by Judy Nunn
Howard’s false teeth had an unfortunate way of clacking slightly as he spoke, which always reduced the impact of his argument. Unprepossessing in appearance, he was frail, wizened, completely bald, and looked every bit of his seventy-four years. But Mark had always admired the way he talked back to Grandfather Charles. Howard Streatham was obviously undaunted by his old partner, and was still active in the family firm, despite having retired four years ago. Kendle and Streatham not only boasted the two biggest emporiums in Sydney but also maintained three supply factories, producing ironmongery, woollen and leather goods, and Howard was strenuous in voicing his opinions on each and every aspect of the company’s concerns.
As the maid cleared the sorbet dishes, Charles signalled the butler to pour the claret which would accompany the main course.
‘Then let the British look after their Empire,’ he said provocatively. ‘We’re half the world away here.’
‘What an appalling thing to say.’ There was sheer outrage in Godfrey Streatham’s voice. ‘We are part of the British Empire.’
That was the trouble with Godfrey, Charles thought. He had no sense of humour, just like his father. He shared his father’s tenacity too, and his stubbornness and strong moral sense, which in Charles’s opinion was dangerous for business.
Charles Kendle, unlike his cousin Howard, had no intention of retiring. And certainly not whilst the other two co-directors of Kendle and Streatham were his and Howard’s sons. Boring and dogmatic as he was, Godfrey Streatham would eat Stephen Kendle for breakfast.
Charles’s son was a vast disappointment to him. A spineless man, he had many years ago concluded. One who possessed a moderate talent at the piano keyboard, a passable skill as a yachtsman (which was not surprising, he had been brought up amongst the yachting fraternity) and one who, in all other areas, was ineffectual and lacking any shred of leadership ability. Should the day ever come when he wished to retire, Charles had decided he would hand over the reins to his grandson. He sensed a strength and a leadership in Mark which reminded him a little of himself. His vanity chose also to believe that the lad looked like him, for Mark was a handsome young man. Dark of hair and brow, slim of build and with the bearing of an aristocrat, he could have been the young Charles Kendle, and although Charles suspected the boy didn’t much like him, he wasn’t overly bothered. His grandson would one day admire him; in the meantime, fear and respect were enough.
‘And as the most distant part of the British Empire,’ Charles mocked the pomposity of Godfrey’s tone, ‘we should have more sense than to waste manpower and money on a war which will not affect us.’
‘Ah yes, Father,’ Susan interjected, ‘money! There lies the key. Money! Be honest now, if there were money to be made, you’d be all for the war, would you not?’
A shocked silence ensued. Susan had not intended to enter the conversation, quite aware of the fact that her father was deliberately provoking argument; but Helen Streatham had exchanged a conspiratorial look which had intimated ‘Men’s talk, dear, we must keep well out of it’, and such a look was, as always to Susan, like waving a red rag at a bull.
To everyone’s surprise Charles gave one of his short barks of laughter. ‘But of course, my dear, I would look far more favourably upon this war if it were a sound financial investment.’ He noted, with pleasure, that his remark had offended. ‘Why do you look so shocked, Godfrey? Many a sensible businessman will make a great deal of money out of this war. It will not, however, be businessmen like us who live on the other side of the world, more’s the pity.’
Stephen concentrated intently on his wine glass as the butler poured his claret. ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ he muttered. He dared not look up. If he did, he might meet the challenge in his father’s eyes, defying him to speak out. Or Godfrey might see the guilty flush in his cheeks. For it had been Stephen Kendle’s signature which had accompanied his father’s on the agreement to supply leather and woollen goods to the military in the advent of war. The government had not approached Kendle and Streatham, Charles had initiated the deal himself when the first rumblings of conflict in Europe had reached Australian shores.
The transaction had been far from ethical. Money had changed hands, no questions had been asked, and Charles had beaten any possible competition well before general tenders had been invited. For appearances’ sake, however, tenders, when they arrived, were given due consideration.
The contract had required the signatures of two of the senior directors of Kendle and Streatham, and Stephen had ventured to suggest that Godfrey would not approve.
