Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  None, however, was as grand as Durham House. Always referred to simply as The Big House, the Durham family home was nothing short of magnificent. The Big House appeared three stories high, but it wasn’t really, this was just an illusion. The attractive white-painted lattice work flanking the broad stairs that led up to its first-floor verandah masked only storage space and a laundry, for this house too stood very tall on its stilts. Its elevation gained impressive views on all sides both of the river a quarter of a mile away and also of the plantation. From the balconies of The Big House the cane trains could be regularly observed during the crushing season, even at night, lights gleaming in the distance, feeding the hungry mill the hundred and fifty tons of cane it devoured every hour.

  Painted white with railings of green, and surrounded on all sides by wooden verandahs and upper storey balconies, the house lounged in its landscaped gardens and tennis courts like an indolent giant. It was too huge and too opulent to be elegant, but also too beautiful to be crass, the finishing touches of oak doors and wooden-framed French windows saving it from even the harshest of critics. Hilda Durham had seen to that.

  Stan the Man had had the house designed along the lines of the original Elianne House, built by his grandfather in 1890, which, since the death of old Big Jim Durham twelve years previously, had served as home to Ivan Krantz and his family. Ivan was the estate’s managing accountant and company secretary. The only adjustment Stan had made to the original design of the house, or so he’d said at the time, was to quadruple the size of the place and add another storey with balconies.

  ‘The same only bigger,’ he’d assured his wife shortly before Neil was born. Hilda had loved the old house. In fact, she’d loved Elianne House far more than the modern residence Stan had had specially built as their marital home. ‘We’ll need the extra space with family on the way,’ he’d insisted, when she’d queried whether the size he envisaged might be a little vulgar, ‘and of course there are always the visitors. We must be able to accommodate our visitors in style. They expect it my dear, just as they did in Big Jim’s time.’

  It had been Hilda who had had the final say, however, particularly with regard to the interior. The grand oak staircase leading to the upper floor had become a principal feature, as had the wooden panelling in the main dining room and the various sitting rooms. Doors with frosted-glass panels featuring original designs, crystal chandeliers, wall-bracket light fittings of brass, lead-light and stained-glass windows, together with Hilda’s personal selection of objets d’art and paintings had completed the final touches. Stanley Durham very wisely never questioned his wife’s taste.

  Kate bounded up the front steps three at a time, the dogs flopping on the verandah, they were not allowed inside the house.

  The family was having morning tea in the smaller downstairs drawing room as she’d presumed they would be. Or at least as she’d presumed her mother would be. Hilda insisted upon morning and afternoon tea being served in the front drawing room. Even if no one else attended, and they very often didn’t, Hilda would quite happily sit there, sipping away at her tea and nibbling at her cake or scones. She never demanded anyone join her; the ritual was all she required.

  To Kate’s surprise, everyone was there, her father lounging in his favoured armchair, her mother perched as always in her carver at the table and Neil and Alan seated on hardback chairs demolishing the slices of sponge cake that young Ivy the maid had just passed around.

  ‘Morning all,’ Kate said, looking a query from one to the other. She hadn’t expected to see her brothers.

  Hilda signalled Ivy to fetch a fresh pot of tea and Stan signalled his daughter to sit.

  Kate did so. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Dad’s called a family meeting,’ Alan replied with a typically nonchalant ‘don’t ask me’ shrug.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Change.’ Neil dived in diplomatically before Alan could offer another careless shrug. His younger brother’s nonchalance had a way of irritating their father. Placing his side plate on the table and giving his mouth a perfunctory dab with his linen napkin in order to appease their mother’s constant plea for good table manners, he stood. ‘Dad decided to leave it a week or so for you two to settle back in before calling this meeting to discuss some developments undertaken by Elianne Pty Limited.’ Neil’s address to his siblings was solemn and Kate and Alan exchanged looks. Home being ‘Elianne’ and the family business ‘Elianne Pty Limited’ Neil was wearing his ‘Company Hat’. Normally they would have teased him about it, but not today, not in front of their father.

