Elianne (51 page)

Alan also mingled, finding himself at one stage chatting to Ivan Krantz, who was uncharacteristically open in expressing himself.

‘Your father will come to his senses before long, Alan,’ he said. ‘Stan can’t keep closing himself off the way he has since Neil’s death. He needs you.’

Alan was surprised by Ivan’s show of concern, although as usual he gave away very little himself. ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ he said, ‘I personally doubt he needs me at all, but there’s not much I can do about it anyway.’

‘You can be there for him when he finds out he’s no longer cock of the yard,’ Ivan said, ‘I’ve a feeling it might come as a bit of a shock.’

Alan found the remark jarring. He’d presumed the man’s concern had been directed towards him, but he’d obviously been wrong: Ivan’s show of sympathy had been intended for his old friend Stan Durham. His manner and choice of expression, however, seemed unnecessarily arrogant. Ivan Krantz has certainly changed over the past year or so, Alan thought.

‘Sure, I’ll be there for him,’ he replied with a shrug that said why should I? If upon Ivan’s advice Stan chooses to sign the estate away to investors, then let him, Alan thought. Elianne was Stan the Man’s to do with as he wished. And if Stan the Man remained ignorant of the fact that he was losing control, then that too was his choice. Any warning he’d been offered had long gone unheeded – Stanley Durham had been living in the past for years.

‘If my father ever decides to talk to me again, Ivan, I’ll certainly be there for him,’ he said, ‘in the meantime . . .’ Another shrug sufficed and he wandered off to mingle elsewhere.

The women brought out the food – giant platters of meat, bowls of steaming pastas, salads and breads, wave upon wave – the guests were called to table and the feast began.

The speeches were as abundant as the food, and the wine also flowed freely. Bottles and dishes were unceremoniously handed around tables, fresh supplies fetched regularly by those members of the family elected to keep an eye on the proceedings and the afternoon grew progressively raucous.

Toast after toast was made from the bridal table, and following dessert when the speeches had finally run out and the meal was drawing to an end, the young band members leapt for the verandah to start up afresh, this time with a
tarantella
.

Alan and Paola were once again first on the dance floor, others quickly joining them and Luigi, prompted by a nudge from his wife, rose and offered his arm to the mother of the groom.

‘You would like to dance, Mrs Durham?’ he asked.

‘Why thank you, Luigi.’

Hilda was having a splendid time. She would have preferred champagne to red wine herself and, unaccustomed as she was to the style of food served, she’d initially found it all a little rich. But as the day had worn on, she’d realised that everything seemed to go very well together and that the lack of table service at a function she’d assumed should have a formal tone didn’t matter in the least, in fact it contributed to the freedom of the atmosphere. Even the raucousness, of which she’d been somewhat critical to start with, was a display of affection, she’d decided, and really quite uplifting.

‘What a lovely reception, Luigi,’ she said as they danced. Hilda had always loved to dance although it seemed such a long time since she’d last stepped on to a dance floor. The Italian was light on his feet, she noted, and led well: he was a good dancer.

‘
Si si
,’ Luigi happily agreed, ‘much food, much music, Italian wedding is good.’ He glanced at the newlyweds nearby and when he looked back at her his expression was serious. ‘I am proud that my daughter she marry your son, Mrs Durham,’ he said. ‘Your son he is a good boy.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Hilda smiled. ‘I am proud too that my son is marrying your daughter, Luigi. Paola is a fine young woman. And from now on as your daughter’s mother-in-law I insist you call me Hilda.’

Luigi gave one of his irrepressible grins. ‘Very good, Hilda.’ He twirled her under his arm and passed her along to Alan. ‘Now we swap – you dance with your son,’ he said breaking up the couple and gathering his daughter in his arms.

It was mid-afternoon when the newlyweds left, Paola in her pretty, floral going-away dress waving out of the open car window as Alan drove off, the tin cans that Charlie and the Apex boys had tied to the Holden’s rear bumper bar rattling away noisily. Alan laughed at the racket and gave Charlie a wave, but he would rid himself of the cans before reaching the main road for there was a five-hour drive ahead. Not that that in the least daunted him. Alan loved driving.

‘See you at Christmas,’ the Fiorelli cousins called after them.

