Bittersweet

by Colleen McCullough

  The sliding door onto the corridor opened, a head poked in, then the door opened fully to admit a man.

  “Oh, good!” he said, making for the other window seat.

  Kitty lifted her head. “This is a non-smoking compartment,” she said in freezing tones.

  “I can read,” he said, pointing, then looked at her and stared in open rudeness. “Marion Davies!” he exclaimed.

  “Piss off, you presumptuous little twirp!” Kitty snapped. “If you insist on coming in here, don’t you dare sit opposite me! Take a seat at the corridor end, keep your remarks to yourself, and leave me a little privacy. Otherwise I’ll call the conductor.”

  A shrug; he threw his case up onto the overhead rack and sat down at the corridor end, but facing her. Deprived of a window, he looked at the NSWGR antimacassars shielding the velvet squabs.

  Kitty returned to her book. Underneath her icy composure she was seething. How dared he! A dapper little chap, not above five feet four inches tall, wearing a pin-striped navy-blue suit complete with waistcoat, gold watch, fob and chain; a magnificent cabochon ruby ring adorned his left hand, another ruby was stuck in what looked like an old school tie, and his cuff links each bore a ruby. His feet, she noted in tickled delight, were sheathed in hand-made shoes that bore distinct heels — he was extremely conscious of his diminutive size, then. I’ll bet he struts like a bantam rooster, she thought, assimilating all of this with her unusually acute peripheral vision, the gift of three years as a nurse trained to see almost around corners. He has a Napoleon complex, or so the alienists are calling it, and doesn’t he love to strut, the little poseur?

  His hair was thick, wiry and curling, a genuine guinea-gold colour also present in his brows and lashes, though as yet Kitty had no idea what colour his eyes were, beyond some shade around tawny. Darkish skin that was already tanned, an extremely close shave, and a face she was obliged to admit she thought fascinating, though not because it awed or attracted her. Simply, it didn’t seem to know whether it was ugly or handsome, and changed while you looked at it. One visage had film star properties, as beautiful as the extras who adorned a film’s background crowds and eclipsed the leading man. Had he been taller and owned this face alone, he might have been a king or a president or the leader of a religious sect. As it was, his second visage negated any hope of being freely gifted with the world. This face belonged to a gargoyle or perhaps a castrated satyr; ugly and twisted, it had the power to turn the film star features into a sinister map as hard as heartless.

  Whoever this man is, he frightens me, Kitty thought, her book unable to compete with such an authentic out-of-the-pages-of-history character. Yes, he was going to matter, if for no other reason than he’d die in the trying. Judging by the rubies, the gold and the hand tailoring, a rich man — he’d be getting off in Corunda because those were Corunda pigeon’s-blood rubies, the world’s most coveted and expensive. And with that dipped-in-a-crucible-of-gold look to him, he’s a Burdum.

  The penny dropped; with a great effort Kitty kept her eyes on her book and her breathing regular. Unless she was mistaken, this was Dr. Charles Henry Burdum, late of the Manchester Royal Infirmary, and going to Corunda to become superintendent of the hospital. Small fry! He could go to Bart’s or the Middlesex or Guy’s, so what has brought him to a place he doesn’t know from a bar of soap? He’s a Pommy, not an Australian, and I never saw a man less suited for Australian life. A wee bantam rooster…

  After that initial exchange the three hours passed without a word; as was his wont, Sid the conductor arrived with five minutes to spare, took Kitty’s suitcase down and carried it along the corridor to the carriage door, where he waited, yarning to Kitty, whom he knew from many train trips. The dapper stranger was forced to carry his own bag and stand behind them as the two big locomotives pulled in, groaning and clanking, to stop at the station. Edda was there to meet her, talking to old Tom Burdum.

  “Where did you get that dress?” Edda demanded, with no eyes for the man as Tom Burdum left her to hobble forward.

