Territory (14 page)

‘Mother needs me at the moment,' she'd said to Henrietta, ‘I can tell.'

Henrietta wasn't so sure; Margaret appeared to need no-one. She wouldn't even let Terence drive them to the airport. ‘Nigel will drive us,' she'd said, ‘it's all arranged. He needs to return the car he borrowed to the garage anyway, it's more convenient this way.'

Terence hadn't insisted. ‘Dad would probably rather say goodbye here,' he'd agreed, obviously thankful to be relieved of the duty.

As Malcolm wrapped his tiny hand around the old man's thumb, Jock seemed close to tears. It was apparent that he didn't want to go. Just as it was apparent that his wife couldn't wait to leave.

Margaret Galloway relished the prospect of having Jock to herself. For years she'd watched from upstairs as he'd walked down to the Aborigines' camp, knowing he was going to assuage his sexual appetite with a young black girl. For years she'd been ignored as he'd focussed his attention solely on his eldest son. And, until the stroke, it had appeared that for the rest of her life she was to be destined to the sidelines as his world revolved around his grandson. At last he was hers, totally dependent upon her, and there was no competition.

She made no attempt to return her daughter-in-law's awkward embrace; Margaret was not physically demonstrative at the best of times, but her words were kind.

‘Bullalalla is in your hands now, Henrietta, and you'll do a fine job, you're a good wife.' Perhaps because Henrietta no longer presented a threat, or perhaps because, after all, she genuinely felt an affection for the girl, she said, with the utmost sincerity, ‘It's your turn now, my dear. Good luck.'

She was not as receptive with her son, but stood rigid as he kissed her dutifully on the cheek. Terence's farewell to his father was equally remote.

‘Bye, Dad,' he said. ‘I'll be in touch regularly.' But it was obvious from his tone that he wouldn't.

The car wasn't even out of sight when Terence turned to Henrietta. ‘We need to buy you a new dress, my darling.' He was in extremely high spirits. ‘There's a garden party at Government House next week.'

Aggie Marshall clumped into the foyer of the Hotel Darwin, her wooden foot thumping heavily on the highly polished floors. Wood to wood, it was always the same. Most of the houses in Darwin also had wooden floors so it seemed she was always being noisy, always calling attention to her foot, or rather the lack of it. Not that she cared particularly. Friends told her that, now the war was over, there would be a huge call for prosthetic limbs, she should get herself a nice new foot and wear nice shoes for a change. As it was, Aggie always bought cheap shoes, it was a waste of money to spend any more when she only threw the left one away. She'd donated her dresses and skirts to charity and always wore trousers these days, which didn't bother her at all as she'd always preferred trousers, and she wore a carpet slipper on her wooden foot. It did little to muffle the thumping, though, because she tended to stomp—it was like having a pegleg, she said, she felt like Long John Silver. Her friends said she wouldn't walk so heavily if she had a proper prosthetic foot, but she didn't listen, she had better things to do with her time and money.

‘Paul.' She saw a head of greying hair buried in a news
paper across the other side of the foyer and recognised Paul Trewinnard's lanky frame, the only person present, apart from Aggie herself, who was not in uniform. Following the bombing, Darwin had been placed under military administration and the Hotel Darwin taken over as a mess and intelligence headquarters. Paul had promptly disappeared, no-one knew exactly where, and had only recently returned. Now, lazing about in a wicker chair, his beige linen suit slightly crumpled, he presented an image from the hotel's grand old days. But then, to Aggie, Paul Trewinnard had always seemed a little like a relic of a bygone era.

Paul rose as Aggie thumped her way over, the thumping stopping for a moment or so when she hit the Persian carpet in the centre of the foyer.

‘Aggie.' He embraced her. They were good friends. Paul liked Aggie Marshall immensely, even though she disapproved of the way he wasted his life, and lost no time in telling him so.

‘Do something useful,' she'd say. ‘Get involved. If you can't be bothered with yourself, then be bothered with the community. Darwin needs its locals, particularly now.' So he'd allowed her to inveigle him into joining the Garden Party Committee.

He took the armload of papers she was carrying from her and together they went into the Green Room, once the hotel's central drinking hall, in more recent times a military strategy room, and now a strangely deserted mess of tables and chairs. There, they set up for the committee's final meeting; the garden party was only a week away.

The Darwinese were limping home. That was Aggie's phrase for it, and from Aggie it seemed rather apt. Not many as yet, but in dribs and drabs they were finding their way back, some with official permission, some without, to start rebuilding their town. It would be no mean feat as Darwin had been virtually destroyed; only 171 habitable
homes remained and these in various states of disrepair. The horrifying fact to those who had lost everything was the knowledge—quickly gained from those who had remained—that their loss had been incurred not only through enemy action but through the acts of Australian soldiers. And not only through random looting which abounded, and continued to do so despite the fact that troops were being withdrawn, but through the Department of the Army itself. Buildings had been gutted, including hotels and the public library, and a large number of premises had been demolished altogether. Either for ‘strategic reasons', or in order to obtain supplies of material for ‘essential defence works', it was reported.