Alan and Paola were off to the Gold Coast for a one-week honeymoon at the Surfers Paradise Hotel and would return several days before Christmas in time for the family festivities.

After the couple’s departure, many of the older guests left, including Hilda, whom Max drove home to Elianne together with his wife Maude and young Ivy. Ivy was most reluctant to leave. She’d danced at least a half a dozen times with Gio Fiorelli and could have gone on all night, he was by far the best partner she’d ever danced with, and Ivy was an excellent dancer. He’d said he was going to the Palais on Saturday night, however, and had suggested they meet there, a proposition which Ivy had graciously deigned to consider, although in truth the prospect excited her no end.

Kate and Frank, who had also danced themselves into a state of near exhaustion, made their farewells towards the end of the afternoon. The numbers had by then halved, but the party was still in full swing, the younger set clearly intending to go on until all hours.

They arrived home at The Big House as dusk was falling to discover Stan the Man seated in one of the cane armchairs on the front verandah with Ben curled up asleep at his feet. Kate was most surprised to see her father apparently waiting for them, but she took it as a good omen.

‘Hello, Dad,’ she greeted him as she trotted up the stairs. Ben rose to meet her at the top, tail wagging, but in a rather subdued mood. ‘We had a marvellous time –’

‘Your dog’s dead,’ he said tersely.

‘What?’ She halted before him.

‘Your dog’s dead. I shot him.’

Halfway up the stairs behind her, Frank also halted. Is this some sort of sick joke? he wondered. Stanley Durham was a tyrant given to unreasonable behaviour, that much was plain, but the man surely hadn’t shot his daughter’s dog in some act of malice.

‘You shot Cobber?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Nothing else I could do.’ Her father’s shrug appeared careless. ‘I looked for him as soon as you’d gone. He was down in the bushes outside the laundry, still alive but paralysed – had to be a snake.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘On the floor in the laundry,’ Stan said. ‘I knew you’d want to examine him.’ As she turned to go, her father reached down and grasped Ben’s collar in order to prevent the Heeler following her.

Kate glanced at Frank as she went back down the stairs and he accompanied her around to the rear of the house where the laundry was situated.

She turned on the lights and they stepped inside to where Cobber lay covered by a tarpaulin.

They both knelt and Frank watched as she lifted aside the tarpaulin and examined the body. The dog had been neatly shot through the brain.

She inspected the snakebite wound high on the right shoulder. ‘An Eastern Brown, I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘Browns can be aggressive and they hold their necks high when they strike.’ She stroked the dog tenderly. ‘Poor old Cobber,’ she murmured, ‘good old boy, I hope you didn’t suffer too much. I’m glad Dad found you.’

Frank watched as she crooned to the animal who had been her companion since childhood days. ‘Good old boy,’ she said continuing to stroke him, ‘good boy Cobber.’ He could tell she was moved and waited for the tears, intending to comfort her when they came. But they didn’t.

‘Goodbye, old friend.’ She gave the dog one final caress, replaced the tarpaulin and rose to her feet. ‘Well, he had a fine innings,’ she said as Frank rose to stand beside her. ‘Thirteen years – you can’t complain about that.’

‘It’s sad though,’ he said, ‘it’s very sad.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘it’s sad.’ Kate sensed he was expecting her to shed a tear, and she could have if she’d wished, Cobber’s death was indeed moving, but a rebellious voice inside was saying, We’re tougher than that up here, mate, we’re Queenslanders. ‘At least I didn’t have to shoot him myself,’ she said, ‘it’s painful when you have to kill your own dog. At least Dad saved me that.’

‘All right, I get the message,’ Frank acceded with a smile, ‘you’re tough and I’m a city slicker.’

She gave a light laugh acknowledging the way he’d read her mind, but then they always seemed to know what the other was thinking. ‘Exactly,’ she said.

Kate did not know what Frank was thinking, however, when five minutes later they joined Stan on the front verandah, where he remained sitting in the gloom, his hand still resting on Ben’s collar.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Kate bent down and kissed her father on the cheek.

‘Said your goodbyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. I’ll have a couple of the boys bury him in the morning.’ Stan released his hold on the dog’s collar and stood. ‘Go to bed, Ben,’ he ordered and the Heeler obediently set off down the stairs to the kennel around the side of the house, the kennel that would now seem so empty without his old friend.

