by JH Fletcher
A view that the three of them, evidently, did not share.
‘Who gets Mindowie?’ Andrew asked.
‘That is none of your business.’
‘Land should stay in the family,’ Boyd said. It was an article of faith in the mid-north.
‘It would have done if I could have trusted you not to lose it or Andrew not to sell it but I couldn’t. I needn’t have told you,’ Ruth said. ‘I could have kept quiet and surprised you in my will. This seemed the more honest way to do it.’
Clearly they were unimpressed by her honesty. On the contrary they were furious, furious, but could do nothing. They left, bitter faces, bitter words. But would come round, Ruth hoped. Either way, it was done.
THIRTY-TWO
Boyd’s fingers picked at his bread. ‘I’m not going to put up with it.’
Sally had no patience with such talk. ‘What can you do?’
‘This is our home. Andrew’s heritage. You think I’m going to let her chuck us off?’
‘It’s her property. She can do what she likes.’
‘It’s not right. Land should stay in the family.’
Wearily she said, ‘You told her that already.’
‘And I’ll go on telling her until she sees reason.’
She knew he would do nothing. There were times when Sally wondered how she had ever come to marry such a no-hoper yet was ashamed of thinking such a thing. He was a kind man, a good man. It’s just that there’s no fire, she thought. No spark. He was an ordinary, decent bloke and that was the problem. Against high-fliers like Boyd’s mother and sister an ordinary, decent bloke stood no chance.
She was worried sick about Andrew. Not just about this business with the police although that was bad enough. About the sort of man he seemed to be. She would have died before admitting it but in her heart knew that Ruth had been right. Andrew was selfish, indifferent to anyone but himself. We must have brought him up wrong, she thought. She was willing to accept blame for that before she would acknowledge that the flaw might be in Andrew himself.
The publicity train rolled on. Interviews in the American press, now. And in Europe a Munich arts journal recalled how Frau Ballard had visited Bavaria after the success of her first book. There was talk of a combined edition of her works; the decision was put on hold pending the announcement from the Nobel Prize Committee.
In a television interview an ABC interviewer tried to tap her about her Nobel prospects. Smiling, cursing beneath the smile, Ruth fobbed her off. She had grown used to smiling. It was all so brash, so distasteful. So necessary.
‘I certainly hope it’s necessary,’ she confided to Hannah Browne. ‘It’s driving me up the wall. It had better produce the goods, that’s all.’
‘Home and hosed, sweetie,’ Hannah said. ‘Home and hosed.’
Ruth crossed her fingers, hoped Hannah was right. It would be unbearable to have done all this for nothing.
Barbara phoned the morning before she left for Stockholm.
‘They’re not announcing the winner until next week,’ Ruth objected.
‘There’ll be meetings, discussions. I want to be sure I can get in with my two cents’ worth.’
‘Will it really help?’
What Ruth really meant was, Won’t it put their backs up?
Consolingly Barbara said, ‘Promotion without publicity can’t be done, you know?’
Ruth supposed she was right.
She had a letter from Boyd, stiff and unfriendly, saying the family had decided to move to Coonalpyn. You may do whatever you like with the farm, he told her.
Ruth sighed at his tone. Boyd thought himself hard done by. He always had. She still believed he would come round eventually but in any case had neither the time nor patience to pander to Boyd’s sulks. She phoned David. ‘Boyd’s leaving Mindowie,’ she said. ‘I’ll need someone to share-farm it after he’s gone. The job’s yours, if you’d like it.’
‘Like it?’
David was over the moon and saw no reason to hide it. ‘That could make all the difference,’ he said.
He said nothing of Louise and Ruth respected him for it. We all need our secrets, she thought. I don’t trust people who keep saying they have nothing to hide. Take me. I’ve not told him I’ve left him Mindowie in my will nor shall I. Time enough for him to find that out after I’ve gone.
That evening when Franz returned from his walk he had surprised Louise talking on the phone. Her face had been alight with happiness, with life, and he had known at once whom she was talking to; knew, too, that he was going to lose her very soon. Her life lay ahead of her, it was right that she should go out and meet it yet the prospect appalled him.
For years he had prided himself on his self-sufficiency yet did not know how he would cope when Louise was gone. You will survive, he told himself firmly. He ignored the practical images: the washing to be done, the ironing, the never-ending upkeep of a house far too big for one person. He stood in his study, the door ajar, and smiled grimly at his reflection in the darkness of the window. It will keep me amused, he told himself. Or occupied, at least. But how much I wish it were unnecessary.
He thought of his wife of whom, in his stiff and inexpressive way, he had been fond. He had never been a man for passion, at least not where humans were concerned. When she had died so young he had been not so much desolate as indignant that life should have treated him so badly. At least he had still had Louise. She had grown from childhood to be an admirable substitute for her dead mother but now he had to face the fact that their time together was running out.
My best bet would be to give up now, he thought. To die. But knew he never would. The time was soon coming when the organism would stop but never through his own choice. I have always fought, he told himself, I shall fight to the end. And derived a familiar, arid pride from the thought.
