by Judy Nunn
'But he's said nothing to me.'
'No, he plans to tell you when we get back from our trip.' The look on Cynthia's face had remained one of incredulity. 'Everything's settled, I'm afraid,' Arlene had said even more firmly; there needed to be no misunder-standing. 'The booking was made some time ago. Ian's already paid for the unit, and they're expecting you to move in any time now.'
She'd seen that the penny had finally dropped. She had to give Cynthia her due: there'd been no argument, no histrionics, no tears. Cynthia had said absolutely nothing. But she'd looked as though she'd just had a dagger plunged into her heart.
'I do feel for you, Cynthia.' Arlene had regretted having sounded so brutal, even though it had been necessary. 'Ian is doing what's best for you, really he is. He's been so very worried about you lately.' She'd kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek as she'd gathered up her handbag. 'But then he'll tell you all this himself when we get home. I just thought you might like to plan what you want to take with you.'
And now it had come to this, Arlene thought, as she rocked her husband gently in her arms. How absolutely dreadful.
'Sssh, sweetie, there, there.'
Ian's sobs were gradually subsiding, although he still clung to his mother's hand.
Arlene gazed at Cynthia where she lay, immaculate, on her death bed. No, she certainly hadn't anticipated anything like this, she thought. But then Cynthia did look so composed in death, didn't she? So serene and peaceful. Perhaps it was for the best when all was said and done. Cynthia really wouldn't have been happy in a nursing home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Alan Bond and his America's Cup team arrived home to a heroes' welcome across the nation. The whole of Australia was infected by cup fever, but none more so than the citizens of Perth. They claimed the America's Cup as their own, and why shouldn't they? The challenge had been mounted right here on their own turf, and the fabled Cup itself, a giant silver chalice, was to be on exhibition at the Royal Perth Yacht Club. The celebrations went on for weeks.
'To Bondy,' Spud toasted, and the twenty seated about the table rose to their feet.
'To Bondy,' they said, glasses raised.
Alan Bond remained seated. With the broadest of grins he raised his own glass in acknowledgement. He'd been raising his glass and acknowledging tributes for the past month since his return from New York, but he hadn't got sick of it yet, and he knew he never would.
They were at the Mediterranean Garden Restaurant in Rokeby Road, Subiaco. The Mediterranean, owned by Laurie Connell, a highly successful businessman known for his aggressive company takeover tactics, was one of the favourite gathering places for Perth's entrepreneurial and political elite. Laurie and his wife, Liz, were seated beside Alan and Eileen Bond, and the political contingent included the WA Premier, Brian Burke, together with his close ally and Parliamentary Minister, Julian Grill.
Lang Hancock, the aging iron ore pioneer, had arrived with his Filipina companion, Rose Lacson. Thirty-nine years his junior, Rose had taken up employment in his household as a maid, but had rapidly come to mean a great deal more to the recently widowed Hancock. Rose was not the only Filipina at the table. Len Baker, a fellow mining magnate and good mate of Lang's, had turned up with his new twenty-five-year-old mistress, who hailed from Santa Cruz. Her name was Juliet, and she'd been in Perth for barely a month. And, of course, Cora Farrell, Spud's wife, was there.
Ian and Arlene Pemberton, normally present at such gatherings, were conspicuous by their absence. Ian was still grieving over his mother's death, which Spud found most unhealthy. Jesus, he thought, they'd all been sympathetic at the time – everyone knew how much Pembo adored his mother. They'd turned up at the funeral and paid their respects, carefully saying nothing about the fact the poor cow had suicided. But that was over a whole bloody month ago! And Pembo was still on a downward spiral! The man was neglecting his business, it was bloody indulgent.
'For Christ's sake, mate, get a grip on yourself!' Spud had urged. 'You've got a life to live, a business to run!'
But his well-meaning tirade had made no impression. Ian Pemberton remained deeply depressed. His was more than a state of mourning; he was plagued with remorse. Ian blamed himself for his mother's death.
'You told her?' He'd been astounded when Arlene had admitted to the truth. 'You told her about the nursing home? Why the fuck would you do a thing like that!'
How dare he use such language, she'd thought. But the anger she'd seen in his eyes had warned her not to take issue. 'I did it for your sake,' she'd said, aggrieved. 'I wanted to take some of the pressure off you. I knew you were dreading telling her yourself.'
Arlene had felt it necessary to admit the truth. Ian had been in torment as to the reason for his mother's overdose. Could it possibly have been a mistake, he'd agonised. He knew she took sleeping pills occasionally – perhaps she'd had too much champagne, as she was wont to do, and had then doubled up on the Nembutal forgetting she'd already taken some ... Arlene, wishing no investigation into Cynthia's drug use, and having cleared the medicine cabinet of its abundant supplies, had told her husband the obvious and very simple reason for his mother's suicide. She'd even admitted to having been very firm with Cynthia – again, for his sake. She'd wanted to save him from any possible combat upon their return. 'How could you do it, Arlene? How could you fucking well do it!'
