Beneath the Southern Cross (21 page)

In the months that followed, she studiously avoided her brother. Whenever he addressed her, she stared at the floor. Each morning she prayed that she would not encounter him at the back door or in the main hall when she was leaving the house. Her daily walks grew longer, her outings to the galleries, to concerts and the theatre grew more frequent and, finally, she insisted that she take her meals with her father in his room. Mealtimes were the most awkward she had found. Susan was now married and living in
Melbourne, and Anne was marooned with Amy and Charles, feeling his eyes upon her, aware that he desired her more than he desired his own wife who was making empty conversation across the table.

Charles Kendle was obsessed. His sister, the creature over whom he had had total power, was withdrawing more and more from him and, as she did, so the need to bring her back under his control grew stronger and stronger.

He was not disturbed by the fact that Anne was in his thoughts when he made love to his wife. It was not unnatural, he told himself, to love his sister. She was reliant upon him, he must protect her, she must love him equally in return.

At night, as Charles felt his body meld with Amy's, he and Anne were one. And when Amy sighed her satisfaction, it was the acquiescence of his sister which Charles experienced. Only then could he find pleasure in his own release.

‘You have taken your evening meal with Father every night for the past two weeks, Anne.' Charles's anger was evident. ‘I consider it extremely rude.'

She had popped into the dining room as Charles and Amy were seating themselves at table and made her announcement as a matter of courtesy, as she had for the past fortnight. Each time Charles had simply said, ‘If you must', and she had disappeared upstairs for the ensuing two hours, after which she had returned to bid her brother and his wife goodnight before retiring.

Charles would have no more of this. How dare she deprive him of her company. She owed him far more than she owed their father.

‘Iam sorry you consider it rude, Charles.' She focused upon the floor as she always did when addressing him these days. ‘But Father has become more feeble of late, and if he is not supervised, I fear he will not eat properly.'

‘Mrs Marett can supervise his feeding. She can feed him by hand if need be.'

‘Mrs Marett is not his daughter.'

Amy looked up, surprised. There was no insolence in Anne's tone, but she was answering back to Charles.

‘I am his daughter,' Anne continued, her gaze still directed at the floor, ‘and much as I do not wish to displease you, I must insist
that I take my meals with him, for the sake of his health.' It was not altogether a lie, James's health was indeed deteriorating, as was his interest in food.

Amy waited for the outburst of anger.

‘I see.' Strangely enough, Charles was calm. Although he wanted her to look at him, he found her subservient attitude attractive, even as she took a stance against his wishes. He did not wish to frighten her. He wished her to admire him. ‘I do not mean to be inconsiderate, Anne. Your care of the old man is admirable.' Amy's eyes flickered from one to the other, she couldn't believe her ears. ‘Perhaps you will take your Sunday evening meals with us, that would not be too much to ask, surely?'

‘Of course, Charles.' She nodded obediently. ‘May I go to Father now?'

‘You may.'

The Sunday evening meals became an endurance test for Anne. When Charles personally filled her wine glass, ignoring the butler, she knew he didso in order to feel the touch of her fingers as he passed it to her. Constantly he queried her about her activities, ensuring that the entire mealtime conversation revolved around her, and that she would be forced to look up from the table. When she did, and caught his eyes feasting upon her, she flushed and looked back down at her untouched plate.

Anne served her time like a prisoner at Kendle Lodge, her only respite the old man upstairs, her only moments of peace spent in the gloomy room of her dying father.

There was just one light at the end of the tunnel and, for Anne, the weeks could not pass quickly enough. Charles, Amy and their son, Stephen, were shortly to depart for Europe, the tripbeing Charles's graduation present to Stephen who, at twenty-three, had recently completed his Bachelor of Arts degree at Sydney University.

‘How very ungrateful of you, Anne,' Charles had said when she had steadfastly refused to accompany them.

‘I know it must appear so Charles, but father's condition is deteriorating so rapidly I could not possibly leave him.'

At first, Charles had cursed his father. Ineffectual to the last, James Kendle couldn't even die efficiently.

Upon consultation with James's physician, however, Charles discovered that the old man was likely to die at any minute.

