by Nunn, Judy
‘Holt’s LBJ quote and war policy haven’t gone down too well with many, I agree, Dad,’ she calmly admitted, ‘but the man’s done a lot for this country in other areas. The Migration Act 1966 introduced immigration reform that’s all but dismantled the White Australia Policy. I consider that a splendid achievement on the Holt Liberal Government’s part.’
Stan was momentarily caught out. He hadn’t expected the debate to take this direction and in the brief pause that followed Neil and Alan exchanged a quiet smile that said here they go again.
‘And the decision to increase access to non-European migrants will include refugees fleeing the Vietnam War,’ Kate continued. ‘I hardly call that the action of a warmonger. Rather one of a humanitarian, wouldn’t you say?’
Stan glared at his daughter. He was fiercely proud of Kate and would boast of her achievements to all and sundry, but when she turned her intellect upon him, and particularly in this superior manner, it infuriated him. Smartarse little bitch, he thought.
Kate knew exactly how infuriating she was being and was thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘Under the new law, applications for non-European migration will be accepted from those considered of value to the country,’ she said, ‘and I believe a certain number of “temporary resident” non-Europeans will be eligible to apply for permanent residency and citizenship after just five years. That’s exactly the same rule that applies to Europeans,’ she concluded. Then she sat back and waited for the inevitable reaction.
‘We don’t need any more bloody Asians in this country,’ Stan snarled, ‘and we sure as hell don’t need them to become citizens. They’re not Australians, for Christ’s sake, they never will be! Look at the trouble we had in the old days – there was no keeping the bastards out! They overran the bloody place and they’ll do it again.’ Stan the Man was becoming more worked up by the second. ‘You should have heard Big Jim on the subject and he was damn well right. It was because of the bloody Chinese that they brought in the White Australia Policy in the first place. And what happened to us then, eh? You tell me that, girl. What happened to us then? We lost our Kanaka labour, that’s what happened.’
‘All right, Dad, all right.’ Kate had made her point and was quite prepared to call a truce. ‘I’m just saying times have changed, that’s all.’
But Stan didn’t want a truce; Stan wanted a fight to the finish. ‘And what about the Japs, eh, we’re supposed to welcome them in with open arms now too, are we? The yellow bloody peril! Over my dead body, girl, I’m telling you, over my dead body!’ His explosion was final, and he glared at his daughter, defying her to offer a retaliatory response. She did not.
‘Hey, Grandpa, do you want some more ham?’ Alan slid the platter across to his grandfather, who as usual appeared to have disappeared into some other place altogether.
‘May I have another drop of champagne, Stanley dear?’ Hilda also came to the rescue and, although Stan glowered as he poured his wife’s wine, any further discussion on the subject was dropped.
It was evident to all that Stan, despite his tirade, had come off second best, but Kate didn’t feel particularly victorious and the smile she tendered her father, while not apologetic, was a peace offering. She had not intended to arouse his personal ire to such a degree. Stan the Man was a product of his time and a Second World War veteran. His views were understandable. Many of his era felt the same way.
Friction between father and daughter had been predictably volatile and conversation was quick to revert to the mundane as it usually did, but Kate didn’t join in. She found herself reflecting instead on circumstances that now appeared to her rather surreal. She recalled how she’d arrived home at Elianne on 17 December, the very day the prime minister had disappeared. And how just the previous week in Sydney, only several days before that fateful Saturday, she’d discussed Harold Holt at great length with Frank Madigan, whom she’d not seen for months. Their conversation had been vigorous. They’d sat out in the back tea room of Frank’s shop, just the two of them, talking about the Migration Act and the changes it had brought to bear upon the White Australia Policy. She remembered how fervently they’d agreed that the Act would usher in a new age for a nation built upon ignorance and fear, and how they’d been so congratulatory of Holt and his foresight. It seemed strangely unreal now to think that the leader of their country, the very man about whom she and Frank had spoken with such passion, had disappeared without a trace from the face of the Earth . . .
‘Would you like some more champagne, dear?’
