Territory (28 page)

Henrietta saw Paul several times a week. After she'd dropped the boys at school, she'd spend the day with him and they'd walk along the clifftops, or take a picnic lunch to Mindil Beach. Sometimes they talked avidly, Paul regaling her with wicked and colourful stories of his past until Henrietta was hysterical with laughter. Or she would recount to him the latest mischief the boys had got up to. Paul took a keen interest in both children. He was always eager for news not only of his son Kit, which was to be expected, but also of Malcolm, about whom he appeared equally concerned.

Sometimes they felt no need to talk at all, and they would hold hands and look out at the sea, both overwhelmed with a sense of peace and contentment, and they would whisper their love for each other before they parted and she collected the boys from school.

From the outset she'd told Terence as much as she felt he needed to know. ‘Paul Trewinnard is back in Darwin,' she'd announced. ‘I'm going to spend the day in town with him every now and then.'

Terence's eyes narrowed. She was not asking his permission, she was telling him. ‘Why in God's name?'

‘Because he's my friend and he's dying.'

There wasn't much Terence could say to that. But when the visits became too regular for his liking, he decided it was time to check out his wife's story.

‘I might come into town with you this morning,' he said casually one day, studying her reaction. ‘Perhaps I could have lunch with you and your friend Paul?'

She ignored the sarcasm in his tone. ‘Of course,' she said, ‘I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you.'

Paul was indeed very interested in seeing Terence, and he insisted upon taking them to lunch at the Hotel Darwin. ‘You're on my home turf,' he said with a smile, and throughout the meal he asked Terence questions about the homestead and the boys, encouraging the man to talk, and apparently enjoying the conversation.

Terence was relaxed and expansive over lunch, any misgivings he'd had having dissipated the moment he'd laid eyes on Paul Trewinnard. The man was a skeleton with one foot in the grave, he looked about seventy.

Paul could clearly see the bully beneath Terence's charm. And the man was as arrogant and self-opinionated as he'd always been, it was evident in his every gesture, even in the way he ordered a beer. Normally scathing of such men, Paul took great care to disguise his dislike; Terence Galloway was a violent and unpredictable man who could make Henrietta's life hell if he chose. He already had. Once anyway.

Paul would never forget Henrietta's distress all those years ago when she'd come to the hotel to seek his help. They often talked of their night together, the wonderful night when they'd discovered each other, but she had never told him what had happened that afternoon. It was the one thing she never spoke of and, until she felt the desire to do so, he had resolved never to ask her.

Now, as Paul looked at Terence, all he could see was the bruise upon Henrietta's cheek and her hands shaking
uncontrollably as they clutched his own. He despised Terence Galloway.

‘Really?' He laughed dutifully at the anecdote about Malcolm demanding his meat rare. ‘Just cut off its horns and wipe its arse,' the boy had apparently said.

‘Yes, he's a chip off the old block, that boy. It's become a bit of a family joke, you see, father to son,' Terence said with happy pride. ‘For generations now. Can't wait to hear Malcolm's boy follow suit.'

Poor Malcolm, Paul thought, and poor Malcolm's boy. He didn't dare look at Henrietta for fear his smile might be readably intimate. He'd heard the joke before, she'd actually told it in defence of Terence. ‘He's been indoctrinated,' she'd said. ‘Old Jock did it to him, now he's doing it to his sons, what hope does any poor Galloway kid have?' and she'd said it with such ironic humour that he'd laughed out loud.

Lunch was a great success. ‘We must do it again, Paul,' Terence said as the two of them shook hands. ‘You must come out to Bullalalla.' If you live long enough, you poor bastard, he thought.

‘Thank you, I'd love to.'

‘Christ, he looks as if he's going to drop dead any minute,' Terence said as they drove to the school to pick up Malcolm and Kit.

‘Please don't say that in front of the boys.'

‘Why the hell not?'

‘Because they like Paul, and they don't know he's dying.' God he could be so insensitive. ‘And they don't need to know either.'

‘All right, all right.'

Sometimes Henrietta and Paul would take Aggie for a drive during her lunchbreak. But, much as they both loved Aggie, it was out of a sense of duty, loath as they were to relinquish one moment of their time together.