He heard Louise put down the phone. He pushed the door open.
Louise was humming cheerfully as she crossed the room. Saw him watching her. The humming stopped.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘We have things to say to each other, I think.’
She did so, cautiously.
He looked at her, ash-coloured hair shining in the lamplight, the huge eyes that had always seemed to him so vulnerable. Not so vulnerable now.
‘You’re thinking of leaving, aren’t you?’
She turned deliberately in her chair. Looked around the room. At the desk. The window with its curtains still open to the night. The years accumulated within the structure of this house. She looked back at him with a trace of defiance in her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said.
The room’s only light came from the lamp upon the desk. The shadow fell across her father’s face so that she could not see his expression. When he spoke his voice came to her out of darkness. ‘It is right that you should,’ he said.
She had not expected him to acquiesce so easily. She had envisaged angry words, had steeled herself to bear them, to hammer her way through his opposition. This conversation would be impossible if he was going to be so nice about things.
‘David Clark,’ he said.
‘I love him,’ she offered forlornly.
‘You do not know him.’
But she did. In her heart, her soul, she knew him. Had always known him. She said nothing.
He sighed, gestured at the room around them. ‘I want you to remember that this house will always be your home.’
‘Will you keep it?’
His lips tightened. Such a question showed how in spirit she had already left him. ‘I might.’
‘You can always get someone to help with the housework,’ she suggested.
My house? he thought. My memories? Never. ‘Of course,’ he said.
She could have handled anger; pain was a lot harder to bear. She closed her eyes. I will not feel guilty, she told herself. I will not.
‘I am concerned for you,’ he said. ‘If things go wrong —’
‘They won’t.’
&nbs
p; ‘Nevertheless —’
‘I must go,’ she interrupted. ‘All right?’
No, he thought, it is not all right. It is not only your life. I am involved, too. ‘I ask myself what I have done wrong —’
‘Nothing!’ she screamed, putting her hands over her ears. ‘You’ve done nothing!’
‘Then —’
‘I have to go, that’s all.’ Please, she thought. Accept it. ‘I HAVE TO GO.’ She looked at him, appeal naked in her eyes.
‘Very well.’ He came towards her. The light fell upon his face. Once again she saw how old he was. More than old; resigned. He touched her cheek gently with the back of his hand. ‘Of course you must go,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked, worried.
‘I am fine. Fine,’ he repeated as though to reassure himself. The faint accent, that all her life had meant her father’s voice, now grated. Even that had been part of the deception. She wanted to tell him to stop using it, that it was no longer necessary, but could not for fear of hurting him. Besides, she was not sure she wanted to hear her father’s new — or old — voice. It would be one more change on top of all the rest and she suspected she would be unable to bear it.
‘Leave me now,’ he said.
He stayed in his study, silently, for the rest of the evening.
At ten o’clock she tapped on the door. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Sleep well.’
She wondered whether she should go in, see if there were some way she could comfort him, but decided against it. He had made it plain that what he wanted now above all things was to be left alone.
She brushed her hair and teeth, went into her bedroom and closed the door. She took off her clothes, drew her nightie over her head. She did everything methodically, using routine to protect her from the uncertainty that had become so sudden and unwelcome a part of her life. She put out the light, lay watching the darkness, feeling her father’s wakeful presence in the silent house. She felt his pain so intensely that she could hardly bear it. What had Ruth said? You must live your own life. But how could she? I cannot betray him now, of all times, she thought.
She could sense the house around her. This house will always be your home, he had said. He was right; it was home, the receptacle containing all her life to this point. Part of her mind did not want her to leave but she must, she had a life of her own to lead, as Ruth had said. Such a glorious future with David … Yet she didn’t want to hurt Dad, either.
She remembered Ruth and Ruth’s wonderful house, the sandy beach, the sun-bright sea. Their arrival, that first day, the strangers’ eyes staring at them. She had not wanted to be there — suspected that Dad himself had not wanted it although he had arranged it — and the watching faces, the lull in the conversation as all attention had focused on the newcomers, had driven her close to panic. Ruth had come and held her hands and told her she was welcome, which had helped a little, and she had met David, which had helped a lot.
She lay in bed, remembering.
He had been kind and funny and above all interested in her. She had watched his sturdy hands as he ate, the big brown arms, the smooth neck as he swallowed his beer, and had felt faint with desire for this man she did not know. After lunch they had fooled around in the surf and talked about a hundred things, about nothing, and the feeling had intensified. She had seen as much of him as she could but in no time at all the holiday had been over and she and her father had gone back to Brisbane. She had begun to wonder whether she had imagined it all. Until, miraculously, David had phoned and she had made up her mind to get back to South Australia as soon as she could. Even the discovery of her father’s background had not deterred her. Ruth’s initial refusal, so hurtful and unexpected, had turned out right in the end. She had met David again, as they had planned; as soon as she saw him had known he was right for her and that he felt the same.