Again the language, which appalled her, but she hadn't made her distaste evident. She'd started to cry instead.
'I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm so sorry. I was only thinking of you.'
Her tears had paid off, and the first serious altercation in the thirteen years of their marriage had been successfully avoided. But in the days and weeks that had followed, Ian had spiralled into a deep depression.
Arlene wasn't to blame, he thought. The problem was him and his sheer bloody weakness. He should never have agreed to the nursing home, he should have stood firm. If he had, his mother would still be alive. He was spineless, he told himself, bloody spineless. Just like he had been with Phil Cowan. But for his cowardice, Phil Cowan, too, might still be alive.
'I don't know what to do, Spud,' he remembered whining. Christ, but he'd been a wimp. 'Phil needs money, big money, and he wants my help.'
Phil Cowan, Ian's long-time friend and business partner, had by then been mainlining for years, and Ian had finally admitted the truth to Spud. 'His dealers are after him and he's gone into hiding. God only knows what they'll do if he can't pay up.'
Spud hadn't said 'I told you so', but his contempt had been plain, and Ian had known that it was directed at him as much as at Phil.
'I presume the useless prick's run off to his weekender?'
Ian had nodded. 'What'll I do, Spud?'
'Don't give him a cent. Go home and let him stew in his own juice.'
Spud had said no more than that, and Ian had done as he was told.
Phil Cowan had been discovered at his holiday shack in Mandurah barely a week later, dead of an overdose which was presumed accidental.
Spud hadn't been at all surprised when he'd heard the news. 'Bound to happen,' he'd shrugged. 'A man owes big money, goes into hiding, word gets around he can't pay – a recipe for disaster.'
They'd had no further discussion. Spud hadn't invited it and Ian hadn't pursued it. They'd both known that Spud had had no direct involvement in the sordid episode of Phil Cowan's death. He'd simply utilised his grape vine of contacts. Horrified as he'd been by the death of his friend and partner, Ian's reaction had been tempered with relief, and, although he could barely bring himself to admit it, a sense of gratitude.
Now, all these years later, guilt-ridden over his mother's suicide, the memory of Phil Cowan returned to haunt him. He'd betrayed Phil just as he'd betrayed his mother. They were both dead because he was gutless. Ian was consumed with self-loathing. The celebratory lunch was a long one – their lunches at the Mediterranean always were. In fact, as Spud and Cora took their leave at five o'clock, it was obvious that the hard-co
re drinkers would remain at the restaurant for dinner – an occurrence that was not altogether unusual.
Spud was mellow but not drunk as they climbed into the Mercedes – he very rarely allowed alcohol to get the better of him. Cora didn't drink at all, but he certainly wasn't about to trust her at the wheel. He'd taught her to drive, and she'd gained her licence after her third attempt, but Cora was a truly dreadful driver.
'Juliet, she is very nice,' Cora remarked. Today was the first day they'd met Len Barker's new mistress and Cora had liked her a lot. 'She is very pretty too.'
'Yep.' Spud kept his eyes on the road. His mind wasn't on Cora's chatter, he was thinking about the interesting discussion he'd had with Brian Burke when he'd been able to pry him away from Laurie Connell. Laurie and Brian were permanently joined at the hip – Laurie had been boasting for months that he was the one who'd got Burke into power. But then, Spud thought, a little prime ministerial assistance from Burke's old mate Bob Hawke hadn't gone astray.
'Rose, she is nice,' Cora said, with a little less certainty; she wasn't altogether sure about Rose. 'And she is pretty also.'
'Yep.' He really needed to talk things over with Pembo – if only he could get him out of his current doldrums.
'It is funny, Spud, three Filipina at lunch today and I am the only wife.' Cora laughed. The knowledge filled her with pride. But there was no answer from Spud.
'You do not think this is a good thing?' Her face reflected her disappointment; she'd expected some response.
'Sorry, love. I don't think what's a good thing?'
Oh, it was all right, she thought, he just hadn't been listening. She was used to that.
'Me, I am the only Filipina at lunch who is married,' she said.
'Of course.' Spud leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. 'You're married because you're very special.'
Cora beamed happily. She was secure in his love. Not that he ever actually told her he loved her, but he showed it in so many ways.
She settled back to chat about the lunch – she'd varied her choice and had the dhufish today, which had been excellent. Juliet had had the lobster salad, which had also been excellent. Cora knew this because she'd often had the lobster salad herself.
'I tell Juliet that one day I take her to the Oyster Beds. The Oyster Beds, they have the best lobster thermidor, I think.'
Spud smiled. He wasn't listening to the chatter itself, but the sound of her voice pleased him. Everything about Cora pleased him.
