Elianne (44 page)

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Sam said, ‘we’re not going to hurt you.’ He extended his hand in a calming gesture, but the young woman became even more terrified and started to scream hysterically.

‘You’re safe with us,’ Sam assured her, ‘you’re safe,’ and he took a step forwards.

Neil spoke Vietnamese, so he knew full well what the woman was saying. She was screaming, ‘Stay away, don’t come near, don’t touch me,’ but had he not known the words, he would have registered their meaning. He had seen her eyes flicker to the trip wire.

‘Stop,’ he yelled, ‘it’s a trap!’

Too late. Sam had already embarked upon a second step, a step that proved fatal. The hut exploded, instantly killing those inside and wounding several troops nearby.

I’m sorry to write this way, Kate, I don’t mean to upset you. But it does me good to let off steam. You’re the only one I’ll turn to as you well know, which is bad luck for you because it means you cop the whole brunt. Sorry about that. I’ll write in a happier vein next time, or at least I’ll try to.

Love Neil

But there was no next time. He didn’t write again, and two weeks after Kate had received the letter that so eerily echoed the circumstances of her brother’s death, the Durham family was informed that Neil had been killed in action.

His body was flown home to Bundaberg, where a funeral service was conducted at Christ Church. There was standing room only. It seemed the entire community had turned up, along with many others, including a military detail of six uniformed soldiers, who formed a guard of honour outside the church. There were eulogies from family and friends and former national service buddies and also an address delivered by a brigadier from Canberra on behalf of the army, paying tribute to Neil and the ultimate sacrifice he had made in the course of his duty.

Kate and Alan, representing the family, both spoke very movingly of their brother. But Stan did not speak of his son. Stan couldn’t. Stanley Durham sat grey-faced and silent throughout the entire service. He was flanked either side by his wife, who was quietly weeping, and his fragile father, also visibly moved, but Stan himself appeared incapable of displaying any form of emotion. Ten days after being informed of his son’s death, Stan remained in a numb state to all about him.

Following the service, Neil was buried in the military section of Bundaberg Cemetery, after which thirty or so guests were invited back to Elianne for the wake. Hilda had taken charge of all the arrangements, considering it only right and proper. ‘One must have a wake,’ she’d said to Kate, ‘as a show of respect, a select number only of course.’

When the family returned to the house, Kate and Alan helped their grandfather up the front stairs and into his quarters, all but carrying him in the process. Bartholomew could barely walk these days, but had insisted upon attending the service. Then they prepared themselves for the ordeal of the wake, which nobody wanted, including Hilda herself, but propriety must be observed.

Stan seemed barely to notice there were guests in his house. He sat in an armchair at the far end of the main drawing room, glass of Scotch in hand, sipping occasionally, but oblivious to those milling about, to Max topping up glasses, to Ivy serving finger food on silver trays, to his wife pouring tea while bravely shouldering the burden of social niceties.

When people filed up to him respectfully, as each of them did one by one, offering their condolences, he gave them a nod, but didn’t even look at them. After a while they stopped attempting to make contact and left him to himself.

Thankfully the guests did not overstay their welcome and within an hour and a half the last were taking their leave.

Ivan Krantz decided upon one final attempt to break through the impenetrable wall of Stan’s grief, or his shock or whatever it was that was rendering the man’s mind so incapable of making any form of connection. How terrible, he thought, to see Stanley Durham in such a condition.

He left his wife and son chatting to Hilda at the drawing room door – they were the last of the guests to depart – and returned to where Stan sat in his armchair.

‘Just want to let you know that I understand what you’re going through, Stan,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You and I go back a long way and I know how hard it must be. I know the plans you had for Neil and for Elianne. Well, of course I do,’ he said a little over-heartily, ‘we were a team, the three of us, you and Neil and me.’

Stan’s eyes slowly focused upon Ivan. He didn’t seem to particularly comprehend what was being said, but Ivan was nonetheless pleased to have made some sort of impact. How he’d done so he wasn’t really sure. He thought he’d sounded rather clumsy himself, but his desire being to buoy the man’s spirits, he continued as he’d intended.