‘So he’ll call me a warmonger, so what?’ his father had snarled. ‘If we don’t grab the chance, somebody else will. By the time Godfrey finds out, there’ll be no moral decision to be made, the money will be rolling in and he’ll be only too happy to take it. Now just sign the damnthing, Stephen!’
And of course Stephen had.
Charles glanced across the table at his daughter, rather wishing he could boast to her of his government contract, though he knew for the moment it must remain a secret. It was Susan who had inherited his strength, Charles thought; it showed in her face. The set of her jaw, the determination of her brow, not a marshmallow face like her brother’s. Even in her midforties she was a handsome woman, although a little on the weighty side. But then both she and Stephen had inherited their mother’s fleshiness and grown bulky in their middle years.
Charles wished it had been his son rather than his daughter who had inherited his strength. He never trusted strong women. And he certainly did not approve of his daughter. She had done the most appalling things with her life, and her behaviour was at times most embarrassing. She even smoked in public.
A divorced woman, Susan had years ago left her husband and two children in Melbourne to return to Sydney and set up a small art gallery and handicrafts shop. In Manly of all places. Charles had thought of disinheriting her at the time—for propriety’s sake—until he’d discovered that she had reverted to her maiden name.
‘It is a sorry enough state of affairs, Father,’ she had stiffly remarked, ‘that, upon her marriage, a woman is required to relinquish all rights to her family name. But, should her marriage fail, it is nothing short of loathsome that she be expected to continue to bear the name of a man she no longer loves, in fact quite possibly abhors.’
It was a radical statement, and quite shocking, but Charles had been secretly delighted. The more Kendles the better, he thought, and he made veiled hints at monetary rewards for her two children, Lionel and Prudence, should they wish to follow their mother’s example and change their name. But Susan appeared uninterested.
Although Charles did not approve of his daughter, he could not fail but respect her. She was outrageous. She had a far greater ability to shock than he, for he was too bound by social protocol. Furthermore, she stood up to him like a man. Susan had guts.
The claret had been poured and, unable to garner his daughter’s attention and, like her, bored with the diatribe Godfrey Streatham had embarked upon half an hour ago, Charles rose to his feet.
‘Well said, Godfrey!’ he loudly announced, and Godfrey was forced to stop midsentence.
Charles stood for a second or so at the head of the table, not only to survey his guests, but in order that he should be surveyed by them. He looked imposing and knew it. He’d weathered the storm far better than Howard. At seventy-six, he still had a striking head of hair, silver-white now, and beneath the aged eyelids the steel-grey eyes still glinted powerfully.
‘A toast!’ he said and he raised his glass. ‘To King and Country.’
They all rose. ‘To King and Country.’
Two hours later, when their guests had departed, Charles insisted Stephen and Mark join him for a coffee and port. He seemed in a most affable mood. ‘My word, but we set a cat or two amongst the pigeons tonight, didn’t we?’ he laughed.
Mark glanced at his father. Both of them had said barely a word all evening.
‘Well, Sus
an and I did,’ Charles added, noting the exchange. ‘And you could certainly have stirred them up a great deal more, Stephen, had you wished. A right old hornets’ nest it would have been, had you dredged up your nerve and spoken out.’
‘You made me promise, from the outset, to say nothing, Father.’ Stephen heaved an inner sigh. He could tell that his father still wished to play games. Stephen hated it when Charles goaded him in front of his son.
‘Of course, of course, and you were quite right to keep your mouth shut.’ The old man leaned forward and poured himself another glass of port from the decanter on the coffee table. He would probably regret having a second, but he had so enjoyed himself tonight that he didn’t want the evening to end. ‘And I’m sure it must have cost you such effort to do so,’ he said with gleeful spite. He had seen Stephen hiding behind his wine, praying that no-one would notice his guilty flush. ‘You must have been positively biting your tongue.’ Charles sipped his port teasingly, ‘But we might perhaps tell Mark of our little secret, what do you say?’
Stephen apparently had nothing to say, as he stared at the empty coffee cup in his hands. Charles had expected as much. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘when Mark leaves university at the end of next year he will be part of Kendle and Streatham. Perhaps it is time he learned of our more nefarious activities.’
