Territory (13 page)

Henrietta rose reluctantly, there was no point in
arguing, and, aware of Margaret watching through the bay windows of her office, she placed the baby in Jock's arms.

Jock jiggled the child on his knees. ‘Wakey, wakey, Malcolm, give Grandad a smile,' and the baby dutifully woke, gurgled and grinned back at the old man pulling funny faces. Henrietta had to admit that Jock had a way with Malcolm.

‘See, what did I tell you?' Jock said proudly. ‘He loves his old Grandad, don't you, Malcolm?'

Tickling the baby's tummy with his left hand, Jock reached out with his right, grabbed his beer and took a swig. Then he saluted Malcolm with his glass. ‘Not long before you'll be joining your Grandad in a beer, eh?'

He took another swig, put the glass back on the table and took the baby's tiny hands in his leathery fists, dandling the child like a puppet in his lap. Henrietta wondered whether the old man might be a little drunk. Not that he was as a rule, it was rare to see Jock drunk, and never during the day, but he seemed to be particularly jovial this afternoon.

The truth was that Jock was feeling strange, a bit out of sorts, weary and a little light-headed. It had come on him quite suddenly and he'd popped out to play with the baby by way of distraction.

He made a fool of himself, as he always did, pulling ugly faces for the baby's amusement, and he felt proud when the child smiled back at him. He seemed able to make special contact with Malcolm and he'd convinced himself that they had a particular bond. That, even at this tender age, Malcolm somehow sensed he was the favourite. Jock had been favourite of Lionel, Terence was favourite of Jock, and now here was little Malcolm ready to carry on the line as the favoured one. The chosen of the dynasty, the vital link.

Jock laughed with delight as the baby wriggled in his lap
and gurgled its laughter along with his. He was feeling better by the minute. He reached once more for his beer but, as he did so, he felt suddenly faint. Breathless. And his heart was beating more quickly, irregularly it seemed.

‘Take the baby,' he said suddenly to Henrietta.

‘Are you all right, Jock?' Henrietta was on her feet in an instant, the baby in her arms. Jock looked pale, he held his hand to his chest. Was he having a heart attack? Should she call Margaret?

‘I'm not feeling very well,' he admitted. Was he having a heart attack? Should he call Margaret, he wondered. Margaret would take control of the situation, he could rely on Margaret. But he was loath to call her. To do so would be to admit his dependence. In his own way, Jock had always known he was reliant upon Margaret.

‘Don't worry, Henrietta. Don't worry, it'll pass,' he waved a hand dismissively, commanding her to sit down and stop fussing.

Henrietta returned to the rocking chair, and cuddled the baby, watching Jock closely. He was insistent and she wasn't sure what she should do; Jock's word was the one that carried in this house.

‘You see?' he said with a bravado he didn't feel, ‘I'm fine,' and he reached out for his beer. But his right arm wasn't working properly. He tried to reach further, but his arm wouldn't obey him. He shifted his weight in the chair in an attempt to get his hand, which suddenly seemed crippled, nearer the glass, but the whole right side of his body wouldn't obey him.

Henrietta watched, horrified, as Jock's chair toppled over, taking the coffee table and the beer glass with it. She jumped up, clutching the baby to her, and looked down at Jock sprawled on the verandah. He was in a state of stupefaction, staring up at her, his hand clutched to his chest.

‘Margaret!' she screamed.

 

On 14 August 1945, the Japanese surrendered. Finally, the war was over. Australia revelled in a frenzy of celebration. But nowhere in the country was victory in the Pacific felt as intensely as it was in the Top End's gateway to the north. The people of Darwin, predominantly in the services, and those few civilians who had remained, had cause to celebrate beyond that of the rest of the country. They had defeated invading forces, they had fought and won a war which had threatened them on their very own soil.

As a married man with a young baby, Terence was amongst the first to be demobbed, but his welcome home was not that of the conquering hero as he would have anticipated it might be a month previously. His father was not waiting on the front verandah to embrace him and bellow, ‘I'm proud of you, son.' In fact the whole household seemed to be in mourning.

It was little more than a fortnight since Jock's stroke and, at Margaret's insistence, the homestead had become a virtual hospital to cater for her husband, his needs and his hopeful recovery.

