Beneath the Southern Cross (65 page)

To her credit, Julia had tried at first. ‘What is it, Dad? Something you want?' But his vocal contortions sounded so like groans, that she invariably called the nurse who gave him apainkiller or a hot-water bottle, or simply adjusted his cushions and scolded him.

But Wally never stopped practising in private. He practised blinking, learning to control the involuntary fluttering of his eyelids, and he practised specific movements with the fingers of his left hand, that they might be read as messages. But most of all he practised his words.
Get Joe
. He concentrated on just the two.

As he thought of the words he fought desperately to move his tongue.
Get Joe
. But his tongue sat in his mouth like a useless piece of dead meat. Wally inwardly cursed, but he didn't give up.
Get Joe
. And gradually, a month or so after his stroke, he found he could make some contact between the back of his tongue and his soft palate, producing a sort of guttural consonant.

He waited for Wallace's visit. The women saw him too regularly to notice any difference, they'd given up looking.

‘G'day, Dad,' Wallace said as he joined him on the verandah, bending low over the stooped formin the wheelchair in order to see his father's face. ‘And how are we today?' he asked loudly.

I'm not a moron, you dumb bastard, and I'm not deaf
. Even his son spoke to him like he was a halfwit.

He blinked. Three times. Very hard. And he didn't make a sound as he stared at his son.

Wallace was taken aback. Where were the groans? Where were the flickering eyelids? Then he saw the forefinger of his father's left hand. He was no longer clutching feebly at the rug on his knees. He was tapping his forefinger. Three times he tapped. Then he stopped.

‘Dad?' Wallace knelt by the chair. His father was trying to make contact, he knew it.

Got him
. Wally fought to position his tongue, but he didn't make a sound until he could see his son's face very close to his.

Then ‘Heh … Hoe,' he said, with all the force he could muster.
Bugger it, it didn't sound right
.

This was more than the customary groan, Wallace thought, there was a definite sound there, his father was trying to say something.

‘I'm here, Dad, I'm here,' he said. ‘What is it you want to say?'

Jesus Christ, boy, if only it was that simple
. Wally forced himself not to make a sound. He wanted to. In his frustration, he wanted to groan and growl as loudly as he could. But he didn't. His son was watching him, that was all he needed. He blinked his eyes. Three times, quickly. Three times, slowly. Then three times, quickly again.
SOS, you stupid bugger
.

Wallace got the message. ‘Oh Jesus, Dad, you're talking to me.'

Bloody right I am.

‘You want help?'

Wally sighed with relief.

Blink once for yes, Wallace said, and Wally did.

‘Oh God, Dad, what can I do?'

Wally concentrated on the lump of useless tongue in his mouth. ‘Heh … Hoe.'

‘Heck hoe?'

Oh shit!
Wally tensed his throat muscles, and with all of his might he thrust the back of his tongue against his soft palate. ‘Geh …'
Triumph. He'd made a real sound
. ‘Geh … Hoe.' The tip of his tongue wouldn't work. He couldn't make the ‘t' or the ‘j'.

‘You want me to get you something, Dad?'

Wally made no movement, his eyes starting to water as he stared at his son, forcing his eyelids not to flutter.

‘Someone. You want me to get someone.'

Wally blinked. Just once. For yes. He mustn't get excited. And he tapped the forefinger of his left hand.

‘Joe. You want me to get Joe.'

Oh you beautiful boy
. The tears welled in Wally's eyes. He blinked. Once.

‘Time for our medication.' The nurse was there with the pills. But neither of them took any notice. Wallace was staring into his father's eyes as he knelt on the floor beside him.

‘Excuse me, Mr Kendall,' the nurse said, ‘it's time for our medication.'

‘Ach … her,' Wally said. Wallace concentrated upon his father's eyes. They rolled up into his head, as if Wally were raising his face to look at the nurse, which he couldn't of course, but the eyes said it all. Then they rolled back in their sockets. ‘Ach … her,' Wally said, staring at his son.

