Bittersweet (17 page)

Upstairs in his hotel room, a gloomy cavern of browns and beiges and a horrible mustard-yellow, he ran a bath and pulled on a robe. Of course there was no room service, but a word with the duty manager secured a pot of execrable coffee and a plate of ham sandwiches. The food was surprisingly good; the bread was home-baked, the ham sugar-cured and juicy. He ate hungrily, thinking, scheming, and all revolving around his observations of Corunda as well as old Tom’s comments.

In future, no Savile Row suits, no ruby accessories; instead, soft shirts complete with collars and cuffs. A diminished English accent, easy for a natural mimic like Charles; he’d find a voice that didn’t grate on idiotically over-sensitive Australian ears! This afternoon he’d go to the shops and buy the right kind of apparel, then tomorrow he’d skulk around the town anonymously to do some research. If his plans were to succeed, he would have to
know a great deal more about Corunda, its importance in the Australian scheme of things, its importance in its own eyes and what its inhabitants expected of the men who led them, both publicly and politically.

He had automatically assumed that this massive ex-colony of Australia would differ little from England; to discover enormous differences was coming as a series of shocks that showed no sign of diminishing. This was a far different place that had evolved down very strange roads. People called Corunda “very English”, but to the very English Charles it was ugly, ramshackle, tasteless and vulgar. How was he ever going to survive here if he took the superintendent’s position?

By the time that Tom and Hannah picked him up to go to dinner at the Parthenon —
a Greek café!
— he had made his preliminary decisions, the first of which was not to wear black tie. By now he was wondering if there was ever a black tie dinner in Corunda? He was beginning to doubt it. However, the Greek café more than made up for the limitations of its food menu by serving Tom and his party a magnificent dry white wine and an even better red —
Australian
wines! But they were world class!

“Have the steak and chips, everyone does,” Hannah advised.

“I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of eating steak,” Charles said charmingly. “It’s considered crass in England. However, Grandmother, when in Rome I shall be a Roman, and try to acquire a taste for it. I suspect its lack of popularity in England is due to its astronomical price.”

“Then have the lamb cutlets, they’re local,” said Tom.

So Charles opted for the lamb cutlets, which would have been delicious had they not been so thoroughly cooked. The steak Tom and Hannah were eating with gusto, he noted, was also throughly cooked. Under-done was not on the menu.

Superb meat cooked to death, and deep-fried potatoes with everything. No sauces that take three days to make — even, I’ll bet, in Sydney’s top restaurants. Fried or grilled anything, but not real
haute cuisine
…

“Tell me about that ravishingly pretty girl on the train,” he said, having declined dessert, which consisted of an ice-cream sundae or a banana split. The coffee, he found, was drinkable if he ordered it Greek-style, brewed with the grounds in a small copper pot. How to get decent coffee? Though his meal with the Burdums told him that no one in Corunda drank coffee; they drank tea so strong it looked black, and this, apparently, the Parthenon made exactly the way the natives liked it. I am now marooned in an ocean of coal-tar tea, a substance I hate!

“Kitty Latimer,” said old Tom thoughtfully. “There are four Latimer girls, the daughters of our Church of England minister, Tom Latimer. Corunda, incidentally, is full of Toms. Down the road in Bardoo they’re mostly Daves, while out Doobar way they’re Bills. Corbi is solid Bobs. I’ve no idea why.”

“Kitty?” Charles prompted gently.

“Oh yes, Kitty. The Rector’s had two wives. His first one died giving birth to twin girls, Edda and Grace. That was Edda met Kitty at the station — tall, slinky girl. Maude Scobie was the second wife — she’d been Rectory housekeeper.” A dry chuckle escaped. “When Adelaide died, Maude married Tom Latimer
quick as a wink.
She
gave birth to a second set of twins, Heather and Kitty. Odd, isn’t it? Off to the races only twice, but four fine fillies not even two years apart.”

“Is it a wealthy family?”

“Not really, though Kitty has more than the other three, thanks to Maude’s intrigues over a will.”

“Sounds a trifle unfair,” Charles ventured, tone casual.

“Oh, it was! Maude dotes on Kitty, but doesn’t care for the others the way a mother should. I’m not being malicious — it’s general knowledge from the West End to Catholic Hill.”

“The other three must loathe Kitty,” Charles said.

