Doomed Dynasty Pt. 04

* * *

Patricia had said months earlier that her new grandchild would be a boy. Patricia wasn't always right and she beamed when holding her blue-eyed granddaughter, thinking she looked like her, becoming a little testy when she heard Courtney say she thought Stephanie looked exactly like she did when she was a baby and then becoming quite frostily when Courtney's mother arrived and declared that her granddaughter had many of her features. Patricia had been extremely disappointed that the new arrival had not been male but become besotted when almost a year later a healthy quite small baby born in mid-May 1961. He was christened Reece Collier Curtis.

Matt had opted for Laramie instead of Collier, but was outvoted, indeed chastised by Courtney and his mother to even thinking such a name.

Even Vikki had said to Matt, "God, no. Don't call him that. He'd be teased about it for the rest of his life. If he doesn't want to ride horses or brawl he'd hate you for giving him the name of Laramie."

"You might be right. I'm already a bit worried about him," confided Matt. "He is not showing any signs of bounciness. He just lies there and sulks, blowing bubbles; no sign of aggression unless he's hungry."

"Oh you big oaf," laughed Vikki. "Give him more time before you begin to judge him. If you had wanted a son with the breeding to hammer the stuffing out of people, you should have married me."

Matt looked down at her on the bed as he began dressing, thinking there was some truth in what she was saying.

The whole Curtis family went to town one wet Friday. The two women and two babies went to the movies. Matt called in at the hotel to see if any of his farming mates were lining the bar. It was always a good time for a chat, but the bar was practically deserted.

"Most of the regulars have wandered up to the auction Matt," said the barman, looking up from the racing page of the newspaper.

Waving a thank you Matt went up the incline of the main street to Alf Perry's Produce and Property Auction Rooms. He spotted Sarah Mullins, who had a poultry farm on the edge of town.

"Good afternoon Sarah. Thinking of buying a real farm," Matt grinned.

"Only if you bankroll me, you clown," laughed Sarah, a quite wealthy woman who dressed in old smocks and looked as though she hadn't got two coins to rub together.

"What lot is this?

"The old cheese factory. It didn't attract a single bid when it was offered three months ago and now the lawyer for the Percy Smith estate is trying again."

This time the auctioneer dropped his call for an opening bid so low that he attracted two bidders, but eventually one pulled out and the other could not be coaxed to offer more. So once again the building was passed in. There was a brief discussion between the auctioneer and the farmer who'd made the closing bid but he shook his head and walked away looking relieved.

"Excuse me Sarah," said Matt. He strolled over to where the stooped, white-haired lawyer was talking to auction house owner and real estate agent Alf Perry. On the spur of the moment Matt had decided to try to buy the aged building. It was too large for most people wanting premises for a business and would cost quite a lot of money to bring it up to the Council's current building standards; but he recognised its potential.

"Afternoon Alf, Mr Cooper. Alf, can you disclose what the reserve on the factory was?"

Alf Perry looked at Lester Cooper. The solicitor nodded his approval. "£35,000."

"Good lord!" exclaimed Matt. "Is there a box of gold stashed inside it for the lucky buyer?" He turned and began to walk away, very slowly.

"Hold on a tick Mr Curtis. Do you have a proposition for me?"

Matt wheeled and faced Lester Cooper. "The structure really needs demolishing, but as it sits backing the wharf it will become quite desirable in time. I could go up to £20,000."

"Thirty and it's yours."

"Twenty-two with £5000 down and the remainder in twelve months', interest-free."

"Good heavens Mr Curtis. Do you think the beneficiaries are a charitable organisation," sniffed Lester.

Alf Perry whispered something to Lester.

"Good day gentlemen," said Matt, striding back to where Sarah Mullins was talking to another woman he recognised as Ida Butler. He talked to them, his back to the two men he'd just left.

Sarah was both nosey and smart. She realised that Matt had not been talking to Alf Perry and Lester Cooper about the weather and noticed that they were talking, both looking at Matt's back. "So you're after the old cheese factory," she said.

Before Matt could reply she informed, "Perry is speaking strongly, I think Mr Cooper is folding... yes, he's shrugged and is walking away. And here comes Alf Perry, all smiles and has his clipboard out in front of him. It's safe to look now."