‘He's failing fast, I'm afraid,' Dr Muggleton said.

‘How long?' Charles demanded.

‘Well,' the doctor shook his head gravely, ‘I doubt whether he will last longer than a fortnight or so. I've not told Mrs Goodlet,' he added. ‘Her own condition issomewhat delicate, I fear, she really must look after her health.'

‘She will be in good hands, I assure you,' Charles replied. ‘We leave for Europe insix weeks and the change of scenery will be just what she will need to ease the grief of her tragic loss.' And Charles concerned himself no more with the irritation of his father's lingering death.

Upon Stephen's return home from St Paul's College a month prior to their departure for Europe, life at Kendle Lodge resumed asemblance of normality.

‘Richard Windeyer eh?' Charles was most gratified to hear of Stephen's friendshipwith the son of so prominent a man as the recently knighted William Charles Windeyer, Supreme Court judge.

‘Yes sir, Richard also rooms at St Paul's,' Stephen boasted enthusiastically, enjoying the unaccustomed attention from his father. ‘He's a grand fellow and we've become very good friends.'

‘Excellent, excellent. I should like to meet the Windeyer boy.'

As he listened to his son talk of college life and the friends he had made, Charles felt his old envy resurface. The envy he had always felt for the automatic social status granted those with a university education. He cursed himself for refusing the opportunity when his father had offered it; he'd been so eager to join the family business.

Howard Streatham had been Oxford educated, Charles often thought bitterly, which explained why Howard was socially acceptable to people like the Wunderlichs. Despite the fact that every major roomin Charles's house now boasted a Wunderlich ceiling he had not as yet been welcomed into the Wunderlichs' artisticcircle of friends, a fact which constantly irked him.

‘You must bring young Windeyer home and introduce him to us,' he said, ‘when we return from Europe.'

Anne was thankful for the distraction of Stephen's presence, but she nonetheless counted the days until she would be free of Charles. For a whole six months she would have the house to
herself, just she and her father and the servants. She might even persuade the butler to carry James downstairs, he had always so enjoyed sitting in the garden. Although he was very fragile these days, perhaps it would not be wise.

Despite the fact that Anne continuously worried about her father, she refused to accept the imminence of his death. She hung on the doctor's words. ‘He's bearing up well enough, Mrs Goodlet,' he said. ‘You must not stress yourself so, you have your own health to consider.'

Only two weeks to go. Charles was becoming impatient. Muggleton's prognosis had proved incorrect. Charles was angry with the doctor and lividwith his father. The old man should have been in his grave by now.

It was Saturday. Amy was lunching with friends, Stephen was sailing his yacht on the harbour and Charles returned home in the late afternoon from several hours' work at the office to find Dr Muggleton waiting for him in the drawing room. He knew in an instant.

‘Mr Kendle,' the doctor said, rising from his armchair, ‘I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

Thank God, Charles thought, at last.

‘Mrs Goodlet sent for me at around two o'clock, but I'm sorry to say there was nothing I could do. He passed away about a half an hour ago.'

But Charles wasn't listening, he was already halfway up the stairs.

Anne was sitting in the chair, hands clasped, wrists leaning against the bed as if she had been praying. She was quietly contained, but had obviously been weeping. Charles crossed to stand beside her and look down at his father.

Emaciated, paper-thinskin stretched over a skull which appeared as fragile as egg-shell, James nevertheless seemed at peace. His eyes were closed beneath sunken lids and hiswithered hands were gently crossed upon the counterpane.

‘It was very peaceful,' Anne said without looking up. ‘He didn't awake, but he whispered as he was sleeping. He seemed to be dreaming. Of his childhood, I think.'

Well, of course he would be, Charles thought. The old man had been in his second childhood for years. ‘It's a relief to know he
was not inpain,' he replied dutifully. ‘I shall tell the doctor to make the necessary arrangements.'

He was about to leave but Anne, horrified, stopped him. ‘You can't possibly mean to take him away now.'

‘Of course.'

‘But people will wish to pay their respects.'

‘What people?'