Sometimes Aggie would hiss to Henrietta when Paul
was out of earshot, ‘He looks terrible, what can we do?'

‘Nothing,' Henrietta would reply. ‘Let him handle things his way, that's what he wants.' She hated being reminded that Paul's days were numbered. She thought he was looking much better herself, he was rallying, she was sure.

Paul agreed. He hadn't felt this alive in years, she was the best medicine in the world, he told her. And perhaps he was right. A full year had passed with little apparent deterioration in his condition. He certainly looked the same, no better, no worse, and if the daily task of living was becoming just that little bit harder, then no-one but Paul knew. Well, no-one but Paul and his old friend, Foong Lee.

On the times when his medication did little to control the pain, Paul visited Foong Lee who, finally, approved of the opium pipe.

‘On very rare occasions it can serve its purpose, I agree,' he said to Paul and, through one of his many contacts, he arranged a moderate but regular supply. ‘No more than is necessary,' he insisted. He even set aside the small downstairs den as Paul's special room.

‘My home is yours, Paul,' he said. The fact was, Foong Lee wanted to oversee Paul's use of the drug. He did not wish his dear friend to spend the last precious months of his life in an addled state, not when he was as happy as he was. For, despite the pain, Foong Lee had never seen Paul Trewinnard so happy. Gone were the cynicism and discontent, to be replaced by an inner peace, and it was all because of Henrietta Galloway.

Paul had told Foong Lee everything, relying upon the man's innate discretion, and Foong Lee was glad for his friend. The time would come when Paul would need to give in to his pain, and Foong Lee would be there to help him. In the meantime, every minute which belonged to Paul and Henrietta must be preserved. So Foong Lee monitored Paul's use of opium.

 

On Kit's tenth birthday Terence fetched the Browning semi-automatic .22 rifle, lessons were to begin in earnest. The boy had already been taught to handle an unloaded rifle, how to hold it and sight his target, now it was time for shooting practice.

Henrietta was exasperated. Surely it could wait until tomorrow, she thought. Surely the boy should be allowed to celebrate his birthday without having lessons forced upon him. Besides, it was a long weekend and Malcolm had come home from boarding school; he'd been in Adelaide for the past three months. Nellie had baked a cake and they were to have a special dinner. Jackie had even come home from the muster that morning to give the boy a present he'd made—he and Kit were firm friends.

Jackie's gift was a woomera which he'd carved from rainbow tree wood and he gave it to Kit on the front verandah, with the family gathered around.

Kit was deeply impressed. ‘Hey, look Malcolm,' he said, examining the design which was ornately carved into the heavy reddish wood. It was the work of a craftsman. ‘Gee,' he said in breathless admiration.

‘I teach 'im throw spear good,' Jackie said to Henrietta, proud of the reception his gift had received.

‘Not until he's proficient with a rifle,' Terence replied rather tightly, and that's when he'd fetched the .22. ‘Just an hour's practice, that's all,' he said in answer to Henrietta's remonstrations. ‘There'll be plenty of time to have a party and eat cake. Put the woomera down, son.'

Kit reluctantly left the woomera on the verandah and went with his father and brother to the horse yard by the stables where Terence lined the tin cans up on the far railing.

He hadn't expected his youngest son to show much proficiency, Kit seemed inferior to Malcolm in every way, but as the barrel of the gun flailed about in the air, Terence couldn't help feeling an intense irritation. The boy was useless.

‘Keep it steady, boy, keep it steady,' he snapped.

Malcolm watched warily from the sidelines. He was nervous for his brother, if Kit made Dad angry he'd cop it for sure. He kept his fingers crossed, hoping Kit would get his eye in.

But the rifle was too cumbersome for Kit, it seemed a dead weight in his hands and, as he tried to concentrate on the sights, the barrel swayed about all over the place.

‘Can I try it on the railing, Dad?' he asked. And Terence gave a taciturn nod.

Kit rested the barrel on the pole and focussed on the tins sitting atop the railings on the other side. The first tin was lined up in the rifle's sights, he fired. It flew up into the air. He set his sights on the next one, steady as a rock. The rifle shot cracked and the second tin spun into the air. And the next. And the next. He took his time.