The returning residents were forced to camp in abandoned army buildings or other vacated, half-ruined premises, and already rows of galvanised iron sheds were appearing in the commercial streets of Chinatown which had been totally destroyed.

Many basic services no longer existed, including the collection of night soil, so the newly returned Darwinese built ‘flaming furies', as they called them, in their backyards, army style. A 44 gallon drum was placed over a pit, a hole cut in its top, sheets of galvanised iron placed around it for privacy, and once a week the pits were burned off. Newcomers were quickly taught how. ‘Chuck in a bit of diesel, follow it up with a lighted match and then stand well back,' they were instructed. The pits would smoke for hours and the stench of burning sewage was ever constant in the town.

The rebuilding of Darwin would be a long, slow and painful process, and Aggie Marshall was convinced that ‘morale boosters' were essential and that the first of these must be a Victory Garden Party at Government House. She'd shamed the local authorities by having the idea first. However, it had been ‘very high on their agenda' evidently.

‘But as you can imagine,' she'd been told, ‘the Government has so many priorities to address that …'

She'd immediately been given full support from all quarters, to such an extent that everyone now thought the idea had emanated from the public service, a fact which Aggie didn't mind at all, just so long as everything went according to plan.

She and Paul prepared the table in the Green Room, setting out Aggie's minutes at each of the eight places, and the blank paper and the pencils she always brought for those too lazy or forgetful to provide their own. Aggie was very thorough, and meticulous in her insistence that everyone make notes of the duties they'd been allotted. ‘If you've written it down you can't blame me if you forget it,' she'd say jovially.

Along with the Government and military officials, several prominent businessmen were on the Garden Party Committee, and the first to arrive was, as usual, Foong Lee.

The three greeted each other warmly. Foong Lee had been most surprised to discover that Aggie had managed to acquire the services of his old friend Paul Trewinnard.

‘How did you do it, Aggie?' he'd enquired. ‘And more precisely, what on earth does Paul have to offer?' But his pouched eyes had gleamed mischievously and he'd given Paul a hooded wink, he was only too delighted to see Paul Trewinnard about to do something productive with the time which he normally idled away.

Aggie had been quite defensive. ‘He is going to write all of our literature,' she'd said. ‘Our leaflets, our pleas to various departments, and he's going to publicise our events in his articles for the
Northern Standard
, now that it's started up again.' The
Northern Standard
had ceased publishing immediately after the bombing of Darwin and had only recently reopened for business. ‘Paul is going to be extremely useful,' Aggie had said adamantly.

‘Of course, of course, I have no doubt.' He didn't tell her he'd been joking. When Aggie was fervent about something there was little point.

Foong Lee had been delighted when Aggie had asked him to join the committee, and he was generously donating countless supplies for the event. By mutual choice, the Chinese and Europeans had always lived in separate communities and Foong Lee was of the firm opinion that segregation should play no part in such a celebration. Both parties must participate.

‘It is a common victory we celebrate, Aggie,' he had said, ‘your garden party must be for the whole of Darwin.'

‘Well, for those of us who are still here,' she'd corrected him, even as she'd nodded in vociferous agreement.

It was the weather which was her main worry. ‘Early October,' she'd said, ‘the start of the wet, it's a tricky time to plan a garden party.'

‘I wouldn't worry,' Foong Lee assured her, ‘they say it's going to be a long dry season.' She looked at him sceptically. ‘It's true,' he swore, ‘I heard a long-term weather forecast yesterday on the wireless,' and it was impossible to tell whether or not he was lying. ‘Besides, we shall plan for indoors as well,' he announced, ‘Government House is very large.'

Foong Lee was well acquainted with Government House, from as far back as 1930 when he'd been one of the representatives to present the aviatrix Amy Johnson with gifts from the Chinese community at a welcoming ceremony in her honour. He'd been just twenty-nine at the time, already a successful businessman, and since those days he had been a guest at many a Government House function.

‘It's simply a matter of gaining permission,' Foong Lee advised. ‘I'm sure Government House will “come to the party” …' His eyes disappeared into slits as he smiled at his pun.

Aggie was grateful for Foong Lee's support, he was a very calming influence, she decided.

Now, as the Garden Party Committee gathered in the Green Room of the Hotel Darwin, Aggie was pleased to announce that Government House had been most supportive and that the ballroom would be at their disposal should the weather prove inclement.