  ‘There have been a lot of changes over the past year or so …’ Neil cast a look to Stan whose brisk nod conveyed the unmistakeable order to carry on. Stanley Durham was very proud of his eldest son. Since completing his boarding-school education three years previously, Neil had been drilled in every area of mill management and was proving the perfect heir to the throne.

  ‘Given your time away at uni, Kate,’ Neil continued, ‘you may not be fully aware of the fact that we’re in a state of transition, and that there is indeed further change in the air.’

  Change in the air. Recalling her earlier reflections, Kate found the phrase extraordinarily apt. Perhaps it isn’t me after all, she thought.

  ‘In the field, the mechanisation of cultivation and harvesting and loading is revolutionising the sugar industry …’ Neil’s focus remained principally upon his sister. There was no need to talk mechanics with his younger brother. At fifteen, Alan knew more about the specifics of any given machine than Neil would ever know. Having been obsessed with machinery from the age of ten, Alan spent every moment available to him in the mill or in the maintenance workshops with the man he adored above all others, his friend and mentor, Luigi Fiorelli. Alan was a born mechanic.

  Kate nodded. Neil was telling her nothing she hadn’t registered. How could one fail to observe the recent changes brought about by mechanisation, particularly those wrought by the harvester. The mechanical harvester was already replacing whole teams of manual cane-cutters. The very face of the industry was being transformed.

  ‘Several other major mills that service the southern cane fields are expanding,’ Neil explained, now addressing himself to Alan. ‘They’re increasing their crushing tonnage and also their rate of crushing per hour. Elianne must follow suit.’

  Ivy had arrived and was setting the fresh pot of tea on the table. Hilda raised a delicate hand, indicating that she herself would play ‘mother’ and, as Ivy left, Neil continued without pausing to draw breath.

  ‘… And to this end, it is our intention to purchase substantial new mill machinery –’

  ‘What sort of machinery?’ Alan interrupted, his attention instantly captured.

  ‘Four new Broadbent high-grade centrifugals, two new Thompson four-drum water tube boilers, and a Saranin design vacuum pan.’ Discarding the ‘Company Hat’, Neil’s tone was suddenly boastful and his grin boyish as he listed, like a series of prizes, the proposed acquisitions, knowing how very impressed Alan would be.

  Alan was. With duly raised eyebrows, he returned his brother’s grin, looking exactly like a younger version of Neil. Much as the two differed in temperament, they shared the Durham look – the look of their father and his father before him, both chisel-boned, dark-haired, impressive men.

  ‘Where’s the money going to come from?’ Alan said, intrigued. ‘They’ll cost a lot. Machines like that don’t come cheap.’

  His remark was more a comment than a query but, delivered in his customary laconic fashion, it annoyed his father.

  ‘That’s no concern of yours, boy,’ Stan growled. ‘Ivan has everything in hand. He’s issuing limited shares in the company and selling them to raise the necessary capital. He and your brother and I have had endless discussion regarding the mill’s expansion and investment. It’s hardly your place to question our decision.’

  Alan gave another shrug that appeared careless, but really he was just giving up.
He hadn’t been questioning the decision at all, but there was no point in arguing. Father and younger son did not understand each other and never had.

  Once again it was Neil who sprang to the rescue, as he invariably did. ‘With the increase in milling efficiency, we’ll be saving in other areas,’ he explained. ‘For a start, there’ll be fewer workers needed on each shift to operate the mill, and that’s just one of the expense-saving factors. Ivan says that–’

  Stan decided it was time to take over.

  ‘Which brings us to other major areas of change,’ he said as he rose from the throne of his armchair. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he accepted the fresh cup of tea his wife offered him, ‘and thank you, Neil.’ It was a signal for his son to sit, which Neil did, but not before delivering the cup of tea his mother had poured for his sister.

