Elianne (53 page)

‘Well that makes the offer irresistible,’ Kate replied, ‘I would naturally intend to obliterate myself.’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘I want you to spend time with us, Kate. We both do, Paola and me. You don’t have to stay locked out here at Elianne – come into town and see us.’

‘Thanks, Al, I will.’

New Year’s Eve proved most enjoyable and over the week that followed Kate took Alan up on his offer, regularly driving into Bundaberg to spend time with him and Paola. Not wishing to disappoint her mother, she had resigned herself to staying on at Elianne until mid-January as planned, but she was thankful to escape The Big House, which had become increasingly oppressive, even prison-like, its atmosphere tense and laden with things unspoken. She missed Frank and longed to be in Sydney with him, sharing the freedom of their existence.

How strange, Kate thought. Elianne’s vast landscape and grand house and clear, unpolluted air had always embodied to her the very essence of freedom and yet here she was longing for the grubby city with its lines of poky little terraces. Prison came in many forms, she supposed.

She spoke regularly to Frank. Each telephoned often simply in order to hear the other’s voice. He missed her as much as she did him.

‘Happy 1970,’ he said when he phoned several days into the New Year. They exchanged New Year greetings and then he asked, very casually, ‘Said anything to your dad yet?’ It was the first time he’d made the enquiry, being careful not to nag her.

Gentle though his query was, Kate was nonetheless confronted. ‘No,’ she said guiltily, ‘somehow I haven’t been able to find the right –’

‘Don’t worry, Kate,’ he assured her. ‘Like I said at the airport, you’ll know when the time’s right, don’t worry.’ Frank resolved not to ask the question again. ‘Now tell me what you got up to on New Year’s Eve.’

Things came to a head in the second week of January, just when Kate was finally starting to count the days.

‘G’day, Stan, haven’t seen you for a while.’

It was a Wednesday afternoon. Stan had gone into Bundy to buy some supplies and had stopped off at the Burnett Club for a beer on the way home.

‘Hello, Albert,’ he said, reluctantly joining the man lounging at the bar near the door; Albert wasn’t his favourite of the Club’s members. ‘No I haven’t been around, been a bit busy lately.’ He’d avoided the club since early December; he’d got heartily sick of the constant references to his son’s impending wedding.

‘Heard the wedding went well,’ Albert said. Albert wouldn’t step foot inside a Catholic Church himself, but that hadn’t prevented his son, an Apex mate of Alan’s, going. ‘Craig reckoned the reception was a real beauty.’

‘So I believe.’ Stan gritted his teeth and signalled the barman, who was serving a group at the far end of the bar. He’d grab a beer and find someone else to talk to, Albert Atherton got on his nerves at the best of times. He was a fussy old fart who gossiped like a woman.

‘Heard Kate had a bloke from Sydney in tow,’ Albert said, ‘fella called Frank Madigan. A friend of hers, is he?’

Stan resisted the urge to say, What bloody business is it of yours, you nosy prick?, but his irritation showed nonetheless. ‘If she had him in tow he’d obviously be a friend of hers, wouldn’t he?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, of course he would.’ Albert was quick to back down. It wasn’t wise to antagonise Stanley Durham. ‘I was just a bit surprised, that’s all. Hadn’t thought he’d be the sort of bloke you’d want Kate hanging around with.’

‘Oh? And why would you think that, Albert?’ The stupid old fart’s determined to dig a hole for himself, Stan thought, I’ll deck him any minute.

‘Well, you know . . .’ Albert hesitated as if trying to find a delicate way of putting it ‘. . . him being a half-caste and all that.’

‘A what?’ Stan looked at the man as if he was mad.

Albert Atherton was pleased to discover he was right. He’d been sure that Stan couldn’t possibly know, and it was only proper he should be told, a person of Stanley Durham’s standing certainly wouldn’t want his daughter going around with a boong.

‘Oh yes, he’s an Abo all right.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? The man’s as white as you and me.’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what Craig said, he reckons you’d never know.’

‘You’re spouting a load of rubbish, Albert.’ Stan ignored him and looked about the bar for whoever else he might gravitate to when his beer arrived. ‘For your information, the bloke’s parents are bloody Irish.’

‘One of them may well be,’ Albert’s tone held an irritating edge of superiority, ‘but it doesn’t stop him being some sort of half-caste throwback, does it? He’s an Aboriginal activist, that’s what Craig told me.’