‘I’m going to my study,’ Stan said, ‘I’ve got work to do. Cook says she’ll be serving up a light supper at nine.’ He patted his daughter’s arm. ‘He was a good dog, Cobber.’ Then he left the two of them alone on the front verandah.

Throughout the exchange, Frank had observed the closeness between father and daughter. They had not articulated their feelings to be sure, but there’d been no need. This martinet of a man who had alienated his whole family had waited the entire day to share his daughter’s pain over the loss of her dog. And his daughter knew it. Surely that signifies something, Frank thought. The strength of their bond was strong, he could sense it, far stronger than Kate had led him to believe. And perhaps, he thought, stronger than even Kate herself knows.

After the boisterous festivities at Alfonso’s the solemn air of The Big House was oppressive and everyone thankfully crept off for an early night after supper, during which no mention of the wedding had been made. The omission seemed bizarre to the entire household, both family and staff, but all continued to tread warily in Stan’s presence.

Things were little better in the morning. Breakfast was a gloomy affair and as if to compound the misery Ben was fretful. He’d been sniffing at the laundry door all night and when the workers came to bury Cobber he followed them. His pining was painful to witness.

An hour or so later, Kate borrowed her father’s Mercedes and drove Frank to the airport. He was flying back to Sydney that day while she stayed on at Elianne over Christmas and the New Year period as usual, although she would far rather have been returning with him.

‘Pity about the gloom and doom,’ she said, trying to sound light-hearted, although she found it a depressing state of affairs. ‘Not much fun for you, I’m afraid.’

‘No need to apologise, Kate,’ he said, ‘I feel very sorry for your family.’

‘Yes, so do I.’ She dropped the light-hearted tack, which obviously hadn’t worked. ‘Elianne used to be such a happy place, particularly for us kids. Our childhood was so carefree. Now Dad’s bent on destroying everything we’ve shared. It seems if he can’t be happy, then none of us can.’

‘I believe you could change that, Kate.’ Frank decided to speak his mind. ‘In fact I believe you’re the only person who could.’ He was aware that he’d surprised her. ‘Your mother can’t,’ he went on, ‘and your brother obviously can’t, but I believe that you’d be able to get through to your father. You share a bond that might be stronger than you know.’

‘I hardly think so,’ Kate scoffed, ‘we’re at war more often than not.’

‘That’s a bond of sorts, isn’t it? Would you bother to pick an argument with someone you didn’t respect? He respects and admires you, Kate, and he loves you very deeply – I sensed that last night. And you did too, didn’t you?’

Kate nodded and fell silent and Frank did not pursue the subject. There was no further exchange until they arrived at the airport and pulled up in the car park.

‘Don’t come in to the terminal,’ he said, ‘we’ll say goodbye here.’ He kissed her as if they were making love and she responded in kind. ‘I wouldn’t be able to do that in there,’ he added with a smile. ‘God I’m going to miss you.’

‘Me too,’ she said quietly.

He thought how extraordinarily vulnerable she looked, and he kissed her again, very gently this time.

‘How do I go about it?’ she asked as they parted. ‘What do I do, Frank? How do I get through to him?’

‘The truth mightn’t be a bad start,’ he said. He could tell she was hanging on his every word, as if he might be able to supply the magic answer. ‘I’m an outsider, Kate, and I’ve probably no right to offer an opinion, but sometimes an outsider’s view can be valuable. There are so many secrets and lies in your family. You said that your father’s locked himself away in a world of his own. Then shock him into the real world. Tell him the truth. Share the past with him.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’ After all this time the prospect now seemed more daunting than ever. ‘I wouldn’t know how to begin.’

‘Take your time . . . don’t rush things. You’ll know when the moment’s right, you’ll sense it. But tell your father the truth, Kate, tell him everything.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you in Sydney,’ he said and he climbed out of the car and walked off towards the terminal.

He turned to wave before disappearing through the doors. ‘Good luck,’ he called.

Kate started up the engine and drove back to Elianne.

P
erhaps it was Cobber’s death, perhaps it was the fact that wedding fever had subsided, or perhaps it was simply Kate’s presence in the old family home, but over the next several days Stanley Durham was less belligerent and the atmosphere in The Big House noticeably more relaxed.