They had been advised by telephone that it would be unwise for the patient to travel and Margaret had carried out all instructions, arranging immediately for a specialist to be flown up from Adelaide. The prognosis had not been good. ‘It's impossible to predict at this early stage,' the specialist had said, ‘as to the degree of Mr Galloway's eventual recovery. We won't know for the next several weeks. Certainly, for the next fortnight he will have apparent remissions and relapses, after which, when he stabilises, he will need physiotherapy. Only time will tell.' But by the tone of the specialist's voice he didn't hold out much hope.

By the time Terence came home to stay, a nurse and a physiotherapist were living at the house, both flown up from the Stroke Unit at Royal Adelaide Hospital, and the homestead's large office, Margaret's pride and joy, had
been converted to Jock's bedroom and care facility. No expense was to be spared, she had instructed the specialist, and he had taken her at her word. Jock's recovery was costing a fortune.

‘What's the point?' Terence said to Henrietta as they sat in the front room, the old man curled over in his wheelchair staring at the floor, ‘he's never going to recover.' Jock was indeed totally incapacitated, his right side immobile, his face contorted, and the sounds he made unintelligible as any form of speech. It was shocking to see.

Although, inwardly, Henrietta agreed, she was taken aback by Terence's callousness. This was his father. His hero. Wasn't he upset? More importantly, what if Jock could hear?

‘The specialist said there's every possibility …' she started to say, but Terence interrupted.

‘Rubbish,' he said harshly. ‘The old man's had it, he should have died.' And he walked out of the room, just as Margaret arrived with the physiotherapist. Terence ignored his mother, and Margaret ignored Henrietta.

‘Good morning,' the physiotherapist said.

‘Good morning.' Henrietta nodded politely to the young man, then left the room. She didn't like to watch the physiotherapy sessions. Every movement the young man forced Jock to make looked painful. He would stretch out the old man's arm and pull at his hand and fingers, talking boisterously all the while. ‘Come on Mr Galloway, you can do it!' And Margaret would join in. ‘Try, Jock, try!' she would insist, ‘it's for your own good,' and Jock would protest in his garbled jumble of noises. It was distressing to witness.

Henrietta felt deeply sorry for the old man. He may have been a tyrant, but no-one deserved to live in this state. No-one.

One afternoon, during Jock's sleeping hours, she slipped into the front room to see him. She had no particular intention, perhaps just to sit with him for a while.

He wasn't asleep, he was lying propped up in his bed, his body listing to the right as it invariably did. The bed faced the bay windows, and he could have looked out at the view if he'd chosen to do so, but he was staring vacantly down at the floor. Henrietta stood there, undecided. Why had she come, she wondered, she could do no good.

‘Hello, Jock,' she whispered. There was no response, and she sat in the bedside chair and took his left hand in her own, stroking the work-worn skin. He'd always been a lean man, but he seemed to have withered, she thought, as she felt the bones of his fingers. ‘I just thought I'd come and say hello.'

She looked at him, seeking a reaction as she stroked his hand. ‘They don't mean to hurt you,' she said. ‘Everyone wants you to get well, Jock.' Then, realising how inane she sounded, she started to talk about Malcolm. How big he'd grown, how strong he was. ‘He misses you, Jock,' she said. ‘You could always make him smile.'

When she felt the claws of his fingers curl gently around hers, her heart started to beat faster. He could hear, she was sure of it. She looked at him. He continued to stare unseeingly at the floor, but he was listening, she knew it, the insistent caress of his fingers urged her to keep talking.

The door opened and Margaret swooped into the room. ‘He's supposed to be sleeping,' she said with a disapproving scowl.

‘He can hear me, Margaret,' Henrietta said excitedly, ‘I know he can. I was talking about Malcolm and he moved his fingers. Look.' But the old man's hand now lay still in hers.

‘He often does that. I sit with him for hours at night.' Her tone was a mixture of hurt and accusation;
you didn't know that, did you
, she was saying. ‘And I talk to him. I talk to him endlessly.'
You didn't know that either, did you?
‘And he often holds my hand, sometimes quite strongly.'

Henrietta refused to be daunted. ‘Then you must believe he can hear you.'