‘Rightio, Dad.' Wallace winked. ‘I'll sack her,' he murmured, ‘and we'll get you a pretty one, right?'

Wally wept unreservedly that night. God how he loved his son.

Wallace immediately replaced the nurse, giving no reason to his sisters and Darlene other than the fact that his father should have someone prettier to look after him, seeing as he always had an eye for the women. Which didn't go down at all well with Darlene, but when he insisted upon footing the nursing expenses himself, she agreed without further argument. And several days later Joe Davison visited.

Wallace deliberately chose a Saturday when the house would be empty. He gave the new nurse the afternoon off, and as he led Joe into the study he told the maid not to disturb them. He'd told no-one but Joe of the contact he'd made with his father.

Communication didn't take long with Joe. He'd brought along an alphabet chart which he sat on Wally's lap. All Wally had to do was point, with his left forefinger, at the letters he wanted.

Joe was moved by the sight of his old friend trying so desperately to communicate, and more than a little guilt-ridden. ‘I'm sorry I haven't been to see you for a while, Wally, but I didn't think there was much point. I didn't know.' His shrug was deeply apologetic.

‘O … K.' Wally laboriously pointed at the letters.

Joe had been mystified as to the need for secrecy. ‘But the girls'll be thrilled to know they can talk to their father,' he'd said over the phone when Wallace had suggested they say nothing to them for the moment.

‘Oh, of course I intend to tell them, but it only happened the other day, and Dad decided one thing at a time. He thought that everybody crowding in at once might be a bit much, and you're the first person he wants to see.' Joe had been flattered until Wallace had added, ‘Oh, and he'd like you to bring along his will.'

‘I believe it's your decision not to tell the girls?' Joe studied Wally's eyes for any sign of surprise; he didn't trust young Wallace for an instant. ‘I believe that you wanted to see mefirst?'

Wally pointed to ‘Y' for yes. He wasn't sure about the decision not to tell the girls, he'd simply gone along with Wallace's suggestion, but he'd certainly wanted to see Joe. Now more than ever.

‘There's some changes you want made in your will, I believe?'

‘Y' for yes.

‘Of course.' Joe didn't like it one bit. ‘Wallace, if you'd mind leaving us.'

Wallace hesitated and looked at his father.

‘Y' for yes.
Go on, boy. Out
. Joe, a stickler for protocol, would never discuss a will in the presence of one of the beneficiaries, or anyone else for that matter.
Good old Joe. Straight as a die
.

Wallace reluctantly left the room.

Forty minutes later, Joe closed the study door behind him and joined Wallace in the lounge room.

‘I could refuse to accept this will on the grounds that your father was not of sound mind when he changed it.' He saw the fear in Wallace's eyes. ‘But of course he is of sound mind, and we both know it. And with his present mental abilities, I doubt you'd have much difficulty gaining medical opinion to that effect.'

Wallace relaxed.

‘But you'll have no cause to do so,' Joe continued. ‘Your father wishes to change hiswill and I cannot convince him otherwise. Although it will cause an irreparable split in your family, Wallace. I hope you realise that.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about, Joe,' Wallace feigned surprise. ‘My father's will ishis own affair.'

Cheeky young bastard, Joe thought. God only knew how he'd done it. But then even as a boy Wallace had always been able to wrap his old man around his little finger.

‘I suggest you let the girls know they can speak to their father,' Joe said. ‘I'll be ringing Darlene tomorrow to tell her as much myself.'

‘Oh, I intend to tell them tonight, Joe. Of course. Like you say, they'll be thrilled.'

Wally Kendall died of a massive stroke two months later. His shares in Kendall Markets, his cash and his property investments, were all divided equally between his wife and three children. But it was Wallace Kendall who, alone, inherited the family home.