‘Well, Amy for one. And Stephen.'

‘You're right, Anne.' Charles knew that the prospect of staring at a cadaver, even for the requisite minute or so, would be the last thing Amy would wish. But of course she must be seen to do the right thing. ‘I shall send them both up as soon as they arrive home.'

‘And there's Howard,' Anne added. ‘Howard would wish to pay his respects.' Sadly, she could think of no-one else.

‘Very well,' Charles reluctantly conceded, ‘I shall have Howard informed immediately, and tomorrow morning I shall have the …' he stopped himself from saying ‘the body removed', ‘… the necessary arrangements carried out.'

Anne stayed by her father's bedside for most of the night. She thought of her own life, and she thought of his. They had a lot in common, she realised. What lonely lives they had both been.

Before he'd died, when the doctor had tactfully left her alone with her father, she had knelt by the bed, her head nearly resting on the pillow beside his, to catch his whispered words in case he should be calling for her. But he wasn't.

She heard the word ‘Turumbah' a number of times. Was it a name, she wondered. Then ‘Murrumuru'. Yes, she knew the name Murrumuru. The Aboriginal woman who had come to the house that day … Milly. Milly had spoken of Murrumuru. Of Murrumuru and Richard Kendle. Anne knew at that moment, without a doubt, that Milly had been telling the truth. But then she had known it that day. She had known it and she had done nothing. It had been a terrible thing, she thought, to send the woman away.

Her father whispered of eels. Of eels and Murrumuru. And then he made soft shushing sounds and gently rolled his head upon the pillow. At first, Anne was alarmed. Was he distressed?

‘What is it, Father? Is something wrong? Is there something I can do?'

He must have heard her, for he seemed to want to answer. ‘The
river,' he whispered, ‘the river,' and she could swear there was the touch of a smile upon his lips, ‘the water against the skin.' Then, once more, he made the soft shushing sounds.

Was he a child again? Was he swimming in the river? She would never know, but Anne was glad that her father died in a world where he had once been happy.

The days which followed James's death were amongst the blackest of Anne's life. Not since the death of her husband had she known such despair. Whilst her father had been alive she had served a purpose, but now there was nothing. Nothing but the loathsome anticipation of six months in Europe with Charles dancing attendance upon her.

‘Cheer up, Anne,' he said. ‘Just think, you'll soon be in Italy, you always wanted to go to Italy. And I'll buy you such beautiful things. Do smile for me, dear, I hate to see you so miserable.'

Once again he was ignoring his wife and Anne could sense Amy's hurt and bewilderment. He barely even acknowledged the presence of his son. His sole attention was focused upon her.

Several days before their departure, when Stephen was spending the night with a friend Anne escaped the claustrophobia of the house and the prospect of an evening meal alone with Charles and Amy to attend a concert at the Town Hall.

Howard and his wife Helen had insisted on supper following the recital and it was well after midnight when she slipped in the front door of Kendle Lodge.

Only the downstairs night lights illuminated the house, all else was in darkness, and Anne was thankful that the household had retired. She crossed the mainliving room towards the stairs.

‘Anne.' His voice came from out of the gloom and she looked about, startled. ‘Come and join me for a drink.'

He was seated in one of the large armchairs by the bay windows. She couldn't see his face, only the silhouette of his legs, crossed, the brandy balloon in one hand resting upon his knee.

‘Oh. Charles, you startled me.'

‘Come and join me.' The brandy balloon waved towards the other armchair in the window recess. ‘Tell me about your evening.'

‘No, thank you, it is very late and I am tired.'

He leaned forward and she could see his face. ‘I said come and
join me.' It was an order. ‘Come and spend a little time with your brother.'

His words were not slurred but his manner was aggressive and Anne knew he was drunk.

‘I am sorry, Charles,' she said, ‘but I really must retire, I am very weary.'

He put his brandy balloon down on the coffee table and crossed to her at the stairs. ‘Too weary to talk to your own brother?' He was close to her now, his voice belligerent, his eyes angry, and she could smell the cognac on his breath. ‘Come, come, Anne, it's been a long timesince we've talked as brother and sister should.'