That first day Ruth had left them, so diplomatically, to get on with things and they had. They had driven down the peninsula to a deserted beach, had grabbed some takeaways and coke from a cafe. They had sat on the sand and watched the water. She had wanted him so much that she could barely eat. Then he had made love to her and it had been as wonderful as she had hoped. Afterwards there had been no thought in her mind for anything or anyone but David.
She had returned to Brisbane, stunned with happiness, and the sight of her father had awoken all her doubts. David wanted her in South Australia, she wanted to be there, yet how could she abandon her father in his old age? Especially knowing what she knew now? He will think I have rejected him because of that, she thought.
On the phone tonight David had proposed to her. She should have been deliriously happy yet still, after this evening’s conversation with her father, she doubted. I want to shout it from the rooftops, she thought, yet I did not even tell him.
It didn’t matter what Ruth said. She, Louise, had to live with her own decisions. How could she hope for happiness with David if she turned her back on her own father at the moment of his greatest need?
Franz sat alone in his study. The room was peopled with memories. The dream of a tower and a tree, of rock paintings, a land like a dun and ochre sea. His first view of Germany, the years at University. A swastika glowing in a shadowed room. The rejection in Ruth’s face.
What do I do now? he wondered.
His whole life had been a nightmare of wrong turnings, of opportunities missed. So many of those he had cared for, or might have cared for had he permitted himself to do so, were gone. Irma, who had died in Germany during the war. Heini’s sister whose name he could not remember. Marie, the French girl he had known during the Occupation. Lotte, in Mittelwald, who had wept when he had left. I could have been happy with any of them, he thought. Yet the future always drew me away. Now I am alone. Ruth is the only one left who knew me before, who knows me now. Perhaps that is our destiny. Perhaps Ruth and I are destined for each other, after all.
Roberta had just walked into her office when Donald phoned. She had come from a meeting with several financiers interested in discussing the incentives she was proposing as a means of drawing new business to South Australia. In three minutes time she had a meeting with her top political adviser. Life was such a rush that she had to think for a moment before remembering who Donald was.
‘Hullo?’
‘I’ll be in the Far East next month,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if there was any chance of your joining me?’
Roberta looked around her room. At the photograph of the Queen on one wall. The flags of State and Commonwealth. Flowers: fresh, nowadays. At the trappings of office that already formed such a natural part of her life. She looked beyond the room at everything waiting to be done. A thousand challenges, a thousand opportunities. Jobs to be found. Investment to be encouraged. Overseas entrepreneurs to be wooed. The incentives to bring them here. The future filled her with excitement and resolution. I shall place my mark upon this State, she thought. I shall make it a showplace of what is possible. With work. With leadership.
Donald, too, was an entrepreneur but had not phoned her to discuss incentives.
She said, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I see.’
From his tone she knew he was not surprised.
‘I think we’ve come to the end of the road,’ she told him. She had made up her mind days ago yet was surprised how easy it was to break the news.
‘Is one permitted to ask why?’ His voice was icy. Whatever he might have suspected he was displeased, used to getting his own way in all things. I wonder how many other women he’s got scattered about the globe? she thought.
‘You know why.’
‘Too high and mighty, are we?’
She sighed, hoping he was not going to be difficult.
‘You’re not married,’ he said.
‘But you are. It’s no use, my dear. I’m not a free agent any longer.’
‘I supp
ose the voters wouldn’t like it,’ he said sarcastically.
‘I don’t want to quarrel with you,’ she told him. ‘That would be a shame. We had such good times together. Let’s not spoil them now.’
‘If they were such good times —’
‘You know they were. But it’s impossible now. You know that as well as I do.’
‘I still don’t see —’
‘Goodbye, Donald.’
She put the phone down. Sat waiting to see how she would feel now she had done it. Sad? Perhaps a little, yet the overwhelming sensation was one of relief. It had been necessary and now she had done it, with less anguish or aggravation than she had dared hope.
Power was like sex, she remembered, and grinned ruefully. Just as well. It didn’t look like she’d be getting much of the other for a while. The things we do, she thought.
She lifted the phone. ‘Ask Anthony to come in,’ she said.
‘I can’t come.’ Louise spoke firmly into the telephone. ‘It would be selfish of me to abandon him.’
‘No one’s saying you should abandon him. But we have a life to lead, too.’
‘He needs me.’
David was determined but knew when not to argue. ‘You must make up your own mind. I love you. I want you here. I want to marry you. But it takes two. You must decide how important I am to you.’
‘You are important,’ she wept, ‘but I can’t.’
He was not in the business of making her decision any easier for her. ‘You must make up your own mind,’ he repeated.
She wanted to ask him to wait for her but did not dare, afraid of what his answer might be.
Ruth was watching the sea when Louise phoned, surprising her. Her first thought: something has gone wrong.
‘How’s your father?’
‘I’d hoped he was coming to terms with things but now something else has happened.’