'Juliet, she is very nice, I would like her for my friend. But she will not be here long.' Cora's tone was practical, although tinged with regret. 'Len, he will send her back to the Philippines. This is sad, I think.'
She glanced at Spud, but again there was no reply. He wasn't listening. Cora didn't mind. Spud would never send her home, she thought, gazing contentedly out the window. They had been together for a whole eight years, and now they were married. Spud was an excellent husband. Cora considered it her duty to be an excellent wife in return. She would never make eyes at other men and flirt the way she saw some wives do. Such behaviour was disloyal. She would never be disloyal to the man she loved.
To Cora, gratitude and love amounted to much the same thing, and not once had it occurred to her to question the difference. The sleepy hollow of Perth was a far cry from the seething back streets of Manila, where she'd never known the luxury of all she could eat and ready money to buy what she wanted. At first, much as she'd revelled in her new life, she'd found it difficult to adjust. She'd gorged herself on the food, but had been unable to bring herself to spend the money he gave her. She still couldn't. She accepted with delight the gifts he lavished upon her, but most of the cash still found its way back to Manila. Her little brother was at university now – the first member of her family ever to have an academic education – and her mother received new shoes every year. As many pairs as she wanted, Italian leather too.
Cora was grateful to Spud beyond measure. She perceived her gratitude as love, and the perception was quite possibly correct. Cora's gratitude, and therefore her love, was reflected in a loyalty so fierce it was akin to devotion. If Spud were threatened, she would quite likely lay down her life for him.
They were driving along Victoria Avenue now, past the wealthy new mansions that were rapidly replacing the rambling old houses by the river. They'd be home soon. She wondered what she should instruct Natalija to prepare for dinner. Natalija always awaited her instructions. But she didn't ask Spud his preference; she could see he was still thinking.
Spud certainly was. Over lunch, he'd pledged a 200,000-dollar donation to the Labor Party, intimating it would be the first of many, and he and Brian Burke had come to an understanding. Spud needed to move and he needed to move quickly – a whole new world was opening up. But he wanted Ian Pemberton by his side. Ian had a brilliant business mind.
You've got just one more fortnight to get your act together, Pembo, he thought. If you're not back on board by then, you can go and get fucked. I'll find another bloody partner.
Spud knew that he wouldn't. For better or for worse, and much as Pembo often infuriated him, they were mates. You didn't give up on your mates.
Like Cora, Spud was a firm believer in loyalty. He was worried about Pembo. How the hell could he get him back on track?
The one to get Ian Pemberton back on track proved to be Arlene, which was surprising because, unlike Spud, she had given up on her husband.
Arlene was frustrated beyond all reason. She wanted desperately to shift into the Peppermint Grove house, but when she'd made a tentative suggestion a fortnight or so after the funeral that perhaps they should start considering the move, he'd all but snapped her head off. 'How bloody tasteless,' he'd said. Tasteless! Her!
It had been a whole five weeks now and she'd done everything herself, with no help from Ian. She'd sifted through Cynthia's personal belongings, and she'd sorted out the furnishings, selling those she didn't want. The house stood ready and waiting for them, but when she hinted at the fact he just glared at her. He was so moody and morose lately, it was getting on her nerves. He even ignored the twins. Which wasn't like him at all, she had to admit. Ian had always been a good father, interested and caring. He loved his children. But young Gordy and Fleur had become virtually invisible. These days she was the one who had to drive them to tennis coaching and footie practice and ballet and singing lessons. She was heartily sick of it.
Now and then he'd go into the office, but according to his secretary he was the same at work: he just sat at his desk and did nothing. His secretary was worried about him. Well, good for her, Arlene thought, but his secretary didn't have to live with him, did she?
Arlene had come to a decision. If Ian chose to ignore his wife and his children, then his wife and his children would ignore him. Besides, there were issues to address, the first of which was Gordy's ears. He was twelve now, and she'd always planned to have his ears done when he was twelve, before he started high school. She'd decided to book the operation for the start of the school holidays, but the plastic surgeon needed a consultation first so she made an appointment for the following week. Then she broke the news to Gordy, very gently.
'All the men in your family have pronounced ears, darling, it's genetic. There's nothing wrong with pronounced ears, of course, but aesthetically it would be to your advantage to have them pinned back.'
Her son stared blankly at her. He didn't seem to understand.
'It's a simple operation . . .' She'd actually heard that recovery from the procedure could be quite painful, but they'd face that part when they came to it. 'And it'll serve you well in the long run, I promise.'
But Gordy, to her infinite surprise, still didn't get her drift.
'Why?' he demanded in his bolshie way.
'Well, you don't want to be called Mickey Mouse, do you, sweetie?' she said reasonably. Heavens above, didn't the boy realise the kindness she was doing him?