Beneath the Southern Cross (59 page)

‘All right,' she agreed, ‘Robert it is.' Suddenly she had an even better idea: ‘Let's make it Roberto and then he'll know he's half Italian.'

Kathleen De Haan's premonition had been right. She had never seen her granddaughter again. Kathleen died eight months after Caroline left for Melbourne.

‘There was nothing you could have done, Caroline,' Tim said when she came home for the funeral, ‘it was an accident. One of those stupid, senseless accidents; no-one could have prevented it.'

Kathleen had fallen down the steep, narrow stairs of her Woolloomooloo house. There would have been no pain, the doctor said, her neck had been instantly broken. Tim told Caroline as much, but it didn't seem to absolve her sense of guilt.

‘If only I'd been there,' she agonised. ‘If I'd been there it might not have happened.'

‘Of course it would have happened,' Tim insisted. Grieving as he was himself over Kathleen's death, it was obvious Caroline needed reassurance. ‘Your grandmother was seventy-one years old, she was unsteady on her feet, she would have fallen whether or not you'd been there.'

His words didn't seem to comfort her, however. Even Kitty could not break through the wall of Caroline's guilt. But then, Caroline was five months pregnant and, in Tim's experience, pregnant women were often unable to grasp reason.

Tim did not understand. Much as he had been Caroline's childhood hero, and to a certain extent a father-figure, the only real family she had ever known was her grandmother. And, as Caroline had grown to adulthood, Kathleen had become her friend, her confidante, and mentor. It had seemed that Kathleen would always
be there, and her death had come as a terrible shock.

Kathleen had left the house to her, and at first Caroline found the burden unbearable. She couldn't bring herself to sift through her grandmother's belongings, and she did not want any stranger to do so. She decided to leave the place locked up, to gather dust, until she felt strong enough to face it. Perhaps after the baby was born. All she wanted now was to go back to Gene, regretting that she'd insisted he stay in Melbourne to look after Emma.

Then the perfect solution presented itself. She would lease the house to Ada and Pete. They were married now and living with Ada's parents. They wanted to start a family and needed a place of their own.

‘I'll look after the house,' Ada promised. ‘I'll keep everything the way it was.' And knowing how fond Ada had been of Kathleen, Caroline trusted her.

She went back to Melbourne. General Motors-Holden had offered Gene a long-term contract, and she was relieved to be out of Sydney, glad of the distance. She could not possibly have lived in the Woolloomooloo house, the memories of her childhood and of Kathleen were too fresh, they would have haunted her.

‘I'll come back after the baby's born,' she had promised Ada, ‘I'll come back and sort things out then.'

But she hadn't. It was sixteen years before Caroline returned to Woolloomooloo, a widow with three children, in the summer of early '62.

 

Gene had met his death on a car racing track. Just like his father. And, just like his father, he'd been killed instantly. The blame did not rest with General Motors-Holden, as Kitty had first presumed when she'd heard the horrifying news. He had not been conducting a test run for the company, as he'd so often told her on the occasions when he'd return home with cuts and bruises, and once even with a broken arm.

‘My own stupid mistake,' he'd insist. ‘Nothing to worry about sweetheart, honest. The test runs are very safely conducted, it was driver's error, my own damn fault, and it'll never happen again, I promise.'

But it had. And this time the price had been his life. That's when Caroline had discovered that, throughout the whole of their
marriage, her husband had been racing cars on the weekends when he'd said he was working. His life with her had been a lie, and Caroline could see it no other way.

Those who loved her, and who rallied upon hearing the news, were shocked at the change in Caroline when she returned to Sydney. She looked weary and drawn, which was to be expected, but it was her manner which was most alarming. She was remote, aloof, even cold towards them.

Tim went to Melbourne to bring her and the children home, and Kitty met them all at the station and drove them to Woolloomooloo. Ada had prepared the old house for Caroline's return, Ada and Pete, now with two children of their own, having moved to a terrace cottage several blocks away.

‘I've tried to put everything back just the way it was.' Ada chatted on as she always did when she felt self-conscious and insecure, while Kitty merely watched from the sidelines.