“Oh, no!” Hannah cried, and laughed. “You’ll never meet four sisters as devoted to each other as the Latimers. Why, I have no idea, but Kitty seems to be the one the others love and protect the most. They adore Kitty, absolutely.”

Time to ingratiate himself a little. “Grandfather, sir, you won’t be getting any bills from the Grand, for all you instructed them to send my expenses to you. I’m quite rich enough to pay my own way, and have told the Grand I’ll be paying.” He paused, shot old Tom a keen look out of eyes that were a muddy mixture of grey, green, and gold-brown. “One thing you could do for me is recommend a bank. I have a letter of credit on my London bank, but if I should take the Superintendency, I’ll need to transfer more funds and establish a solid financial reputation here. I hope, incidentally, that the local banks are modern enough to cable funds, even very large amounts?”

“We’ll see Les Kimball at the Rural Bank tomorrow afternoon,” Tom said warmly. “You may as well bank with the Rural, all the
Burdums do — or have. It’s a modern establishment, the bank of the New South Wales Government. Is that what you want?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“I was under the impression that my son, Henry, remained a no-hoper after he left New South Wales,” old Tom said as he broached his third cup of tea.

Charles shrugged. “It would appear not, Grandfather. He founded an insurance company, became one of Lloyd’s underwriters, and married into the Lancashire plutocracy. As an only child, I inherited a fortune when he died — but, as you probably know, by then he had become what the English call eccentric, denied his wealth and family, and chose to live like a funded itinerant.”

“And your mother too is dead, I understand?”

“When I was born,” Charles said in a tone of voice that indicated he didn’t wish to talk about her. As if to soften this, he gave an irresistible smile and said, “Who will give me an honest assessment of the Corunda Base Hospital? I mean someone who knows the place inside out, has seniority yet no desire to be its superintendent, and isn’t afraid of treading on a few medical toes when he gives his opinions?”

“Liam Finucan,” said old Hannah instantly.

Old Tom nodded. “Yes, Charlie, he’s your man. I might be on the verge of ninety-six and long past serving on the Hospital Board, but I swear Liam is the only senior medical man situated to help you — and he will help you. He’s staff, a true pathologist with no private practice. Add, a Protestant Ulsterman who qualified in London — too good for Corunda, which got him
because of his marriage to a Corunda girl. She was a trollop and they’re now divorced, but by nature he’s really a bachelor. I can arrange for you to see him tomorrow.” He frowned. “Can you afford a car?”

“I have a Packard in the process of being delivered to me from Sydney. It’s due to arrive early in the morning.”

“An American car rather than an English one?”

“I note your car is German, sir.” The face, such an intriguing blend of beauty and ugliness, creased up impishly. “I bought it due to its colour — maroon, not the inevitable black.”

“I thought all cars had to be black!” said old Hannah, shocked.

“For which, blame Henry Ford.” Charles finished the last of his Hunter Valley claret and politely stifled a yawn. Time for bed.

When Charles met Dr. Liam Finucan the following afternoon, it would have been difficult for Kitty Latimer to have identified him as the same man were it not for his height. He was wearing moleskin trousers of the sort could double for riding breeches, a soft-collared white shirt with Balliol tie, a tweed jacket, elastic-sided boots (with built-up heels — cunning!), and a broad-brimmed felt hat. Only the tendency to strut hadn’t vanished, though he was trying to lessen it; these rude Colonials didn’t bother hiding their amusement at any kind of affectation, especially in a man, and they were as unkind as ruthless. The concept of masculinity, he was learning, was forged in hardened steel.

Dr. Liam Finucan, who had been in Corunda for eighteen years, fancied that Dr. Charles Burdum looked like a Burdum without the erosion of barbed wire and Solvol soap — a soft fellow, as the English were if their class was elevated enough. And he wore a ruby ring on his left little finger, a very strange, effeminate conceit in this part of the world. His eyes were the colour of a British soldier’s Great War uniform, a coppery khaki more rust than green, and he was quite as ugly as he was handsome. However, Liam found him curiously likeable, and had no axes to grind about the vacant superintendency, so cherished no preconceived resentments.

“If I’m to consider taking the job,” Charles said in the Grand lounge over drinks with Liam, “I need an unbiased report from someone who knows all the ins and outs. My grandparents say you’re my best bet, so here I am. What do you consider the allurements of this job as it’s being offered to me?”