‘We’ll pursue those plans, Stan,’ he said with a positivity he hoped was finding some connection. ‘When you feel up to it, we’ll throw ourselves into the business. That’s what you need, distraction. With fresh investors, ready capital is no problem – Elianne is booming. We’ll accomplish everything we intended. It’ll be a tribute to Neil. And Alan will join us. We’ll be a team just like we’ve always been, the Durhams and the Krantzes.’

Ivan glanced to the doorway where his wife and son, Henry, were chatting to Hilda, and when he looked back he saw that Stan had followed his gaze. Another healthy sign, he thought.

‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said in the pause that followed. Too much to hope the man might speak, he supposed, but there was a definite added light in the eyes, some form of perception: he’d certainly got through. ‘We’ll be on our way now.’

Ivan would have liked to offer his hand, but he didn’t push further, opting for a comforting pat of Stan’s shoulder instead. ‘My sympathies to you, Stan,’ he said. ‘I know how hard it is, believe me I do.’

Stan watched as Ivan Krantz walked off to join his wife and son. You don’t know how hard it is at all, you dumb bastard. Stan’s mind had been jolted into action and was now working overtime. Look at you there with that prick of a son of yours who never got drafted, who never went into battle – what have you ever had to fear? And the puerile attempt to jolly him along, a renewed business drive would be seen as a tribute to Neil, ‘and Alan will join us’, the dumb bastard had said. Alan isn’t Neil! Alan can never be Neil!

Lots of things were coming back to Stan as he watched the Krantz family bidding farewell to Hilda at the door.

‘I won’t come downstairs,’ Hilda said. ‘I do hope you don’t mind seeing yourselves out, but . . .’

‘Of course we don’t.’ Gerda Krantz kissed her on the cheek. ‘Please take care, Hilda,’ she said, ‘of yourself as well as others.’

Look at them chatting as if nothing’s happened, Stan thought. Your son’s dead, Hilda, don’t you know that?

He glanced around the room. Max was at the sideboard placing several empty bottles in a cardboard box. Ivy and Kate and Alan were collecting the glasses and cups that were scattered all over the place on coffee tables and mantelpieces, even the escritoire in the corner.

There’s been a party, he thought, and then the images came back to him. He’d seen it all, Max swanning around with sherry for the ladies and Scotch for the men, Ivy offering platters of food, Hilda serving tea and biscuits. They’ve been having a party and my son’s dead!

He stood. ‘What the hell do you all think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

Everything stopped. Hilda had just closed the door following the Krantzes’ departure and she turned to him. They turned every one of them, Kate, Alan, Max, Ivy, and there was a moment’s stillness as they stared at Stan.

‘You’re having a party?’ His voice was a combination of disbelief and outrage. ‘Neil’s dead and you’re having a party!’

‘It’s a wake, dear,’ Hilda said crossing to him, ‘we held a wake for Neil. It was the proper thing to do.’

‘Proper!’ Stan roared his anger. ‘What’s proper about my son’s death?’

Hilda gave a brisk nod to Max and Ivy who quickly departed the drawing room leaving the family to themselves. Stan didn’t even notice them go.

‘What’s proper about that, woman?! You tell me. What’s proper about that?!’

Hilda wanted to weep with relief. She had thought her husband might be going mad. He’d spoken to no one, appeared to see no one, but he’d been living in mental agony: she of all people knew that – the gnashing of his teeth kept her awake every night. She had suggested time and again he see a doctor, but he hadn’t heard her. Now at last he’d come back. His rage was an excellent sign. She could comfort him now, and they could share their grief.

‘We must be strong, Stanley,’ she said. ‘But we will manage, we have one another to lean on, we can bear the pain together.’ The line between romance and reality, a difficult delineation for Hilda at the best of times, now blurred into one as relief at her husband’s return to sanity mingled with the several sherries she’d discreetly imbibed while serving tea to her lady guests. ‘We must weather the storm, you and I, my dear, just as Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim did when Edward and George were killed at Gallipoli.’ She raised a hand and gently touched her fingers to his cheek. ‘It was the great love they shared that saved them,’ she said, ‘just as our love shall save –’

‘Shut up, you stupid woman!’ Stan bellowed. He could take no more of his wife’s idiocy and grabbing her by the shoulders he shook her like a madman. ‘Shut up, shut up . . .’ she was a rag doll in his huge, strong hands ‘. . . you stupid, stupid, stupid woman!’