  “Mark Foy’s. I found a gorgeous one for you, snake lady.” Kitty tucked a hand through her sister’s arm and led her away. “Turn back and take a squizzy at the chap old Tom is meeting.”

  “Jeeeeesus! What a Little Lord Fauntleroy!”

  “Bang on, Edda. I can’t be absolutely sure, but I’m willing to place a hefty bet that he’s Dr. Charles Burdum, therefore the new superintendent.”

  “Corunda hasn’t been told a new one’s been appointed yet.”

  “Then perhaps he’s come to inspect the place, with a view to declining.” Kitty skipped. “We shared a compartment and I had to put him in his place.”

  “Oh! Did he actually put the hard word on you, Kits?”

  “No. He called me Marion Davies.”

  “That’s worse. Your reply was salty — or worse.”

  “Just salty as the Dead Sea. Pickled in brine! I told him to piss off. We rode the rest of the way in frigid silence.”

  Edda had turned and was blatantly staring at the newcomer. “Well, he’s a Burdum, and he’s more conceited than Lucifer. What a face! Like Janus.”

  “Yes, poor chap.”

  “You feel sorry for him?” Edda asked incredulously.

  “Very. Look at his hand-made shoes, dear. Two-inch heels. He’s a living, breathing Napoleon complex. Gifted with everything except the height no man can bear to be without.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.” Edda brightened. “Still, if he does decide to take the job, he’ll probably settle down after the worst is over. So he doesn’t know you’re a nurse?”

  “He has no idea.”

  “What fun when he finds out!”

  If Charles Burdum had been a shock to Kitty, it was as nothing compared to his effect on old Tom Burdum, who had been waiting ninety-five years for the appearance of a permanent heir. He had gone to the station expecting to meet someone who looked like Jack Thurlow; instead, he found a lordly midget whose suit had been tailored in Savile Row and shirt made by Turnbull & Asser. With a Balliol tie, no less! Though that Tom only discovered because he asked, expecting a joking answer. But not from this fellow, who oozed self-confidence, walked as if he had a poker rammed up his arse (so Tom told Jack later), and was very put out because the train conductor hadn’t lifted down and carried his suitcase.

  “In Australia, conductors don’t,” said Tom, not knowing how else to disillusion him. “In Australia, no one waits on you.”

  “He was quick enough to carry the little madam’s case!” Charles Burdum said in a clipped, not quite pear-shaped accent.

  “Who, Kitty Latimer?” Old Tom chuckled. “A man would have to be dead not to want to carry Kitty’s case.”

  “She told me to piss off — not the language of a lady.”

  “Tch! I’m sure you deserved it, Charlie.”

  “Don’t call me Charlie, my name is Charles.”

  “If you stay in Corunda, it’ll be Charlie. Or Chikker.”

  “What?”

  “No airs and graces in this part of the world, grandson. I speak because someone has to, and I’d rather it were me than, for instance, your cousin Jack Thurlow. He’s my other heir, except that he doesn’t want to be the heir. You’ll inherit the title of leading light in Corunda — if you go about it the right way,” old Tom said, bidding a man load three suitcases into the back of his Daimler. “Do you have more luggage in the guard’s van? Yes? Then give the tickets to Merv here and he’ll collect and deliver them for you.” He waited while Charles found his luggage tags and handed them over, together with a five-pound note that had the man gobbling. “Tch!” said old Tom. “That was silly, Charlie! Never tip a man earning wages. I pay Merv well enough not to need tips. Now you’ve made him discontented with a very fair wage, all because where you come from, he wouldn’t earn a very fair wage, and would depend on tips to eke it out. Lesson number one.”

  They settled in the open Daimler Tonneau, its canopy folded. “As Hannah, my wif
e, is also in her nineties, we haven’t put you up at our property, Burdumbo. You’re at the Grand Hotel on Ferguson Street — a hop, skip and jump from the hospital as well as George Street, which isn’t a bad shopping centre — even has a department store. Though be warned! If you want a really decent feed, go to the Olympus or the Parthenon. They’re both run by Greeks, and there’s nothing in it for quality — superb steaks!”