  Stan sipped his tea, waiting until everyone was settled. He liked to make an impact and was accustomed to receiving the undivided attention of any audience he addressed, which was why the occasionally offhand manner of his younger son so annoyed him. He considered it disrespectful.

  At fifty years of age, Stanley Durham gave the impression of being a big man, one who towered over others. But standing just short of six feet, he was not overly tall by Queensland standards. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself with such pride. Perhaps it was the strength of his build, or his dark, brooding eyes and handsome head of hair, now flecked with grey. Whatever the chief contributing factor may have been, Stanley Durham’s overall image was that of a ‘larger than life’ man. It was certainly the way he saw himself. It was the way he wished to be perceived and therefore the way he was perceived.

  Assured of his family’s full attention Stan now made his dramatic announcement.

  ‘Ivan Krantz will be leaving Elianne at the end of next month.’

  A moment’s silence followed as Kate and Alan exchanged looks of bewilderment. Ivan had been the mill’s accountant and company secretary for the past twelve years. He and his wife and son had lived in old Elianne House all that time. The Krantzes and the Durhams had been as close as two families could be. Why would Ivan choose to leave the mill, and particularly now, after instigating such changes?

  ‘You’re being naughty, Stanley. You mustn’t tease.’ Hilda’s rebuke was mild. She was a gracious woman who, even in the admonishment of her children, never raised her voice. To Hilda, decorum always remained the order of the day.

  Stan laughed. He’d enjoyed the effect of his statement, his intention having been to confuse and bewilder. ‘No, no, you misunderstand,’ he said expansively. ‘Ivan’s not leaving the mill, he’s just moving from the estate into Bundaberg. He’ll remain Elianne’s company secretary and he’ll still be personally handling our business’ Stan was obviously happy with the arrangement, and genuinely pleased for his friend. ‘Ivan and young Henry are setting up offices in Bourbong Street, right in the centre of town, and Elianne is to be their very first client.’

  Twenty-two-year-old Henry Krantz, much to his father’s pride, had recently returned from Brisbane a qualified accountant. ‘The lad topped his entire course, Stan,’ Ivan had boasted, ‘what better junior partner could a man wish for, I ask you?’

  ‘To Krantz & Son,’ Stan raised his teacup high and the others found themselves automatically saluting with their own cups. ‘Good luck to them, I say.’ He took a hefty swig of his tea and dumped his cup and saucer on the table. ‘Times are changing. Expansion is on the rise and good accountants are essential. I’ve no doubt Ivan and Henry will do very well. With Elianne as their first major client, others are bound to follow …’

  Stan might have continued a little longer in the same vein, but he made the mistake of glancing at his wife, whose attention was no longer focused upon the tea. Hilda, so often vague and distracted by the niceties of life, was looking intently at her husband, demanding he make the further announcement, which to her was the most important one of all.

  In response to his wife’s unspoken but unmistakable request, Stan halted. He cleared his throat. ‘Ivan’s move into town will bring about another change,’ he said with a slight hesitation, which was not like him. But even when delivering news he was aware would not be received favourably, Stan Durham chose to make an impact.

  ‘Old Elianne House is to be demolished,’ he announced in a manner that defied dissent. Then he waited for the argument that would follow.

  There was a further silence. Hilda’s eyes were no longer upon her husband. Instead she was studying her daughter. Kate would surely be shocked to the core. Kate had inherited her love of the old home. And why would she not? Hilda wondered. The house had been built by her great-grandfather for the woman he worshipped. Elianne Durham, the woman after whom Big Jim had named his plantation and his mill and his entire estate.

  ‘Elianne House is more than your heritage, Kate,’ Hilda had told her daughter many times over the years, ‘Elianne House is a symbol of love.’

  Now, as she studied her daughter, Hilda awaited the explosion. Kate did not readily bend to her father’s will like Neil, nor did she close herself off from him like Alan. Kate met her father head on, and confrontation between the two could be volatile.

  But it appeared no explosion was to take place.