‘Stop it, Dad!’ Alan leapt forwards. Grabbing his father’s arm he wrenched with all his might, managing to break Stan’s grip. ‘Stop it,’ he yelled.

With one hand Stan thrust Hilda aside and caught off balance she fell to the floor.

Kate rushed and knelt beside her. ‘Are you all right, Marmee?’ She took her mother’s arm, about to help her to her feet, but Hilda waved her away.

‘Yes I’m perfectly all right, thank you, dear.’ Hilda preferred to stand on her own without assistance. She was undeterred by her husband’s anger. Better his rage than his resignation from life.

Stan looked down at her and, horrified to see his wife on the floor, was instantly brought to his senses. Then as Hilda slowly stood, unassisted and unhurt, he registered the hand that was holding him back. He turned to see his son still locked onto his arm. Alan was maintaining a firm grip as if to prevent him from attempting any further attack. Stan ripped his arm free.

‘Why did it have to be Neil?’ he said, glaring accusingly at Alan. ‘Why couldn’t it have been you!’ Then he stormed from the room.

Kate and Alan looked at each other. Kate’s eyes registered the shock she felt that her father should say such a thing, but the exchange between brother and sister signalled a great deal more. Without sharing a single utterance, both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

‘He didn’t mean it, dear. He’s upset as you can see . . .’ Hilda tried desperately to reassure her son.

Alan gave a shrug as if he didn’t care, which wasn’t true. Despite the knowledge that Neil had always been his father’s favourite, the words had cut deeply. But his eyes remained locked with Kate’s. They were thinking of the diaries and the extraordinary fact that Big Jim had said the same thing in very much the same way over fifty years ago.

Jim told me last night that of all his three sons, he would rather have lost Bartholomew. ‘The wrong boys died at Gallipoli,’ he said, ‘why couldn’t it have been him?’ Shocking words, unforgiveable words, but at least he does not say them in Bartholomew’s presence – for that I am thankful.

It is grief speaking of course: Jim remains inconsolable. As indeed am I. Every day that passes is empty without my two beautiful boys. But I must continue to be strong as I have these past months, for it is my strength alone that will save Jim from the blackest of despair that threatens to destroy us all. And there is my darling Bartholomew, whom I must protect at all cost, and his dear wife, Mary, and their baby son. We still have a family, if only I can convince Jim of this. There is a reason to go on.

Big Jim Durham had been inordinately proud of his sons when they’d volunteered. And they’d done so without his bidding – they’d surprised him with the news. ‘We’re off to war, Dad,’ they’d announced, and Big Jim had been fit to burst. In his opinion every able-bodied man in the land should enlist.

‘I envy you lads,’ he’d said, ‘off to fight for King and Country as you are. What an honour, what an adventure, dear God, if they’d take a man in his fifties, I’d be going with you I swear.’

Bartholomew had also volunteered. All three brothers had ridden their horses into town and presented themselves at the recruitment centre that had been set up in Bundaberg. Recruitment centres had sprung into being in every country town throughout the land, and young men were queuing by the thousands. But as things had turned out, when it came to the physical Bartholomew had been found wanting. A weak heart, the army doctor had told him. He’d been a nice enough man in his brusque way. ‘Nothing to worry about unduly, son,’ he’d said, ‘but enough to make you ineligible, I’m afraid. Can’t have hearts that are going to conk out on us under the strain of battle now, can we.’

‘What a rotten thing to happen.’ Young George had been most sympathetic. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’

‘It was probably that bout of glandular fever you had when you were little, Bartholomew,’ big brother Edward had said; he too was sympathetic. ‘Not to worry,’ he’d added in an attempt to make amends for the injustice that had been served upon his brother, ‘someone has to stay here and protect the home front.’

The brothers had always been close, although sibling rivalry repeatedly raised its head between Edward, the eldest of the three, and George the youngest, both of whom were assertive by nature and fiercely competitive. Given the four-year age difference, Edward had been the uncontested leader during their childhood, George frustratingly mounting challenge after challenge only to lose, while Bartholomew, in the middle, had taken the position of peacemaker.

Things had not changed as they’d progressed to manhood – indeed the rivalry had become more intense. George had grown stronger and bigger and as the playing field had evened out Bartholomew’s peacemaking skills were regularly called upon. The balance had always been a good one and continued to be so.