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what, Kate wondered, the past? Her mother wore that distant expression again.
    ‘Yes of course, Marmee, that’s exactly what we’ll do.’

C HAPTER TWO
    I t had become the custom on Christmas Day for Stanley Durham to host an extravagant luncheon for his senior staff and their families. The formal dining room of the Big House seated twenty-four to table with ample space for the addition of a further table near the servery to accommodate the younger children. Despite the heat of midsummer, the fare was traditionally British and, as ceiling fans whirred high overhead, guests feasted on roast turkey, ham, baked vegetables and gravy, followed by hot plum pudding with brandy sauce. The one concession to the Antipodean climate was the inclusion of huge bowls of tropical fruit salad and ice cream, which always went down very well.
    The guests were waited on by household staff. The word ‘servant’ was never used in the Durham home, Stan favouring the more egalitarian approach. The cook and the household staff, three in all, were only too happy to work on Christmas Day, given the huge bonuses they received in recognition of their services. Besides, they had the evening off, which they celebrated with their own dinner and festivities in the staff quarters. Hilda was insistent no one remain on duty that night. She would make sandwiches for the family herself.
    This Christmas, however, Stan had decided to adopt a different routine. The meal was to be the same and the service the same, but the numbers would be fewer and the company different. This Christmas was to be a more personal occasion.
    ‘Half of the mill’s senior staff lives in Bundaberg these days, anyway,’ he’d said to Hilda, ‘let’s just keep it to us and the Krantzes, shall we? With Ivan’s move to Bundy it may well be the last Elianne Christmas he and his family will have with us.’
    ‘Why don’t we ask the Fiorellis too?’ Hilda had replied. ‘They’ve been here even longer than the Krantzes and they’ve never once been invited to Christmas lunch.’
    Stan had applauded the idea. ‘An excellent suggestion, my dear,’ he’d said, ‘an excellent suggestion indeed.’
    They were thirteen to table. For smaller gatherings such as this, the seating capacity of the formal dining table could be halved upon removal of the specially designed centre section, so with an extra chair added to one side they were comfortably accommodated at a twelve-seater. The guests numbered three Krantzes and four Fiorellis, and there were six Durhams in total, the sixth member of the family being Stan’s father, Bartholomew.
    Seventy-four-year-old Bartholomew had had a stroke three years previously, following the unexpected death of his wife from a heart attack. Since that time he had not spoken one word. Whether this was because he was unable to speak, or whether it was because he chose not to, no one really knew, for he’d made a good physical recovery. His movement was slow and measured, but he could adequately tend to his own needs – in fact he preferred to do so, politely eschewing help when it was offered. Bartholomew Durham lived a quiet existence in his quarters on the first level of The Big House, and appeared to have all of his faculties about him. He was certainly capable of communication, he just could not, or perhaps would not, speak.
    ‘The poor man,’ Hilda said time and again of her father-in-law. ‘Tragic that history should so repeat itself. It was exactly the same with his father; when Grandmother Ellie died, Big Jim just gave up, he couldn’t live without her.’ True to form, Hilda saw epic romantic drama in the situation, and to some degree she was right. The death of Bartholomew’s beloved wife, Mary, had indeed devastated him. It had not, however, robbed him of his life, merely of his speech.
    ‘Would you like some more ham, Grandpa?’
    Seated beside her grandfather, Kate had noticed that, although he’d barely touched the turkey on his