Terence watched in astonishment. The boy had an amazing eye, he was a natural, who would have thought it?

Malcolm watched, equally astonished, his nervousness having turned to envy. He couldn't shoot like that when he'd started. Hell, he couldn't shoot like that now and he'd been practising for nearly three years.

‘Good on you, son, well done,' Terence said.

They were the words Malcolm always longed to hear, he had devoted his entire young life to earning those words from his father, and he couldn't help feeling a stab of jealousy.

Kit too was surprised. Not only at the unaccustomed praise from his father, but at his own ability. He was going to enjoy target practice.

‘You'll have to learn how to shoot without using the railings, though,' Terence said.

‘Okay, Dad.' Kit was only too willing to try. ‘What a beaut birthday, eh?' he said to Malcolm as they started walking back to the house.

‘Yeah.' Malcolm tried to return Kit's grin, he didn't want to spoil his brother's day, but he could feel one of his moods coming on. He'd be back at boarding school next week. Not that he minded boarding school, he was one of the top footy players in his year and it made him a bit of a hero. But he hoped Kit's marksmanship wouldn't mean that, in his absence, his younger brother would become Dad's favourite.

A month after Malcolm had returned to Adelaide, Kit had his first ‘live practice'.

‘One of those galahs,' Terence said, pointing to the two pink-breasted Major Mitchells which sat close together on the branch of a lemon-scented gum.

They'd ridden several miles from the house and were in bushland. ‘Live practice,' his father had announced when they'd tethered their horses, and Kit hadn't been quite sure what that meant. Shooting targets out in the bush, he'd presumed, and no railing for a support. That was okay, he'd mastered the rifle now, practising for hours with the unloaded .22, placing his weight, positioning himself, it was all a matter of balance, he'd discovered.

Now, having loaded the rifle and handed it to him, his father was pointing at the birds and Kit realised he was supposed to shoot one of them. Like Malcolm used to do before he'd gone off to boarding school. Malcolm had often come home boasting about the number of birds he'd shot, and Kit had never understood why. He didn't want to shoot birds, he liked birds. Besides, the Major Mitchells were a pair, what would the other one do without its mate?

‘Can't we go back to the tin cans, Dad?' he asked hopefully.

But Terence wasn't listening. ‘Come on, line them up, you might even get both of them if you're quick.'

Kit raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted on the galah to the left. The stock felt perfectly balanced against
his shoulder, his feet were firmly positioned, his torso balanced, it was an easy shot. But the birds were happily nuzzling each other and he didn't want to kill them. He waved the barrel a little, as if he'd lost the centre of his balance, and pressed the trigger. The shot rang out and, with an indignant screech, the galahs took off.

‘Not to worry,' Terence was prepared to be patient, it was the boy's first time, ‘you'll get the hang of it.'

They walked a little further into the bush and Terence told him to aim at a large black crow which sat patiently in a tree, a perfect target as it signalled to its mate with its plaintive cry. The same thing happened, the rifle barrel wavered, the bullet widely missed its mark and the crow flew off.

They tried several more times and Terence was becoming impatient. He took the rifle from his son and aimed it at a flock of large white birds which were roosting in a cedar. They were hanging upside down from its branches and screeching and playing the fool, the way only cockatoos could; the cedar looked like a Christmas tree decorated with fake snow. ‘Now watch,' he said. He chose his target amongst the flock, ‘Take your time, you see, easy does it,' then he fired.

The cockatoo dropped to the ground like a stone. Kit walked over to where it lay. He loved the sulphur-crested cockatoos, they were the larrikins of the bush, they made him laugh. He looked down at the carcass of the bird, dead but still quivering. What a waste, he thought, you couldn't eat it.

His father joined him. ‘Right, now you try,' he said handing the rifle to Kit. ‘We'll set up a railing for you, if you like.' That'll give the boy confidence he thought as he looked around for suitable logs and branches, he just needs to get his first shot in, that's all.

But Kit remained looking down at the bird. Terence noticed his distraction. Christ alive, he thought, surely the
boy wasn't upset because a bird had been shot. He tried to curb his impatience.