The barman had arrived to take his order, but Stan waved him away. The words ‘Aboriginal activist’ held a ring of truth. Propping against the bar, he turned to Albert, his full focus trained upon the man. ‘And how exactly would Craig come to know this fact?’

Albert basked in the knowledge that he now had Stanley Durham’s undivided attention. ‘It was back in 1967,’ he explained, prepared to make a meal of the story, ‘when Craig was in Sydney playing for the South Sydney Rabbitohs . . .’ Albert Atherton boasted endlessly to all and sundry about his youngest son, a talented rugby league player who’d been signed up by South Sydney, but this time he didn’t get very far.

‘Craig didn’t play for the side at all,’ Stan barked, ‘he played in the reserves for a year and then they dumped him. Get to the bloody point.’

How rude, Albert thought, rude and ungrateful. He was offering valuable information that could only serve Stanley Durham’s best interests and the man chose to insult him. ‘There was a national referendum on Aboriginal rights that year,’ he said waspishly.

Stan nodded. ‘1967, that’s right.’ The referendum to which Kate had been so committed, he recalled. Albert once again had his full attention. ‘Go on.’

‘Frank Madigan was a high-profile campaigner on the referendum,’ Albert continued, his tone peevish, ‘there was an article about him in the Sydney newspaper and a picture of him with another black activist Charlie Perkins. Craig said Madigan was quite famous at the time.’

Albert had intended to elaborate a great deal further about his son’s surprise upon seeing Frank Madigan at the wedding with Kate, but still piqued, he stopped there.

‘I see.’ Irritating though the garrulous old fart was, he’d proved useful, Stan thought; the facts certainly rang true. ‘Well, I must thank you, Albert,’ he said. ‘I’m most grateful for this piece of information.’

Albert, pride salved, was instantly mollified and forgave the insult. ‘Yes I thought you would be, Stan. I naturally considered it my duty to let you know. I mean you wouldn’t want to see Kate take up with a man like that, would you?’

A dark cloud passed over Stanley Durham’s face and Albert once again beat a hasty retreat. ‘Oh not that I’m insinuating anything of course, the relationship is quite innocent I’m sure, but even as a friend –’

‘The relationship is most certainly innocent, Albert, my daughter does not “take up” with men, be they black, white or brindle.’ Stan ceased to prop against the bar and, drawing himself to full height, towered threateningly over Albert Atherton. ‘I’ll tell you something else you should know about my daughter, Albert. She’s an extremely intelligent, highly qualified young woman devoted to her academic studies and to the many social justice causes she embraces as an activist, particularly the issue of Aboriginal rights. It is only natural she should form an alliance with a man like Frank Madigan. Kate has my full support and I’m proud of her. I’m proud of her stand for human rights and I’m proud to be her father.’

Stan was aware that his speech in his daughter’s defence contained an element of double standards, if not an outright lie. He was indeed proud of Kate, but he’d never supported her causes. In fact he’d been scathing of her activism on many an occasion, but he would not have his daughter maligned by the likes of Albert Atherton.

Good heavens, Albert thought, he’d obviously misread Stanley Durham – the man appeared to have extremely liberal views. Albert did not at all approve, as he was sure most wouldn’t, but he didn’t dare say anything.

Stan leant down, his face close to Albert’s, his eyes glittering dangerously.

‘So you feel free to chatter all you like about Kate and Frank Madigan, Albert, as I have no doubt you will,’ he said, his voice low and menacing. ‘But get your facts right, mate, because if I hear the slightest smutty innuendo your life won’t be worth living.’

Albert made an attempt to stammer his assurance, but in vain. Stan the Man was already striding out of the bar.

‘What’s going on between you and this bloody half-caste?!’

Stan’s approach was altogether different forty minutes later when he confronted his daughter. He’d sought her out as soon as he’d arrived back at The Big House and called her into his study.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Kate replied coldly. She’d known there was going to be a showdown the moment she’d seen him.

‘You know bloody well what I mean: you and your Abo mate, Frank bloody Madigan. Why didn’t you tell me he was a half-caste?’

They stood facing each other across his desk, their eyes locked like combatants about to do battle.

‘He is not a half-caste,’ she said scathingly. ‘His grandmother was a Wiradjuri woman.’

‘That makes him a bloody half-caste in my book. So what’s going on between you?’