Tim had taken seventeen-year-old Emma and the two boys out shopping for supplies, leaving Caroline with the women. He felt that she might need female company since she'd not been forthcoming at all with him.

‘Well, as close to the way it was as I can remember,' Ada went on, ‘sixteen years is a long time.'

Caroline wandered about the house, Ada following like a puppy seeking approval, and Kitty busied herself in the kitchen making tea.

Kitty had wondered if it was wise for Caroline to move into the old home which held so many memories. Gene had left her adequately provided for, she could have set herself up in a whole new life, made a fresh start for herself and her children. But Caroline had been insistent.

Yes, it did all look the same, Caroline thought as she wandered amongst the familiar rooms. The old counterpanes, which Ada had had laundered and stored away, were back on the beds, and the lace tablecloth back in the front parlour. She'd returned the furniture to pretty much the same way as it had been in Kathleen's time. She'd even resurrected the old pots and pans and hung them back on the pegs of the kitchen walls.

Some things were different, Caroline noticed, accepting the cup of tea Kitty handed her. A refrigerator stood where the icebox had
been, and the old wood stove had been replaced with a gas one, but with Kathleen's iron cooking pot sitting on the top, somehow it all looked the same.

She was touched. It made her feel comfortable in a vague sort of way. ‘I'm home,' she said, but with the same aloofness she'd displayed from the moment she'd arrived.

She dutifully drank tea with Kitty and Ada, but was grateful when Kitty said, ‘Would you like a little while on your own before Dad comes home with the kids?'

‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you both.'

When they'd gone, Caroline sat for a moment in the kitchen, just soaking up the old house and its memories. Then she went upstairs to the bedrooms.

In the little back room the old cupboard was still there, with Kathleen's things neatly stored inside. One by one she lifted them out. The knitted hot-water bottle cover which Kathleen had made herself. Clumsily crafted, Kathleen had been no expert with knitting needles. But Caroline remembered its thick cosy comfort as a child when the nights were cold. And Otto's old dressing gown which Kathleen herself had worn after his death. Ada had had it cleaned and it sat folded, pristine, in its tissue paper wrapping. Dear Ada, Caroline thought. And the tattered photograph album with the faded picture of her father on the first page, and others, equally faded, of Otto and his son Johann, and many of herself as a child, and then as a young woman. A history of the family.

She lifted the old suitcase from out of the back of the wardrobe, and there was Hannah's journal. Only then did she realise that she'd forgotten to record Kathleen's death as she'd promised she would.

She carried the book downstairs, fetched a pen, and sat at the kitchen table.

‘Kathleen De Haan (nee O'Shea), died 3 August 1946' she wrote. Then, directly beneath, ‘Gene Bradford Hamilton, died 10 January, 1962.' She stared at the entries for quite a long time, but she didn't cry. The two people she cared most about in the world had died senseless, unnecessary deaths. It angered her.

Then she realised that there were two more entries to be made, and that she'd got them out of order. She should have recorded the births of her sons before the death of her husband. Oh well, it was a mishmash of a list anyway, and she added ‘James Francis
Hamilton, born 18 November 1946' and ‘Bruce Anthony Hamilton, born 7 June 1948'.

She carried the journal upstairs and returned it to the suitcase in the back of the cupboard, praying that she would never make another entry in its pages. God forbid that she should ever be called upon to record the death of one of her children, they were all she had to live for now.

As the months passed, both Tim and Kitty, and Ada too, worried about Caroline. The children, grieving as they were, seemed to have accepted the loss of their father but Caroline remained bitter and remote, and when anyone attempted to break through her barriers she closed off and was sullen.

It was Kitty who decided upon the drastic approach. She called on Caroline unexpectedly one afternoon, taking Artie and nine-year-old Robert with her. She hadn't telephoned, knowing full well that Caroline would avoid her if she did.

‘Caroline.' Kitty knew in an instant that Caroline was not pleased to see them, but she ignored the fact, offering no apology for the intrusion, and warmly hugged her. ‘I thought it was time you met my husband and son. This is Arturo and Rob.'

‘Hello,' Caroline said as she shook hands with them both. So this was the Italian Kitty had married. Well, you didn't get much more Italian than that, and the boy had inherited his father's looks. How like Kitty, always the rebel; it would have been a surprise to no-one if Kitty Kendall had married a black man. Caroline wondered idly if she loved her husband, or if she'd married him for the shock value.

