying, you bastard.’
Alan shook his head. ‘You should have checked all those papers Ivan gave you to sign. He asked you often enough, we all did. But you preferred to let the minions do the work while you played Lord of the Manor. Just like the old days. Just like Big Jim. Crikey, Dad, you accuse Mum of living in a world of her own making – look at you! You’re a dinosaur. You’ve been living in the past for years.’
Stan finally erupted. He grabbed the heavy wooden table and hurled it across the verandah, sending the dog scuttling down the stairs, the bottle of Scotch smashing and chairs crashing to the floor.
‘Get out! Get out all of you,’ he roared as he caught sight of the group huddled in the doorway. He picked up one of the chairs as if he was going to hurl it at them. ‘Get out of my house!’
Alan grabbed his mother’s hand. ‘Come on, Mum,’ he said, and they set off down the stairs. ‘You don’t need to be here if he’s going to smash the place up. Come on, Kate,’ he called, ‘we’ll go to Luigi’s.’
They piled into the cabin of the utility, Alan hefting Ben into the tray. ‘You can come too, mate,’ he said.
As the car drove away, Stan dumped the chair he was holding and turned to see Max still hovering in the doorway, shielding his wife but uncertain what was required of him.
‘Piss off, Max,’ Stan growled. ‘Take the Land Rover, go for a drive, take your wife into town, I don’t care what you do, but piss off both of you and leave me alone.’