She was jolted back to the present by Hilda’s offer, which was really a discreet reminder that she should join in the social chat now things were back on an even keel before her state of distraction, which was obvious, proved an annoyance to her father.
‘Yes please.’ Even as she took her mother’s hint Kate couldn’t help but wonder briefly whether she’d been more distracted by her thoughts of Harold Holt or of Frank Madigan. ‘That would be lovely, thank you, Marmee.’
The day progressed as Christmas Days always did at Elianne. The elder Durhams retired to their various areas of the house while the younger members, when sufficiently recovered from the feast, donned bathing costumes and sandshoes and raced each other to the main dam. Neil being the undisputed leader from the outset, the true race proved now to be between Kate and Alan, with Ben belting along the track beside them and Cobber arriving a good half hour later, footsore and weary, but determined not to be left behind.
‘We’ll call it a draw,’ Alan graciously conceded as he and his sister flopped onto the jetty in a state of exhaustion.
‘No,’ Kate gasped, ‘you won.’ He had, but only just. ‘I’ve turned into a girl. Isn’t that sad?’ she added with a mock-tragic air. ‘After all those years as one of the boys.’
They played together like the ten-year-olds they felt themselves to be, revisited by the freedom of their childhood, then as late afternoon crept towards dusk Alan went off to meet Paola down by the pumping station. He donned the shorts and shirt he’d worn over his swimming togs, which were now dry, and made a casual announcement just before he left.
‘I’m telling Mum and Dad tomorrow morning,’ he said as he sat to haul on his sandshoes, Neil and Kate sprawled out beside him on the jetty.
‘Telling Mum and Dad what?’ Neil asked.
‘Oh shit.’ Kate sat bolt upright. Of course, how could she have forgotten?
Alan stood, buttoning his shirt. ‘Then I’m going to the Fiorellis,’ he said, ‘and Paola and I are going to tell Luigi and Maria.’
‘About what?’ Neil asked.
‘She’ll fill you in.’ Alan gave a jerk of his head towards Kate. ‘See you back at the house,’ he said and left.
‘Tell Mum and Dad what?’ Neil demanded.
‘Alan and Paola want to get engaged.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Exactly.’
The following day, Alan arranged a meeting with his parents in the smaller downstairs drawing room where his mother took her ritual morning tea.
Stan was in an excellent mood. He always loved Boxing Day, the test cricket on the telly and the cold turkey and ham lunches Cook dished up with her special potato salad.
‘So what is it, boy?’ he said with fond joviality when the maid, having served the tea, had departed. ‘A special meeting, eh, must be something important.’
In typical fashion, Alan did not mince words. ‘Paola and I are going to get engaged.’
Hilda very nearly dropped her teacup, but upon managing to rescue it, gracefully and without spilling a drop, she remained frozen awaiting her husband’s outburst.
Stan did not rant and rave as she might have expected however. His face lost its good humour, certainly. In fact he studied his son as one would a creature beneath contempt.
‘Got it all worked out, have you boy,’ he said, and Hilda noted that ‘boy’ was no longer fond or jovial: ‘boy’ was an insult, delivered with something bordering on loathing.
It was true at that moment Stan loathed his younger son. Not for the boy’s temerity in suggesting such a ludicrous match, but for the fact that he wasn’t asking permission, he was making a statement. How dare the little prick show such lack of respect! How dare he front up and just spit the words out! But that was Alan, always had been.
‘You’ve got everything planned, I take it,’ Stan said mockingly.
‘Yes, I have actually, Dad.’ Alan knew his father was intensely irritated, and he knew the reason why, but he didn’t see any purpose in pussyfooting about, trying to reason or rationalise. The man never recognised any point of view but his own.
‘Paola and I are prepared to wait,’ he said. ‘We won’t marry until we’re twenty-one, but we intend to get engaged now.’ Alan then turned for the first time to his mother and there was an air of apology in his tone and a plea in his eyes as he added, ‘We would of course like it to be with your blessing.’