Matt looked at her, grinning. "May I buy you late lunch, Sarah and you too Mrs Butler? If Sarah's right, it's my lucky day."

Thirty minutes later although the café kitchen staff had closed, Vikki was preparing a meal for Matt and his two ladies.

"It's very nice of you to go to all this fuss Vikki. We were terribly late, sandwiches would have been quite acceptable," said old Mrs Butler, who was Sarah's aunt.

"Oh don't you fret Mrs Butler. I do all sorts of things for Matt," replied Vikki, looking at Matt wickedly.

Sarah caught the look and sighed as if thinking why younger women had all the luck.

Driving home late that afternoon, Matt realised that he was in need of an early spring flush to fatten stock that he'd could quit before the dry weather to reduce his bank overdraft. The deposit he paid at the auction rooms had increased his overdraft by $5000 and his bank manager had warned him a week ago that he was at the absolute limit.

Arriving home whistling, he was asked by Courtney, "Who fed you canary seed?"

"Bought the old cheese factory after it failed to sell at auction today," he announced.

Placing her glass of wine down, Courtney counted three. She had almost shouted what that old dump, what on earth did you buy that? You'll lose money on it. Instead, because Matt rarely discussed business with her, she asked, "I guess you have plans for it?"

"It's the location, the location dear," interjected Patricia.

"That's right mother, one of the best locations in town," replied Matt.

"You're doing very well for a young man still only in his mid twenties Matt Curtis. Your father would have been proud of you," murmured Patricia, as if almost speaking to herself.

Courtney was cheered by that comment.

* * *

A few days before Patricia's election unopposed as president of the region's Women's Division of Federated Farmers, Courtney took her to the larger town of Blenheim to buy two dresses.

One purchase would be a gift from Matt to wear at the meeting where she would be inducted as the new president and Courtney was giving her the other to wear that same evening at a soiree to be held in her honour at Aberdeen.

When preparing the invitations for printing, Courtney decided to broach a possibly very delicate subject. "You know Matt, this name of our home of Aberdeen. It's a bit odd in this day and age. Should we be thinking about changing it?"

"I don't really mind it, though if you do want to change it you'll have to get by mother. But please wait until I'm well away from here before you engage with her," he grinned. "I don't think you've ever seen Patricia when the balloon goes up."

"You mean she can get aggressive? But she's always been ever so sweet... always."

"I'm warning you, Courtney. Some sweet old ladies can hide very large fangs."

When Madam President came out on to the lawn just before 5:00 ready to join Matt and Courtney to welcome arriving guests, Matt let out a piercing wolf whistle, sending their neighbour's dogs off into a barking frenzy.

"You look absolutely gorgeous Patricia. Rather queenly in fact," enthused her daughter-in-law.

"Thank you, Courtney and Matt, thank you for your display of enthusiasm but there is no need to act like a street larrikin."

She was wearing a full-length deep purple brocade gown with a stole of the same material, matching black shoes and evening bag and her silvery hair was combed into a French roll. Above the wide scalloped neckline she wore a substantial diamond necklace and matching drop earrings.

Courtney had seen the necklace for the first time when helping Patricia with her hair, calling the necklace a wonderful treasure.

"I thought you'd like it, it was mother's."

"I can't wait to see you come out wearing it," Courtney cried. She made no further comment, knowing that Patricia scarcely ever mentioned her mother or father.

Matt had told her not long after they met that Patricia's mother died when giving birth to her. The only other child, her brother Tim, had died in a racing car accident in Argentina when he was twenty-two. It was a subject best left buried.

Forty people attended the celebratory soiree including all of the WDFF committee and their partners. The remainder were mostly Patricia's old friends, some of whom were quite old.

A marquee had been erected on the lawn but guests preferred to stay out in the open as it was a very muggy evening. Courtney found herself talking to a lively lady who informed her that she'd gone to school with Patricia in Christchurch. Taking the plunge, Courtney asked Helen what Patricia had been like as a girl.

"Rather unhappy I'm afraid. She and her brother lived with her aunt and husband and their five children, all boys who teased her, hurt her or ignored her. But she survived and she toughened up. In fact, at high school she was one of the fastest runners and the most aggressive hockey player on the field. She soon got the name 'Tom Boy'.

"Where was her father?"