Kate refused to lose her temper, attempting to reason instead. ‘Since when did you become such a racist, Dad?’ she asked, her tone not aggressive but genuinely seeking contact. ‘You have Kanaka friends here at Elianne. You’ve always been proud of your relationship with your black workers. Why do you feel the need to degrade Frank?’

‘You’re buying time, Kate, and you know it. Tell me the truth. Are you two having an affair?’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t flinch for one second. ‘Frank and I love each other as much as I believe it’s humanly possible to love.’ From his stunned reaction she might just as well have struck him a physical blow. ‘And I’m afraid there’s not one thing you can do about it, Dad,’ she said, again without aggression, simply stating her case. ‘You can disown me as you have Alan if that’s what you want, but I promise it won’t make a shred of difference.’

He stared back at her and she met his gaze directly, expecting him to fight on, but he didn’t. He sank into his chair instead.

‘What’s happening to this family?’ he said shaking his head, bewildered. ‘Everything’s falling apart . . . things are not as they should be . . . not as they were ever intended to be.’

He appeared to be talking to himself as much as to her, and he looked so lost that Kate felt a rush of sympathy.

‘Times have changed, Dad.’ She sat in the chair opposite and leant forward hands on the desk, still trying as best she could to make some form of connection. ‘You’re right, things are not as they were, but they’re not meant to be. Times are changing more as each year passes. The post-war immigration, the breakdown of the White Australia Policy, the Vietnam War – we’re not the isolated country we once were. People are becoming more tolerant.’

‘Not this tolerant,’ Stan continued to shake his head helplessly. ‘They haven’t become this tolerant, Kate. I mean you and Frank . . .’ He halted as if further words were unnecessary.

‘You liked him. You liked him a lot.’

‘I did, yes I did. But he’s black.’

Now was the right moment, Kate realised. Frank himself seemed to be pointing the way. She could hear his voice; he might as well have been in the room, right beside her.

She stood. ‘There’s something I have to show you, Dad. Don’t go away.’

Stan had no intention of going away, he had no intention of doing anything, and when his daughter returned five minutes later with an armload of paperwork he was still staring blankly into space.

Along with the folders containing her typewritten translations Kate had also brought one of the original ledgers, and circling the desk she placed it before her father. It was the last of Ellie’s diaries, the one that was only half filled before Ellie had put down her pen, never to write again. The rest of the ledgers Kate had left in the suitcase under her bed, where they’d remained since she’d brought them home to show Alan.

She placed the stack of folders on the desk too, all but the final one, which she retained, and then she opened the ledger.

‘I found over a dozen of these under Elianne House before it was destroyed,’ she said. ‘They’re Grandmother Ellie’s diaries, or rather her scribblings, as she preferred to call them; this is the last one.’

Stan looked down at the open page, which was utterly unintelligible to him. ‘It’s written in French,’ he said.

‘Yes. I spent nearly two years on the translations.’ She tapped the pile of folders. ‘You need to read them in their entirety, Dad, but start with this one.’ She picked the ledger up from the table, tucked it under her arm, and replaced it with the final folder.

‘Why?’ A touch of the old belligerence returned. ‘Why should I?’

‘In order to learn the truth.’

‘What truth?’

‘The brooding Durham look that Marmee’s always been so proud of, Dad,
that
truth. You and Frank have more in common than you think.’

Stan gazed blankly up at her.

‘Look at your eyes, look at your skin and your hair,’ she said. ‘Look at the eyes and the skin of your sons, look at me. I may have the eyes of Grandmother Ellie, but look at my skin. I never burn from the sun, my tan never fades.’ Kate smiled to soften the blow. ‘We all have black blood in us, Dad.’

‘What the hell is this bullshit?’ Stan countered angrily. ‘What kind of cock and bull nonsense are you trying to tell me?’

‘I’m trying to tell you that your father was the son of an islander.’

He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘I’m saying your grandfather was a Kanaka, Dad. A man of New Hebridean and French blood called Pavi Salet.’ Kate opened the folder. ‘Read for yourself,’ she said and left the room.

I have determined this will be the last of my scribblings. At sixty years of age it is tiring living a lie while recording the truth – much easier to give oneself over wholeheartedly to the lie, I feel. However, I cannot leave off without recording my final confession. If there were someone in whom I could confide I most certainly would, for I long to share the burden. But I dare not. In the absence of a confidant, I am therefore compelled to confess to myself.