Artie was aware he was being given the once-over, and he too sensed that their visit was not welcome.

‘Perhaps you would like to talk alone together,' he said meaningfully to Kitty. ‘Rob and I can go for a walk in the park.'

‘No, no,' Kitty ignored him, ‘I want Rob to meet the children.' She said to Caroline, ‘May we come in?'

‘Yes, of course, I'm sorry,' Caroline replied distractedly, appearing to notice for the first time that they were standing on the porch. ‘Come in, I'll make us some tea.

‘They're not here,' she said, leading the way to the kitchen. ‘The boys play footie on Saturday afternoon and Emma's at the pictures with a girlfriend.'

‘Oh what a shame, do you have any photographs?'

‘Upstairs.'

‘Well, I'll put the kettle on while you go and get them.'

Caroline reluctantly went upstairs and Arturo muttered to Kitty in Italian, ‘Why do you boss her about? She does not want us here, we must go.'

‘Have a quick cup of tea and then leave us alone together.' Kitty automatically replied in Italian. When they were on their own with their son, they invariably spoke Italian, forcing the boy to follow suit. ‘Do you want to go to the park, Rob?' she asked as she filled up the kettle.

‘Yes, can we go now?' Rob was bored already, he didn't want to sit around drinking tea.

‘In a few minutes,' Kitty said. ‘Be patient.' She winked at Artie. ‘You can take him to see the Archibald Fountain.' Artie smiled back, recalling the first night they'd met.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Caroline heard the three of them chatting in Italian. Were they talking about her, she momentarily wondered. But then the boy was joining in, and she heard the Archibald Fountain mentioned. No, she was just being paranoid, and she really must make some effort, she'd been churlish and probably rude. Still, they could have telephoned. Then she could have avoided them altogether.

‘You speak Italian, Kitty, I'm very impressed,' she said, forcing a smile as she put the photographs on the table.

‘Sorry, didn't mean to be rude.' Kitty dumped the kettle on the stove. ‘We always speak Italian with Rob, it's become a bit of a habit. We want him to grow up bilingual, although he's not too sure about it himself, are you, Rob?'

Rob shrugged as if he didn't care, but he did really. Very much. He'd never admit to the kids at school that he spoke Italian. He had enough trouble with the way he looked as it was. And he insisted that his name was Robert, not Roberto.

‘Here, I'll do that,' Caroline said as Kitty lit the stove, ‘you sit down.'

Artie dutifully admired the photographs of the children, Kitty pointing out how pretty Emma was, and Artie marvelling at his wife's capacity for small talk. It was a talent Kitty rarely displayed. As soon as they could make good their escape, Artie and Robert disappeared off to the park.

Caroline wrapped up some bread. ‘You can feed the pigeons,' she said to Rob.

‘Thanks.' He was a handsome little boy when he smiled, she thought.

Caroline relaxed a little after they'd gone. ‘You're deliberately pushing me, aren't you, Kitty? You haven't changed,' she said. Caroline had always admired Kitty's boldness. ‘You haven't changed a bit.'

‘You have,' Kitty said, ‘you've changed a lot.'

‘Yes.' Straight to the point, Caroline thought, typically Kitty.

‘You're very unhappy, aren't you?'

Caroline gave a snort of derision. ‘Do you blame me?'

‘Of course not.' Strange, Kitty thought, how Caroline's beauty had been destroyed from within. She was a little weightier, it was true, but the handsome brow was still clearly defined, the mouth still luscious, she should have been a handsome woman. But dissatisfaction and resentment had marred her looks.

‘You have every right to be unhappy,' she agreed, ‘but why are you so bitter?'

Caroline was confronted. Just as Kitty intended her to be. No-one had spoken to her this way. She'd had endless condolences and offers of help, but no-one really understood. They thought they did. A woman grieving for her husband, and left with three children too. Sad. Tragic. But they didn't understand at all. She wondered if Kitty might. She obviously wanted to try.

‘He died such a senseless death,' Caroline began. ‘It shouldn't have happened. He shouldn't have died the way he did.'