  Old Tom rambled on as the big car, buffeted by a sharp wind, drove through a landscape that resembled an extremely untidy rural England — no neat barnyard complexes but plenty of tumbledown sheds, no stone fences but barbed wire strung between ugly posts, rounded hills crowned not with coppices but clumps of granite boulders. It was not the scorching semi-desert of his imaginings, but it wasn’t Europe either, even Greece or Majorca.

  People were staring at him, though not in admiration. Some grinned openly, most just looked interested, the way they would at a zebra or giraffe. His great intelligence informed him this was chiefly because of his dress. A few locals did wear three-piece suits, but shabby and years out of date. Most, including old Tom, favoured moleskin trousers, a shirt and tweed jacket, elastic-sided riding boots and low-crowned, broad-brimmed felt hat. The women wore ghastly early-twenties, unfashionable clothes, while some, he noted in horrified fascination, actually strolled around town in men’s riding gear, right down to the elastic-sided boots and the broad-brimmed hat — and nobody seemed to think them peculiar! So where were the women like that ravishing girl on the train and the girl who met her? They had been dressed in the height of the mode! But his extensive tour revealed no women like them. Well, they had not been figments of his imagination, they did exist in this benighted town somewhere.

  He was being shown everything, and had now reached the public buildings on Victoria Street, which ran parallel to George one block over. Town hall, municipal services, the hospital, St. Mark’s Church of England and Rectory — oh, would it never end?

  Then his hotel finally appeared, one of those frightful Bournemouth or Bognor establishments constructed for the lower middle class who had saved all year to enjoy a week’s seaside holiday. Inside the Grand were rather inexpertly painted red columns, plush red wallpaper, wooden floors that echoed around immensely high ceilings, a dining room wherein he’d bet all soups tasted of potato and all meats of old fowl. Dear God! 11,000 miles for this?

  Well, he knew why, but old Tom Burdum didn’t — nor would he. Of course he had no idea that Corunda contained people of Maude’s calibre, so thought the sly grins everyone gave him were due to his hand-tailored, dandified clothes. If he had been aware that all Corunda knew of Sybil the duke’s daughter from before he arrived, he would have fled screaming, and Corunda would never have known him.

  Toward the end of August 1929, when he did arrive in Corunda, Charles Burdum still hurt so badly that he was convinced no worse pain would ever be visited upon him. Though his smiles were broad and his manner cheerful, they hid a damaged soul. His old ambitions were dead; all he had salvaged were material possessions.

  His love for Sybil had been genuine, as was her love for him. It hadn’t occurred to either of them that the duke might think a Charles Burdum wasn’t good enough to marry his daughter, but when Charles applied for her hand in marriage, so it turned out. Sybil would go to a husband with ancestors worthy of an eighth duke’s line; money and brains were insufficient, especially in a man so appallingly short in stature. The interview with the duke over, Charles was hideously conscious that of all the hurts it had produced, the one about his height had galled the most. Naturally he knew the identity of Sybil’s ducally approved husband — six feet three inches tall — and blamed his failure on his lack of stature. If one found the right genealogical researchers, one could prove descent from William the Conqueror and Harold Godwineson.

  His self-image shattered, his ego so mauled that he couldn’t bear to see all those smirking faces, Charles buried himself in Manchester’s illnesses. When that didn’t work, he bit the bullet and spent time in the City of London dealing with his fortune, then fled England. Not good enough, eh? Well, there was another place where he could make a splash — admittedly a smaller puddle, but he’d be a much bigger frog, and that appealed strongly to a very small man. Prime Minister — now that was a prize worth going after, even if it were only a colonial prime ministership. Canada hadn’t beckoned; his French was nonexistent, and Canada was so cold. Whereas in New South Wales he owned land, mineral wealth, family — why, he’d be Prime Minister of Australia in no time!

  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?”