  ‘Why?’ Kate asked quietly. She was indeed taken aback, perhaps even shocked, but above all she was mystified. ‘Why would you want to demolish a beautiful old home like Elianne House, a home that’s been a part of your family for generations?’

  ‘Who am I going to put in there, Kate? You tell me that.’ Although his daughter’s tone had not been accusatory, Stan’s response bore a touch of belligerence. He’d known from which quarter the argument would come and he was quite prepared to do battle. ‘Ivan’s not the only one shifting into town, you know. These days many of the senior staff members are opting to commute from Bundaberg. We have other homes that are already going begging. Would you suggest I let Elianne House out for a pittance to one of the workers and his family? I can promise you, it’d go to wrack and ruin if I did.’

  ‘But why demolish it’ Kate insisted. ‘That’s surely a little drastic. Couldn’t we just leave the place empty?’

  ‘A valuable piece of real estate sitting untenanted and requiring upkeep,’ her father scoffed. ‘That hardly makes financial sense, does it?’

  ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ Kate had the distinct feeling she was on the losing side. ‘But perhaps the house could be sold and transported? I mean to destroy all that beauty … The woodwork, the lead-lighting, the stained-glass panelled doors …’

  ‘The house is not in a fit enough state to be transported, Kate – we must be realistic.’ Stan was no longer belligerent; there was no need. The battle was over. ‘And I didn’t say we were destroying it my dear, I said we were demolishing it. There is a distinct difference.’

  ‘And that is …?’

  ‘The house will be dismantled. The features you mention are worth a great deal these days, Kate. The timber alone will fetch a fine price.’ Stan threw in the clincher. ‘The house is of far more value in pieces than it is whole I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see.’ There was nothing Kate could say to that.

  Hilda couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment as she witnessed her daughter’s acquiescence. She hadn’t expected Kate to win the battle certainly, but she’d expected her to offer a more forceful opposition. Surely Kate could have taken a stronger stand, given everything the house represented: the past, Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim, the great love they’d shared … She looked about the drawing room.

  ‘More tea?’ she offered. ‘Neil, Alan, you must surely be ready for another cup.’

  Kate was aware that she’d disappointed her mother. It was regrettable, but inevitable. She would certainly have done battle for the house on aesthetic grounds if its preservation had been practicable, but she could not fight for its symbolic significance the way she knew her mother would have liked. Unlike Hilda she was not a romantic. She p
robably never had been. As a little girl, her mother’s stories of Grandmother Ellie and the past had enchanted her. But then so too had fairy tales. She’d long since grown up, and more and more these days she’d come to realise that, although she loved her mother dearly, Hilda Durham lived in a fantasy world.

  ‘Well that’s it,’ Stan said, clapping his hands together loudly by way of a finale, ‘family meeting’s over. Let’s call Ivy in: we need more cake.’

  That night, shortly before dinner, Kate visited her mother in the upstairs sitting room that was Hilda’s personal domain. She was seated as usual by the window that looked out over the balcony and the rear garden, browsing through a copy of Tatler, her dry sherry digestive on the coffee table next to her.

  ‘Do come in, darling,’ she said, putting down the magazine.

  Kate entered and pulled up a chair beside her mother’s. ‘I’m sorry, Marmee.’ It was the name they’d adopted by mutual consent when, aged ten, Kate had first read Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. Hilda loved the way her daughter called her Marmee.

  ‘Good heavens, what on earth are you sorry for?’

  ‘For disappointing you as I did.’

  ‘But my clever, clever, Kate, how could you possibly disappoint me?’ Hilda appeared bemused. ‘I am so very proud of you.’

  ‘Old Elianne House,’ Kate prompted. Her mother seemed to have forgotten.

  ‘Ah yes. That.’ Hilda gave a slight shrug and looked out the window. ‘You wouldn’t have won, anyway.’

  ‘I know.’ Kate sensed that her mother wasn’t really seeing the balcony, or the gardens stretched out below.

  ‘How sad to think that a symbol of such love should be sold off piecemeal,’ Hilda said quietly, more to herself than to Kate.