Stan didn’t allow his wife the right of reply, considering it wasn’t her place. ‘I bet you bloody well would,’ he sneered, but he kept his voice down: no point in blowing a gasket over a stupid adolescent fantasy. Christ alive, they’d all had romantic crushes in their time and on the most improbable girls who didn’t remotely qualify as marriage material. You got them into bed if you could and then you moved on. Why couldn’t the boy just grow up?
‘Now listen, Alan,’ he said, doing his best to sound patient. ‘You must realise that your suggestion is hardly a logical one. You haven’t thought things through, son. You’re being unrealistic, you must know that.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? The girl’s Italian, that’s why.’ He’s a moron, Stan thought, the boy’s a bloody moron. ‘The Durhams are royalty in these parts; we don’t marry beneath ourselves, never have and never will. She’s an Italian, she’s a Catholic and she’s an Elianne employee,’ he said. Surely he didn’t need to spell things out any more clearly than that.
‘Yes I know, and I’m going to marry her.’
‘Right,’ Stan had had quite enough. He’d had enough of the boy’s idiocy and more than enough of his impertinence. ‘Now you listen to me, you disrespectful little prick,’ he stabbed a forefinger at Alan’s forehead, ‘and you get this through that moronic skull of yours. Bed the Dago if you haven’t already, which you probably have – sleep with her as often as you like, I don’t give a damn. But don’t you dare get her pregnant, and don’t for one minute think you’re ever going to marry her because that won’t happen, I can tell you here and now.’
Stan didn’t bother slamming the door behind him, the matter wasn’t worth getting riled up about, but he was annoyed nonetheless. What a bugger of a way to start Boxing Day.
‘Well that went pretty much as expected,’ Alan said to his mother. Then he bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Just to let you know, Mum, I really am serious,’ he said quietly, ‘and I really am sorry if it causes problems for you down the track.’
‘Wish me luck,’ he called as he crossed to the door, ‘I’m off to the Fiorellis now. Bye.’
And Hilda was left speechless, bone china teacup and saucer in hand, untouched orange sponge cake on the table before her. She hadn’t said a word throughout the entire proceedings.
Luigi and Maria Fiorelli were far more prepared than the Durhams. Young Georgio was conspicuously absent, having been sent off to play footie with his cousins, which would have been his Boxing Day preference in any event, and the Fiorellis senior were waiting with Paola in the sitting room of their cottage in South Mill Row. The sitting room looked out over the verandah and the pretty little garden and was especially reserved for the receiving of guests. Family and friends always gathered in the huge kitchen out the back where a wall had been demolished and two rooms formed one giant space that was the heart and soul of the house.
‘Paola she tell her mother you have something to ask of me,’ Luigi said.
‘Yes.’ Alan found the Italian, whose moods were normally so transparent, difficult to read. Luigi was not his jovial self, which was to be expected, but nor did he seem angry. If anything he was solemn, a most unusual state for Luigi Fiorelli.
Alan glanced at Paola, who was sitting beside her mother, both of them on little hardback chairs that looked as uncomfortable as the one upon which he was seated – and Luigi’s carver appeared much the same. The room was not designed for comfort. Paola gave him a smile and an encouraging nod.
‘I wish permission to marry your daughter,’ Alan said boldly. In the silence that followed he was painfully aware of the ticking of the clock that hung on the wall above Luigi’s head. Didn’t they realise how loud it was? And the mesmerising swing of its pendulum was unbearably distracting. In fact the whole room was distracting. More than distracting, it was intimidating. As he kept his focus trained upon Luigi, he couldn’t help noticing the china cabinet to one side displaying pieces that were plainly never used, but just for show. Everything surrounding him seemed so out of keeping with the Fiorellis.
Alan had never before sat in the front room. In fact he couldn’t remember ever having seen the front room. The approach to the Fiorelli house had always been via the back door and straight into the kitchen. There, on many a weekend throughout their childhood prior to boarding school days, he and his brother and sister had been welcomed into the fold. The entire extended Fiorelli family would be gathered in that kitchen during the slack season, a birthday, an anniversary, a baptism – any excuse, and sometimes for no specific reason at all. Luigi’s three brothers would arrive with their wives and children. Alfonso, the oldest of the brothers, would play his harmonica and everyone would sing Italian songs and gorge themselves on the food served up by Maria and the cakes and the delicacies brought along by the wives.