Everyone clapped, and the Government House representative, a grey birdlike woman who was somebody's secretary, graciously accepted the applause, but Paul and Foong Lee knew where the true credit lay.

‘We shall demand the ballroom,' Aggie had said to them in private, refusing to accept the suggestion that the verandahs would surely supply adequate shelter in the event of rain.

The two men now exchanged a smile. As usual Aggie had won.

 

As it turned out Aggie's fears about the weather proved groundless. The day of the garden party was clear, sweltering and sticky as was to be expected but, come late afternoon, when guests started arriving a shadow of a breeze promised a cool evening.

Government House stood grandly on its promontory overlooking the harbour, surrounded by its beautifully landscaped lawns and gardens. Miniature rainforests, tropical groves with exotic plant species and arbours of native trees were linked by terraced walks. The grounds on the western side, near Lover's Walk, had received a direct bomb hit during the first Japanese raid of February '42 and remained partially destroyed, but the rest of the gardens and the spacious house with its louvred verandahs had survived unscathed throughout the attacks.

The House of Seven Gables, as it was known, presented an oasis in the war-torn town as guests arrived at the carriage-loop and started to mingle.

Terence was proud of Henrietta, she looked magnificent, her chestnut curls piled on top of her head, her yellow sleeveless cotton dress with the little mauve flowers accentuating the curves of her body. She hadn't allowed him to buy a new dress, it was far too much trouble, she'd said. And she had dresses in her wardrobe which he'd bought on her arrival that she'd never even worn. But she'd taken a lot of trouble with her hair. She wanted to wear it ‘up' for a more ‘formal look', she'd said. It really didn't want to stay there, however, and Terence thought the threat of its falling made her doubly attractive.

His pride was mingled with a touch of wary aggression as they sauntered through the milling crowd and he sensed men's admiring glances. He was proud to have a creature like Henrietta on his arm, but let one man overstep the mark! Henrietta was his, and Terence was at the ready.

‘Terry!' It was Hans van der Baan. Henrietta was momentarily surprised, she'd heard no-one but Jock call Terence ‘Terry'. But as the big Dutchman swooped upon them, with several of his friends in tow, it appeared that Terence was ‘Terry' to all of his air force mates. They slapped each other on the back and raised glasses of beer, and, one arm around Terence's shoulder, Hans grabbed a glass from the tray of a passing waiter and thrust it into his friend's hand.

‘A toast!' he exclaimed. They all raised their beer glasses and drank to the 457 Spitfire Squadron, then to the 319 Bomb Group's Squadron, then to Victory, and it was only after that Terence thought to introduce his wife.

In the grip of camaraderie, Terence's feelings of possessiveness disappeared and Henrietta was quickly ignored as the men reminisced. Not that she minded. She accepted a glass of wine from a waiter and wandered down the terrace to admire the giant banyan tree which stood in the south-eastern corner.

‘You're Mrs Galloway aren't you? From Bullalalla?'

Henrietta turned to confront a tall, handsome woman with short dark hair and apparently little sense of occasion—she was wearing trousers.

‘Aggie Marshall,' Aggie said, and she held out her hand.

‘Henrietta Galloway,' Henrietta returned the handshake which was as firm as that of a man's; it rather reminded her of Charlotte.

‘You've been here for years and yet I've never seen you in Darwin,' Aggie said. ‘Bullalalla's only two hours' drive, you must come in and join us from time to time.' Whilst Henrietta wondered how Aggie knew so much about her, and whilst she pondered about who the ‘us' might be, Aggie didn't draw breath.

‘I do a bit of work for the Country Women's Association,' she said, which was putting it mildly. Aggie devoted her every waking hour to fundraising events which she herself orchestrated under the banner of the CWA. ‘And we need all the members we can get. Or rather all the “helpers” we can get, should I say. There's so much to be done, isn't there?' She was about to continue but a voice broke in.

‘She's lining you up to do something, I can tell. She's incorrigible, don't listen to her.' It was Paul Trewinnard. ‘You're Mrs Galloway from Bullalalla station, aren't you? Paul Trewinnard, how do you do.' And he offered his hand.

How did everyone know about her, Henrietta wondered as she returned his handshake.

‘This is Darwin,' his grey eyes gleamed a warning, he was aware of her bemusement. ‘Everyone knows everyone in Darwin, and they know
of
everyone within a hundred mile radius. The grapevine is alive and well, despite the war, and nothing is sacred.'

‘How is your baby?' Aggie interrupted, ignoring Paul and compounding his theory, ‘he must be three months old now.'

Henrietta was nonplussed, but charmed nonetheless, she couldn't help but be. Despite the surprising discovery that she'd apparently become hot gossip, the enthusiasm Aggie Marshall displayed was genuine and very engaging. ‘Malcolm,' she smiled, ‘he's just over four months actually.'