The Plantation - Di Morrissey [171]
Strangely, in spite of the neglect from her family, Bette never felt that she was completely cut off from them. She thought it was just a state of hiatus. She had suggested to her parents a couple of times that she could visit them, but they always seemed unenthusiastic about the idea. And then time had a way of slipping by without her noticing and now she rarely stopped to dwell on what changes might have taken place back in Brisbane preferring instead, if she did think of them, to recall happy childhood memories. So it came as a shock to receive a letter from home, written by Margaret, telling her that their father had died.
I did try to telephone your house but the language problem was difficult. I understood you were away, so we presumed you would not have been able to get back in time for the funeral. Mother is weepy but coping, and Caroline and I are here to help her. It was a short illness, and unexpected, though he wasn’t a young man. But the main thing is he didn’t suffer. He left everything to Mother, naturally, so I presume that is all right by you. Mother will continue to live in the house, and sends her best wishes. She hopes you remember your father as the good man he was.
Margaret
Bette felt tears trickle down her cheeks. Sadness for her father, then guilt that she had never been back to see him, and then anger and hurt at learning about his death and funeral in such a casual manner.
She showed the letter to Tony. ‘Can you believe Margaret?’
‘I am sorry, darling. I know that you wanted to go home for a visit.’
‘This is my home!’ said Bette vehemently. ‘I wonder who Margaret spoke to?’
‘Does it matter who it was? At least she and Caroline are there in Brisbane, so your mother is being looked after. But you’re right. She should have tried harder to contact you when it happened,’ said Tony.
Bette nodded. ‘I wonder if she told Philip. Not that he ever knew his grandfather.’ She pushed thoughts of Margaret aside and sat down to reflect on her father. Tony asked one of the servants to bring them some tea and then he sat beside her, ready to listen.
‘He was a quiet man. That generation didn’t talk a lot. You had to get them on their own. Mother could be a bit bossy. She called the shots, around the house anyway, but Father had the final word on outside things, like spending money, going away, making the big decisions. I remember one holiday we had, we rented a holiday cottage and he let us go out with him prawning and fishing at night. We lit a little fire on the beach. Mother was convinced we’d get washed away in the surf in the dark, or that a shark would grab us by the ankles, and she refused to go down to the beach at night. Margaret didn’t like the dark, so she went back to the cottage. Father caught a couple of small fish and we cooked them on the fire and picked them clean with our fingers. Tasted wonderful. We pretended we were castaways.’ Bette smiled. ‘I sometimes thought, even when I was older, that I’d like to go back to the beach with Father but we never got the opportunity again.’
‘So you have happy memories. He was kind and loving and proud of you,’ said Tony.
Bette straightened up. ‘Yes. I think he was. He once told me that he was proud of what I had done for Philip. He used to say, “You’ll be all right in this world, Bette.”’
‘Hang onto that,’ said Tony softly.
‘I know I should have made more of an effort to visit, but I can’t forgive the offhand way Margaret has told me. As though he’s not my father, too. As though she deliberately wanted to