“The run-down nature of the place,” Liam said without a moment’s hesitation. “Frank Campbell was a penny-pinching Scot who scrimped and cut corners on everything. All that’s carried Corunda Base through twenty-five years of his administration are the quality of the medicine and the nursing, both achieved against the odds. At the root of the trouble was the Hospital Board’s love of old Frank’s parsimony —
wicked
! It rejoiced in the fact that he fed the patients and staff alike on sixpence a day and made the nurses darn the linen on duty. For me, the pathologist, it meant a chronic shortage of reagents, chemicals, glassware, stains, equipment — you name it! I’ve found it much easier to get major apparatus because any man of enterprise can
coax a willing donor into buying an automatic microtome blade sharpener or an imposing microscope. No, where the place has hurt the most has been in basic supplies, from toilet paper to scrubbing brushes and high-watt light bulbs. Do you know that babies are nursed on newspaper? Antimony is
toxic
! All to save the linen, not to mention the expense of laundering! While the Board members cheer Frank on! Weasels? I’d call them cockroaches!”

“Do they know the grisly details, or just the figures?”

“Just the figures, of course. The Reverend Latimer would’ve been horrified if he’d known the details. But he could have found out.”

“If it means extra effort, Liam, people won’t exert themselves.”

“The food is terrible, really terrible, yet out at Bardoo is a hospital farm and convalescent home that should be producing milk, cream, eggs, pork, and some vegetables in season. The convalescent side Frank turned into a boarding house, and the edibles that should have gone to the hospital kitchens he sold to local shops or suppliers. Digusting!
Wicked!
” The softly accented voice, modified by so long in Australia, had not so much risen, as hardened. “I tell you, Charlie, that man should rot in a worse hell than Lucifer could devise. He made a profit out of sickness and death.”

“By Jove!” Charles exclaimed, having no idea what phrase an Australian would use. “Is there State Government money as well?”

“Yes, of course, but I’d be willing to wager more was saved than ever spent. Frank was brilliant at fiddling the books, though
he never took a farthing for himself. There have been dozens and dozens of bequests to the hospital — it’s a favourite charity. But nothing has ever been spent unless on a specifically named item.”

“This is wonderful!” Charles cried. “I’d envisioned years of fighting the faceless slugs of a civil service for the funds to make Corunda Base as modern as the Mayo Clinic, but now you tell me there’s actually money in the bank? How much? Six figures?”

“Seven figures,” Liam said with angry emphasis. “There are four million pounds residing in the Corunda branches of several big Australian banks. That’s why Frank Campbell was so hated — he was sitting on a fortune he refused to spend.”

Charles was gaping. “Four million? That’s impossible!”

“Not when you think about it,” Liam said flatly. “Take the Treadby ruby bequest. The patch ran out in 1923, but the bequest came into being in 1898 — the first £100,000 in each year were to go to Corunda Base, and did. Not a single penny of it was ever spent, including the miserable interest the banks pay. All the result of a blazing row between Walter Treadby and his sons. Walter changed his will and died two days later, an aftereffect of apoplectic tendencies that dumped the Treadby rubies in Frank Campbell’s undeserving lap for twenty-five years. Had Walter lived a further two days, he would have removed the new codicil from his will.”

The laughter broke through; Charles roared with it. “Never underestimate a tendency to apoplexy! Tell me of the Hospital Board.”

“The Board’s as bad as Frank was. Well, they’re Frank’s own creatures, he hand-picked them to obey his every dictate, and
they did. For example, the nurses, always recruited from poor families — girls without any education or hope of registering later on, but splendid nurses he paid virtually nothing. The land is tax- and rate-free, the electrical power supply negotiated down to next to nothing, and the gas dirt cheap.”

“No wonder the Board never opposed him,” said Charles, tone tinged with admiration. “The man was a genius of sorts.” He looked suddenly cunning. “I don’t suppose you’d like to be the Deputy Super?” he asked.

“No, thank you!” Liam snapped. “I’ll gladly help you all I possibly can, Charles, but my ambitions are confined to having the best pathology department in the state, from analytical equipment to the breadth of its functions and facilities. I also want a radiologist in a separate radiology department, a staff appointment rather than a private practitioner. I have been used as the radiologist when I have neither the time nor the talent — I can see a break, but hairline fractures? I cringe. Erich Herzen is better, but he’s not trained either. We need a true radiologist capable of more complex techniques, and we need an X-ray technician.”