Julia and Lucy were horrified. It had been common knowledge that their father had intended to leave the old house to all three of his children. It wasn't so much the money, although the property was worth a fortune. The three of them had made an agreement that the old home would remain intact, even if one sibling purchased it from the others. Their children and their children's children, they had all agreed, would be free to experience the idyllic childhood they themselves had had in the old house down on the harbour.

‘Why did he do it?' Julia demanded.

‘You were always his favourite, Wallace,' Lucy said. ‘Perhaps that's why.'

To the credit of both women, neither of them blamed Wallace. But even as he shook his head, mystified and apologetic, he could have told them why.

‘I love this place, Dad,' he'd said during the several afternoons he'd had Wally all to himself, before Joe's visit. He'd looked out at the harbour and the tennis court, the jetty and the swimming pool. ‘The times we've had here, eh? I tell you, I wouldn't change this place for a million quid.'

Good on you, boy
. Wally loved hearing his son talk like this, it brought back all the memories.

‘Remember the time I fell out of the mulberry tree and broke my nose?' Wallace knelt in front of the wheelchair and wiggled his nose comically. ‘See, it never healed straight.' It was true, Wallace's crooked nose was at odds with his otherwise handsome face.

There were many such reminiscences during those afternoons,
until Wallace dropped the bombshell. ‘Pity the girls want to demolish the house,' he said, fondly patting the verandah railing upon which he was sitting. ‘Whatever they put up, it'll never be the same.'

What?
His father's horrified eyes blinked twice for no.

‘Yeah, it's a bugger, isn't it?' Wallace agreed. ‘But you know women, they like modern things.'

Two more blinks. And his father's breathing was becoming agitated.

‘I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to upset you.' He knelt by the wheelchair. ‘But there's nothing I can do.'

Oh yes there bloody well is
. One blink. For yes.

Wallace looked puzzled for a moment or so, and then realisation appeared to dawn. ‘Well, yes,' he said slowly, ‘I suppose there is. I suppose if you left the place to me, then we'd know that it'd be safe.'

One blink.

Easy. It had been that easy.

Three years after his father's death, Wallace demolished the old family home to build his harbourside mansion, and indoing so alienated his sisters forever.

It was very unrealistic of them, Wallace thought. Who on earth maintained such architectural dinosaurs? Who on earth kept hold of rambling old colonial houses on harbourside frontages where every square metre of land was worth a fortune? Romantic rubbish. His sisters were businesswomen, they should recognise progress.

But Julia and Lucy wanted nothing more to do with their brother. As members of the Kendall Markets board of directors, they were forced to deal with him however. That changed a few years later when all ties were severed. It seemed that the family business was not enough for Wallace, he wanted to expand. He had ambitious ideas which could make millions for Kendall Markets if the board wished to be adventurous.

But they didn't. Kendall Markets had no desire to invest in Wallace's entrepreneurial schemes. So he sold his shares, mortgaged his mansion and, with a healthy cash base and breakthrough concepts, was welcomed with open arms by the Tricontinental Merchant Bank.

As a borrower, Wallace Kendall met Tricontinental's guidelines to perfection. He had the ideas and the cashflow and Tricontinental, unlike other merchant banks, was prepared to be as supportive as necessary.

This was 1980 after all. Gone were the days when people borrowed at low, and realistic, interest rates. Now, with financial deregulation, credit was unlimited and the banks encouraged their clients to borrow heavily. There was money enough for everyone, they would all grow wealthy together.

When Wallace left Kendall Markets, he took with him his fellow board member and lifelong friend, Bruce Hamilton. He needed Bruce's sound financial commonsense to temper the flamboyance of Jason Bruford.

Jason Bruford, Harvard-educated corporate lawyer, thirty-three years of age, just one year younger than Wallace, was confident, groomed and smooth-talking. He'd made a deep impression on Wallace from the moment they'd first met, which was at one of Packer's lavish annual functions designed to impress his publishing syndicate's major clients and associates.