Mark and Stephen exchanged a look, and there was a query in Mark’s eyes.
‘Well, Stephen,’ Charles insisted with a touch of impatience, ‘shall we tell him or shall we not?’
‘He already knows.’ Stephen savoured the moment. The look of surprise in his father’s eyes, the fleeting knowledge that, for just one second, he had bested the old man. His life would be made hell for the next few days, but he must remember this moment, he told himself, he must not regret it.
‘He knows?’ Charles put down his glass, the port no longer interested him. ‘About the government contract?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I told you to tell no-one.’
‘I did not take that to mean Mark, Father.’ Stephen looked to his son and was pleased to see the encouragement in Mark’s eyes. ‘I tell my son most things. He is very discreet.’
‘I see.’ After a moment’s pause the old man turned to his grandson. ‘And what do you think of the transaction, Mark?’ his voice was cold, hisdispleasure evident.
‘I think it is an excellent business coup, Grandfather.’ Mark didn’t. He thought it was sheer warmongering greed but, not wishing to cause more trouble for his father, he was happy enough to humour the old man.
‘Yes,’ Charles was slightly mollified, the boy showed sound judgement, ‘it is.’ He was still annoyed, however, that the wind had been taken out of his sails. Why was it that the only time Stephen showed any character was in the presence of his son, why couldn’t he do it in a boardroom?
‘I am delighted there is such a bond of trust between you and your son, Stephen,’ he said archly as he eased himself out of the armchair, his left hip was aching now, ‘but your abuse of our confidentiality speaks poorly of your character. You are not a man of your word. I am tired now, I’m going to bed.’
Circular Quay was busy, as it always was on a Saturday night. Brightly lit ferries of all shapes and sizes churned the black waters of Sydney Harbour; small passenger ferries beetled back and forth from Milsons Point and Kirribilli and the other stops on the nearby northern side; large ocean-going ferries surged across the open waters of Port Jackson to the picturesque suburb of Manly on the far northern headland; and, dwarfing them all, were the behemoths, the gigantic vehicular ferries which transported all manner of vehicles. Sydney was still a city of horses, and daily, along with the queues of motor cars awaiting transportation, were the queues of horse-drawn vehicles of every description.
It was a bleak July night and the wind was whipping up. It would be a rough crossing to Manly, Susan thought. She hugged her heavy winter coat about her and hoped there would be a seat inside.
There wasn’t, so she stood on the port side and looked out at Dawes Point as the ferry slid away from Circular Quay. It had been announced in the newspaper sometime ago that the Public Works Committee had accepted a proposal for an electric railway system, including a trafficbridge, to be built across the harbour from Dawes Point to Milsons Point. Of course they’d been talking about a bridge for years, but they would have to build one some day, the harbour was choked with ferries. The only alternative route from the city to the rapidly expanding northern suburbs was the five bridges road, a detour of ten miles or more around the head of the harbour, crossing bridges at Pyrmont, Glebe Island, Iron Cove, Gladesville and Fig Tree. And, having travelled the detour, to then continue all the way to Manly was unthinkable. Manly residents were totally reliant upon the ferries. Which was probably why she so loved Manly, Susan thought. Away from the influence of the city, the place had a character all its own. Ah well, if the war came, the government would probably put paid to the idea of a bridge.
It was inevitable, wasn’t it, the war. Any moment now, they said. She wondered what it would mean, and she thought of the glib conversation over dinner. The Streathams with their complacency and she with her desire to shock, just like her father. She knew he thought they were two of a kind. They were not, and they never would be. Strong as she was, Susan was not cruel like her father, she was not vindictive.