He was heart-broken after he wife's death and a few months later he was found hanging in the kitchen. Mrs Braithwaite-Green had meant everything to him. It was so tragic.

Courtney was awestruck.

"Do you mean Sylvia Braithwaite-Green, THE Sylvia Braithwaite-Green?"

"If you mean the English artist yes."

"Good heavens. Do you know where her paintings are now?"

"Probably scattered around in the UK but the ones she did in New Zealand are in galleries and private collections in Canterbury and Otago. Only one of her paintings ended up in Patricia's hands, but she didn't really want it so one day she was offered a direct swap and accepted."

"What painting did she receive?"

"Goodness, don't you know? It's that Goldie inside, you must see it several times a day. Goldie paintings are regarded as art treasures these days and you only have to look at the expressions of the face and detailing to know why."

"Oh what a wonderful story... how romantic."

"I don't think it was for Patricia or her mother," sniffed Courtney's informant.

Late that night Courtney asked Matt to tell her about the Goldie painting in the hallway.

"It's something that mum picked up along the way, but neither she nor I like it all that much. We were rather amused when you first arrived and made such a fuss about seeing it. I would have thought you would have focused on the Gully landscape out in the garage loft."

"What? An original Gully Matt? I must see it. Oh my, a Gully and a Goldie originals!"

"So?"

"Aaarrrgh. Go to sleep, Matt!"

* * *

There was acute grief in the household one morning when baby Stephanie was found not breathing, no medical explanation being offered apart from "It's just one of those explicable things." It was a very sad funeral, a huge turnout. Matt took a week to recover; Courtney's grief forced Patricia to emerge strong and resume running the household.

Courtney, eyes sunken from hours sitting up watching over her son sleeping soundly in his cot. These vigils caused her to lose weight and her humour and gaiety left her. Doctor Mackenzie confessed he could do nothing for her, it was just part of the grieving process but Matt, having dealt with horses with ailing foals, came up with the answer. He shifted Reece's cot right up against Courtney's side of the bed, rigging up a soft night-light. Within a month Courtney's confidence had returned and it was she who asked Matt to shift the cot back into the nursery. It years to come she'd conclude, though never to admit it until the author commissioned to write the family history asked the question. He was told yes the wrong baby died.

* * *

Five years later, shortly after 8:30 one morning Matt, Courtney and Reece emerged from the school office where enrolment had taken place. They watched Reece step on to the playground.

"Good luck and have a lovely day," called Courtney proudly.

Pride would not describe what Matt was feeling. He watched the slim figure of his under-height son tentatively stepping away from them. How can a Curtis be so skinny, so short? Matt wondered.

A girl even shorter than Reece came up to him. She said something.

"How lovely, he's made a friend already, and typically for a Curtis, it's a girl," Courtney joked.

The sound of crying reached them before Reece did. "She said I smell," he sobbed, clasping Courtney around her legs. She looked at Matt helplessly and he simply shrugged.

"Never take crap from anyone," was Matt's advice. "Did you tell her to go to hell?"

"M-a-a-tt," wailed Courtney.

The five year old's first day at school was not the beautiful event both parents had imagined. At lunchtime Courtney phoned the school to see how her son was getting on. She could hear a small conference going on in the background. Then the school secretary returned to the phone.

"He's fine now, I'm told."

"Oh what's happened to him?"

"A bigger boy in his class took a dislike to him and whacked him across the head."

"And hopefully Reece offered no retaliation?"

There was another short conference in the background.

"No, he didn't hit back."

"Thank you. I'll be there at 2:30 to pick Reece up as arranged."

Rolling her eyes when putting down the phone, Courtney though that she mustn't tell Matt what happened and she would ask Reece not to mention the incident. If Matt learned about Reece's failure to hit back with interest he'd be hauled off to take boxing lessons.

On Friday both parents arrived at the school to pick up Reece.

The infant mistress was there to meet them as well as other parents of new entrants

"Reece is doing well," the teacher smiled, brushing back her fringe loosened by the dry wind off the hills. "Look, there he is with his new friends."

The parents were pleased. 'New friends' rang in their ears like bells ringing good tidings. Among a small group of six was Reece. Courtney was pleased. They all looked clean and bright and were playing well together.