‘Good God, man, you have all these assets, all this cash at your fingertips, and you're not expanding?' Jason had appeared horror-struck with disbelief. ‘You should move with the times.'

It had been Jason Bruford who had inspired Wallace. Indeed, the man remained a force to be reckoned with throughout the rapid growth of what was to become the Kendall Corporation. But Wallace remained the power behind the throne, despite the fact
that he modelled himself upon Jason. Within only months of their meeting, Wallace had dropped his earthy Australian image. Gone were the casual work clothes and in their place sleek designer suits. These days Wallace dressed impeccably, and carried a slim, black briefcase wherever he went, just as Jason did, though he drew the line at growing a pencil moustache like Jason's. A pager was always at the ready in the top pocket of his jacket, and he wore dark glasses when it wasn't necessary.

His friend's change of image irritated Bruce Hamilton enormously. He refused to call Jason ‘JB' as Wallace did, loathing the American use of acronyms, and when Wallace had had the effrontery to refer to him as ‘BH', he had made his thoughts on the matter quite clear.

‘What do you think, BH?' Wallace had asked innocently enough.

‘Oh for God's sake, Wallace, my name's Bruce and you bloody well know it.' He glared at Wallace and Jason across the boardroom table. ‘Call me BH once more, either of you, and you'll cop Wal and Jase from me, and you won't like that in public, will you?'

But even Bruce had to admit that the three of themmade a formidable team. Wallace Kendall, Chairman of the Board, bold, innovative; Jason Bruford, Managing Director, expert on the state of the market, knowing when to buy up a failing company, when to sell; and he, Bruce Hamilton, keeping the other two in check, tempering their enthusiasm with sound financial management.

Bruce Hamilton wasn't too sure ifheliked Jason Bruford, but perhaps that was because Jason Bruford was a homosexual, a fact which made Bruce a little uncomfortable. Jason went to no pains to disguise his persuasion. In fact he even seemed boastful of it, which Bruce had to admit was brave. Sydney might be becoming a city of poofters as some said, and homos were certainly a dime a dozen, particularly in the eastern suburbs, but in the corporate world it was wisest to keep quiet if one was homosexual.

Bruce was a good bloke by most people's standards, one who rarely took a dislike to others, and he tried to be fair. It was because Jason had turned Wallace into a bit of a poseur, that was it, he decided. He didn't like Jason Bruford because the man was manipulative. Not that it mattered, he had the feeling that Jason considered him a touch plebeian and didn't much like him either.

It was Shangri-La Chalets which put Kendall Enterprises well and truly on the map.

‘They're broke and they're desperate. The place is only four years old, in perfect nick and we can buy it for half its market value,' Jason said.

Shangri-La was a five-star resort in Queensland. Superbly designed, it sat on green, hilly slopes and was surrounded by rain-forest. The resort consisted of forty split-level luxury chalets, hidden amongst the hills, each private, secluded and complete with spa and sundeck.

Nestled in the valley below was a superb cordon bleu restaurant with its own wine cellar, a large piano bar overlooking the valley, and a cigar lounge with an open log fireplace at one end. Even in Queensland the winter nights could be chilly.

The resort also boasted an eighteen-hole golf course, two tennis courts, an Olympic-size swimming pool and a gymnasium for those who liked to temper their hedonism with a healthy workout. So why had the owners gone bankrupt?

‘The hills,' Wallace said. ‘It's the hills. No-one's going to pay five-star prices to walk up hills.'

‘A miniature railway system?' Bruce suggested. ‘Or cable cars?'

‘No, no,' Jason said dismissively, ‘mini-mokes. A guest simply picks up a phone and dials a mini-moke and a driver. They'd have to be on tap twenty-four hours a day of course, so—'

‘Too expensive, too complicated, and there's a much better way,' Wallace interrupted.

His idea was simple. Pure genius.