Now, somewhere beyond the interminable ticking of the clock, Alan could hear the raucousness of those early days. He could smell the garlic and the herbs and he could taste the richness of the sauces and pastas and cheeses, flavours and textures exotic and unknown to most Australian boys of his age. He remembered how he’d wished that he lived in a cottage like the Fiorellis’ instead of The Big House, and how he’d wished that Luigi was his father instead of Stan the Man . . .
‘You love her?’
Awaiting Luigi’s reaction, Alan had felt his life in the balance. His father’s approval had meant nothing because he knew he would never receive it, so informing his father of his intention had been a mere courtesy. But for all the bravado of his declaration to Paola that they would defy both their parents Alan desperately desired Luigi’s blessing. As he’d waited for the man to speak, his childhood and his future had hovered side by side for what seemed an eternity. In actual fact it had been only seconds.
‘Yes, I love your daughter. Lo amo tua figlia,’ Alan repeated, his pronunciation perfect. Paola had been teaching him Italian for some time now.
Luigi nodded. He’d known the answer, he’d had no need to ask, but he’d wanted to hear the boy say the words, and was particularly pleased to hear them in Italian. Paola had spoken to her mother the previous evening and Maria had prepared him for this formal visit: it was the proper way. Luigi did not doubt that Alan Durham loved his daughter, and he knew Alan Durham to be an honourable young man, but he’d voiced his concerns to his wife. There were complications, he’d said, there were many, many complications . . .
‘Beware, Luigi,’ Maria had warned. ‘You must tread a very careful path. Paola loves him more than her life.’
‘You are not of the Roman Catholic faith,’ Luigi now said. This to Luigi Fiorelli was the greatest complication of all.
‘I intend to convert.’ For Alan, the matter of faith was simple. He’d been honest with Paola right from the start, when she’d considered his offer to be one of immense sacrifice.
‘How can it be a sacrifice when I have no particular faith?’ he’d argued. ‘I don’t mean to trivialise the church and all it stands for, Paola, please don’t be insulted, but my conversion would be more for show t
han anything. Although I promise,’ he’d added earnestly, ‘that I’d make a good job of it to please your parents.’
Paola had not been insulted. She’d laughed. She would have been prepared to abandon the church, thereby risking eternal damnation and breaking her parents’ hearts, all for Alan Durham.
Luigi was impressed beyond words. ‘You would do such a thing for my daughter?’
The man’s amazement at the enormity of his offer made Alan feel like a fraud, but his answer was nonetheless honest.
‘I would do anything for your daughter, Luigi. I would do anything humanly possible.’
Maria had been following the exchange closely, her understanding of English was excellent, but she’d always lacked confidence in speaking the language. She now interrupted the conversation with a quick suggestion to Luigi in Italian, which brought an instant smile to her daughter’s face.
Alan looked from one to the other.
Luigi stood. ‘Maria she say let us talk in the kitchen.’
Paola took Alan’s hand as they walked out the back to the kitchen where seats and stools and a communal wooden bench lined the walls ready to be pulled up to the huge table that dominated the room. Pots and pans hung from hooks in the ceiling beams alongside bundles of dried herbs and strings of garlic, and nestled in the corners of workbenches were baskets of vegetables. Alan had the strangest feeling that he’d come home.
Paola brewed coffee and Maria served slices of the treacly cake Alan so strongly remembered while he and Luigi sat at the table and talked. They talked of many things. Luigi enquired of Stanley Durham’s reaction – he’d been told Alan had planned to tell his parents. Alan naturally did not repeat his father’s words.
‘Dad didn’t take me seriously,’ he said, ‘in fact he dismissed the idea altogether.’
Luigi nodded; he’d have guessed that Stan the Man’s reaction would be along such lines. ‘You will defy your father?’