‘Of course I believe he can hear me,' Margaret said harshly, ‘and he understands every word. So I'll thank you to tell Terence to stop speaking disparagingly in his father's presence, he takes no notice when I tell him.' She didn't allow Henrietta to reply but continued to issue orders as she walked briskly around to the other side of Jock's bed and started hauling him upright, propping his bad arm on a pillow. ‘And if you must disturb his sleeping hours then I'd be grateful if you'd straighten him up. You know he's not supposed to lie crooked.'

‘Yes, of course I will,' Henrietta said. ‘I'm sorry, Margaret.' She wanted to say she was sorry for everything, for all the hurts and the blows Margaret had suffered, but she quietly left the room.

Barely three weeks later, Margaret made her announcement. ‘I'm taking Jock to Adelaide,' she said to the family over dinner, ‘In two weeks. Nigel and Sarah are accompanying me.' Nigel and Sarah were the physiotherapist and the nurse. ‘I have booked us into an excellent nursing home where there are family quarters and I can stay there with him.' Margaret had arranged it all without saying a word to the others.

Henrietta and Charlotte exchanged amazed glances and Nellie stopped clearing the plates to stare in surprise at the missus. Only Terence appeared unmoved.

‘That's probably a good idea,' he said.

‘Yes, I thought you'd approve, Terence.'

Terence ignored the sarcasm in his mother's voice. ‘He needs full-time care,' he said.

‘But he gets it here.' Henrietta, in turn, ignored her husband's sharp glance which warned her not to interfere. ‘And he's made such improvement.' She addressed herself to Margaret.

It was true, Jock was communicating these days. Not
with words, but he would look others directly in the eyes, and he would make signals with his left hand. There had even been the vestige of a smile on his lips the other day when Henrietta had held Malcolm in his lap, and he'd stroked the boy's little fat legs with his fingers.

‘I cannot give him my sole attention when I have station business to attend to.' It was as if Margaret hadn't heard. ‘You are skilled enough to take over the books, Henrietta, and Terence, you shall take over Bullalalla as it was always intended.' There was an unpleasant twist to her mouth as she smiled. ‘You will receive your inheritance a little earlier than you'd expected, I don't suppose you'll complain about that.' Then she turned to Charlotte. ‘And Charlotte, you will come with me and live at the nursing home, I shall need your help.'

Whilst Charlotte stared back uncomprehendingly, Terence finally reacted. ‘Don't be ridiculous,' he said, ‘I need Charlotte here.'

‘You do not, Terence. Charlotte has never been needed here, she's simply been free labour. You can employ another drover, it's no job for a woman.'

‘It's a job I like,' Charlotte said. But she said it quietly, as if she was already conceding defeat.

‘You'll like living in Adelaide better when you get used to it,' Margaret said, not unkindly, ‘you can go to the theatre, and meet people.'

Henrietta looked at Terence, expecting some argument, but he offered none. ‘It's probably a good idea,' he said again, then he added, ‘for all concerned.' But he didn't look at Charlotte as he said it, he nodded to Nellie instead, signalling that she bring in the dessert.

It was a sad day when they left. To Henrietta anyway. She had only been a part of it for a short while, but it seemed to her that an era was ending. Nellie, Jackie and Pearl obviously felt the same way. Pearl was crying, and Nellie seemed not far from tears.

As they all gathered on the verandah, Jackie knelt and shook Jock's left hand. ‘Bye, boss,' he said, and Jock clasped the Aborigine's hand in return and nodded, obviously moved.

Charlotte refused to give in to any overt display of emotion but it was quite obvious she too was moved. She clung to Nellie for a little longer than necessary when they embraced. And when she shook hands, man to man, with Jackie and he said ‘Bye, missus, you take care down there in the big smoke,' she gave in and embraced him instead. But she refused to give way to tears. She seemed philosophical about the turn of events her life had taken.

‘Who knows what I'll do?' she had shrugged earlier in answer to Henrietta's query. She didn't share with her sister-in-law the fact that she no longer wished to remain at Bullalalla under Terence's regime. To Charlotte an era had most certainly ended and, without knowing exactly why, she no longer wished to be a part of the next one. She would remain with her mother for as long as it proved necessary and, if life in Adelaide did not agree with her, as she predicted it wouldn't, then she would return to the outback. But not to Bullalalla.