The place was converted into a health resort. The hills were marketed as ‘incidental exercise'. Shangri-La had been deliberately designed, the guests were told, to ensure that they received a daily workout as they walked from their luxury chalets to the restaurant or the lecture room—the converted bar—where expert advice on nutrition, diet and exercise was offered, or to the pampering lounge—the cigar room—where beauticians administered facials and massages. ‘Incidental exercise', they were informed with all due seriousness, was as important to their stay at Shangri-La Chalets as was the daily regime of tai chi, meditation, circuit training and swimming.

Wallace poached the manager from a popular health resort in
the Blue Mountains, offered the personal trainer of an Olympic marathon runner twice what the Olympian could afford, and hired a top nutritionist and chef, as well as several beauticians and masseurs. After a fanfare of publicity and marketing hype, Shangri-La Chalets never looked back.

With Jason's shrewd eye, Bruce's tough financial negotiation, and the limitless support of Tricontinental, Wallace acquired other properties which had lost their way, and set about creating a series of thematic resorts to appeal to specific markets. That was what it was all about. Marketing. Target your market correctly and you couldn't go wrong.

The Kendall Family Resort on the Gold Coast was the next acquisition. No flashy name, no flashy prices. Well within the working man's budget, the Kendall Family Resort offered not only value for money but all the beauty and comfort of a five-star resort. Brand new, it boasted rooms with verandahs or terraces, for all the world like luxury suites. The massive swimming pool was landscaped with an island in the middle, and even the children's wading pool had a miniature fountain, a smiling dolphin which squirted water on the toddlers as they crawled about.

Regular competitions were run, prior to the resort's opening, for lucky families to win a week's holiday at the luxurious Kendall Family Resort. When interviewed by the press, the families agreed that the Kendall Family Resort was every bit as impressive as the glossy brochures had boasted.

But, shoddily built with cheap materials, its gloss would not last long, and the Kendall Corporation sold it after three years, ensuring that its new owners would be blamed for its eventual shabbiness.

The Kendall Corporation had gone public with a massive publicity campaign, and the company's stockmarket value steadily rose as small buyers queued up for shares in such a substantial commodity. It was heartening to the small stockholder to be able to see where his money was going. To witness the opulence and success of the Kendall resorts and to know that he owned a small part of it all.

 

‘Wealth certainly doesn't buy good taste. He's made a monstrosity of that beautiful family property, no wonder his sisters won't speak to him.'

Bruce Hamilton heaved a sigh. Kitty Farinelli was at it again. As soon as she'd arrived at his mother's house, she'd dived on the topic and worried it like a dog did a bone. As a lad, Bruce had found Kitty exciting. He'd fancied her. He and his brother Jim both had. Kitty Farinelli had been sexy and bold. She'd held passionate views on the most controversial of subjects like free love and abortion, and the Hamilton boys had found her slightly shocking and very attractive.

Bruce found her neither shocking nor attractive these days, although he had to admit that she was pretty damn good for her age. Alittle hatchet-faced perhaps, but still lean and lithe. Good God, she'd have to be in her late fifties and yet she had the body of a woman half her years. But he found her dogmatic and, at times, downright aggressive. Towards him, anyway.

To be fair, Bruce knew that Kitty picked on him because she was worried about his mother, but he wished she'd lay off. There was little he could do about his mother's predicament and he'd told Kitty as much when she'd delivered her lecture over six months ago. He'd called in to see Caroline and discovered the two women in the kitchen, where they'd been playing Scrabble.

‘Do you want a lift home in my new car?' he'd asked Kitty, with all the eager pride of a ten-year-old. He loved showing off his new Mercedes Benz.

‘But you've only been here ten minutes,' Kitty said.

‘I know, just time for a quick cuppa, but I've got to dash.' He looked at his watch as he put his cup down. ‘Big bad world of finance beckons. Mum understands, don't you, Mum?' He kissed Caroline on the cheek as he rose from the kitchen table.