She had always been strong. Well, she supposed she had. But she had not always been cynical; as a girl she had not been suspicious of people’s motives as she was now. She remembered a time when life had been simple. Her wedding to Frederick for instance. A wealthy Melbourne lawyer and aspiring politician, the family had approved of Frederick Napier. ‘A pillar of society,’ her father had called him. She’d been in love too, or so she’d thought. And her wedding day could not have been a more glamorous affair, befitting the spoilt daughter of a wealthy man and his frivolous wife. She remembered Amy’s fussing over the bridal gown, the length of the veil, the size of the bouquet. Susan, who had not wanted a grand wedding in the first place, had delighted in her mother’s pleasure, and had never been closer to Amy than she had been then. So what had gone wrong? Everything. Her mother had died a tragic death. Fifteen years ago now. A distracted woman ever since the death of Paddy O’Shea, she was reliant upon drugs to keep her madness at bay. And Susan and her marriage? Equally tragic. The pillar of society had proved to possess an ugly side, never displayed to his business associates nor to his political colleagues, but reserved solely for his wife.
Frederick Napier was a man who would brook neither argument nor disagreement, nor even a differing opinion. Not when it came to running a household and raising a family. Life with such a husband was difficult for a spirited girl like Susan, but she learned to govern her tongue, and she dutifully bore him two children in two years, hoping that perhaps fatherhood might mellow him. It didn’t.
The first time he struck her she remembered feeling strangely glad. Perhaps this would be the turning point. Perhaps the remorse he would suffer would form a bond between them and they would talk about their marriage. But he did not suffer remorse and they did not talk, and the bouts of violence became regular. Always in the privacy of their bedroom. Never in front of the children. It was only his wife who suffered, and she invented excuses as to how she had come by the bruises on her face and arms. Until one day, five years into their marriage, she decided she had had enough.
He was shocked when she said she was leaving him, he had never expected that she would.
‘Go if you wish,’ he said, ‘but you must be aware that by deserting your husband and your children you will bring great shame upon yourself.’
‘I am not deserting my children, Frederick. Lionel and Prudence will be coming with me.’
‘Oh, no they will not. The children will remain with their father. As in the eyes of the law they must.’
He was not violent towards her that night. He was cold and clinical as he informed her of the truth. ‘In law, my dea
r,’ he said, ‘the child of the married woman has only one parent, and that is the father. Unless you can prove in a court of law that I am an incompetent parent,’ and his tone defied her to do so, ‘no judge will allow you to run off with your children.’
The next night, however, he was violent, and the next, assuming he’d worn her down and that she had no option but to stay. A week after their initial confrontation, Susan sought advice from a legal firm and was informed that Frederick was correct in his points of law. Furthermore, it was pointed out, her husband was a prominent and successful man and she could present no proof of his violent behaviour. Two days later, Susan Napier left her husband and her children and returned to Sydney.
Divorce proceedings ensued and Frederick, possibly fearful that she might divulge the reason for their marriage break-up, which could prove embarrassing, allowed her unlimited access to the children. However, as the years progressed, so strongly were Lionel and Prudence under the influence of their father that Susan’s relationship with them changed. Try as she might, she felt like a stranger. The more love she displayed, the more politely remote they became, as if she were a distant relative to be tolerated. But she too had changed, and she knew it. She was not the mother they had known. She was harder, tougher, more outspoken. Furthermore, she had reverted to her maiden name, a fact her children found incomprehensible.
Incensed by the ultimate injustice of the law, Susan had become an ardent social reformer and a staunch campaigner for women’s rights.
Surprisingly enough, in the early days following her return to Sydney, her father had not been averse to her devotion to the suffragette movement, for through the meetings of the Womanhood Suffrage League Susan became closely acquainted with Lady Mary Windeyer, a leader in the fight for women’s rights.
Charles Kendle had always boasted of his family’s connections with the Windeyers, one of Sydney’s most prominent families. His son had attended Sydney University with the Windeyer boys, and indeed Stephen still socialised with Richard, both keen yachting enthusiasts and members of the Royal Prince Alfred Yacht Club. When, to Charles’s delight, his daughter struck up a friendship with none other than Lady Mary herself, the Windeyer boys’m other, his views on the suffragette movement underwent a radical change. Previously loud in his insistence that women be denied the vote—‘preposterous notion, women do not have the brains to vote intelligently’—Charles suddenly became most sympathetic to the cause. In fact, he even offered to put Kendle Lodge at the League’s disposal.