"Oh, Matt," she said. "Look at them. It's so beautiful."

Matt was already looking and thinking, well that's a start; he's on his way. However, he'd noticed all of the 'friends' were what he would term runts. The better developed new entrants were either on the climbing frames showing off or were chasing their mates in an aggressive game of tag, screaming happily.

As they got in their vehicle, they heard one of the bigger boys say with envy, "That's Reece in that Land Rover."

Matt felt good watching Reece flush with pride.

When Reece was six and a half his parents took him to the Miranda Pony Club's open day to introduce him to pony riding. Unfortunately, he howled and backed away, not wanting anything to do with the animal, a Shetland pony.

Courtney hurried the sobbing youngster back to the safety of their Land Rover. Matt stood unmoving, his face darkened.

"I've fathered a coward," she heard her husband mutter and something told her that thought would remain with Matt for the rest of his life.

However, a couple of weeks later Reece produced a glimmer of hope within his father. They had been playing cricket on the lawn with a tennis ball. Matt was bowling with a gentle under-arm. After a while it occurred to Matt that his son had hit every ball back to him. When they had last played? Probably three months ago. On that occasion Reece had produced the usual result, hitting or at least snicking no more than one out of three of balls bowled.

"Should I bowl some faster ones?"

Reece replied yes, without any hint of nervousness. The ball arrived at him faster and he returned them back to the bowler unhurriedly and with confidence. Matt bowled mixed-paced deliveries, with a similar result, although one ball did get through to dislodge the bails.

"No stay there. I don't want to bat just yet," called Matt. He wanted to try something else. The bowling was done from a single stump. "Reece do you think you can hit the ball back to me if I change my position a bit?"

"I think so. Most of the balls seem to be coming to me so slowly."

That comment shook Matt. The child's timing was better and it appeared from his last comment that he was seeing the ball coming on to the bat a lot earlier than in the past despite being bowled some reasonably fast deliveries.

Matt bowled and jumped a couple of paces to the right of the bowling stump. The ball came off the bat straight to his legs. So bowling the next delivery Matt darted out to the left of the stump, and Reece hit straight back to him. A variation was called for. Matt bowled a faster ball but remained at the stump. The ball was hit back firmly and with one bounce landed into his hands exactly over the stump.

"Good, very good, Reece. I think you have really come on since we last played. How is that?"

"Dunno dad. Except at most playtimes at school we play softball (a form of baseball played with a softer ball)."

Reece wanted a turn at bowling and performed without any noticeable difference from when last they'd played together.

"Hit one over the house dad."

Matt obliged and when Reece trotted off to look for the ball, Matt pulled up the stumps and put the gear away. Walking inside and passing Courtney in the kitchen Matt gave her a playful smack on the rump.

"My word, was that you whistling?" she asked. "What's brought all this on?"

"I think Reece's go it."

"Got what."

"The eye of a batsman."

"Oh that's nice," offered Courtney. She hadn't a clue what Matt was on about.

"I'll run the bath for Reece tonight if you wish."

Had Matt spent too much time out in the sun? Courtney couldn't remember the time when he'd offered to do that. "Yes do that; I'm grateful."

Next day father purchased a new bat to go into the Christmas stocking for his little cricketer.

While there were promising signs of Reece developing, another member of the family was beginning to shine. Patricia and Courtney were sitting in the garden one morning having coffee. She said to her daughter-in-law, "I must say, my dear, you are now producing some beautiful paintings of flowers in our garden. Would you mind if I took some of them to the WDFF meeting tomorrow. It is our Arts Day."

"Yes, if you wish; I hope they will come up to the division's standard."

"Of course they will. Nothing there will touch them. If I'm right about that, what if members want some of them?"

"They can have them, I have boxes of them, though I must say I recently had the feeling that I had emerged from my apprenticeship."

The following afternoon Patricia arrived home and waited impatiently for Courtney to return home with Reece who had swimming coaching after school. She jumped up as she heard the car approaching.

"Great news, great news," called Patricia, so excited that she ignored Reece's greeting.

"They simply loved your paintings. And they all went in a flash as soon as I announced they were for sale."

"For sale?" Courtney queried.

"Look!" shouted Patricia.

Courtney and Reece saw a small wad of banknotes in Patricia's hand.