‘Of course I do, dear.' Caroline smiled proudly at Kitty. ‘He's doing so well, he just got back from America last week.'

‘I know, you told me.' Kitty smiled tightly at Bruce. ‘You were there for a whole month, I believe.' So now that you're back, you could stay with your mother for longer than ten minutes surely, she thought. ‘I am impressed,' she added a little archly.

‘Bye, Mum,' Bruce said, wondering what he'd done to put Kitty's nose out of joint. ‘I'll pop in next week. Want that lift, Kitty?'

‘Well, I don't need a lift,' she'd driven as usual, ‘but I'll accept a drive around the block in your brand new car.'

Damn, that hadn't been the offer at all. ‘Okay,' he said pleasantly enough. ‘Have to be a quick one though, I've got a meeting at three.'

Kitty hugged Caroline goodbye. She looked so old, Kitty thought, unhealthily bloated, her skin patchy, her poor hands like talons, crippled as they were with arthritis. Stoic as always, Caroline never complained, but Kitty worried terribly about her.

‘Very impressive,' Kitty said as Bruce opened the passenger door. Then, as soon as they'd pulled out from the kerb, she got straight to the point.

‘You should see more of your mother, Bruce, she's not well and she's lonely …'

‘I see her once a week when I'm in town, Kitty,' he said mildly, although he found the criticism a little offensive.

‘… she needs you,' she barged on regardless. ‘Emma barely even phones any more …'

If the truth be known, it was Emma who really raised Kitty's ire. Selfish little bitch. Her husband earned a fortune, they holidayed twice annually with business friends, St Moritz in the winter, the south of France in the summer, and yet she'd been home to see her mother just once in the last five years.

Caroline always came to Emma's defence of course. ‘Gordon is feting his clients,' she'd say, ‘he needs his wife with him. And there's an open offer for me to visit them at any time. They even sent me a first-class return ticket.'

Well that was so easy for them, wasn't it? And they bloody well knew she'd never take them up on it. The one trip she'd made to London had nearly killed her. Her sciatica was so bad she hadn't been able to walk for three days after she'd got there, and then for another week after she'd got back. Emma was a selfish little bitch.

‘… and Jim,' Kitty continued, ‘well, Jim's of no use. It's up to you to—'

‘I visit Jim once a week too,' Bruce interrupted. They were turning from Macleay Street into Darlinghurst Road at the top of the Cross and she hadn't once commented on the car or even looked out the window. ‘I visit Jim and I visit Mum, both of them, once a week whenever I can,' he continued evenly, ‘and I'm a very busy man, it's all the time I can afford.'

Christ, what did the woman expect of him? He'd offered to buy
his mother a new house, but she didn't want to move. He'd helped support his poor, pathetic brother for years. A drunk who lived alone on a war pension, his wife having deserted him, and who could blame her. Christ alive, he felt sorry for both his mother and his brother, and he helped them in every way he could, but he had ahighly successful and demanding career, he couldn't sit around and hold their hands all day. Jesus, he didn't even have time for a social life, he didn't even have a girlfriend.

‘But surely you can spare a little more than ten minutes when you visit her, Bruce?' Kitty never knew when to stop. ‘A little more time, that's all I'm asking.'

‘Time is the one commodity I don't have, Kitty,' he said stuffily as they turned into William Street; he couldn't wait to get her out of the car. ‘I don't think you quite understand. I work in the corporate world, I have responsibilities to my companies, to my stockholders.'

Kitty knew she'd annoyed him with her nagging. She hadn't meant to. But he'd changed. Dear, nice, mild Bruce Hamilton had grown pompous and self-important. What a pity. Bruce had always been one of those good all-round blokes Kitty had thought would never change.

They sat in silence, each deep in thought, until they returned to the house in Woolloomooloo. Bruce said, ‘Kitty, I didn't mean to sound …' just as Kitty began, ‘I didn't mean to nag …'