Territory (41 page)

Aggie found the difference between the two brothers fascinating. Malcolm had become a replica of his father. His body was now that of a man's, strong and finely toned; like Terence he was an excellent sportsman. A handsome boy, with a strong, chiselled face, Malcolm's eyes bore the defiance of his father's. He too, Aggie guessed, would be prone to fits of anger, he'd been easily angered as a child, she remembered. But when Terence had mentioned Duntroon, she'd seen the sudden flicker of fear in Malcolm's eyes, and the relief when he'd been saved by the arrival of the birthday cake. Poor child, Aggie thought, he still lives in fear of Terence's disapproval.

Early in the evening she'd been vaguely conscious of Terence studying her reactions and, initially presuming that as proud father he was hoping his children met with her approval, she'd flashed him a smile now and then.

But when Fran had cleared away the plates, the huge roast dinner having been entirely demolished, the conversation and the mood in the room had taken a serious turn. Terence, who enjoyed any topic relating to military events, had commented upon the newspaper report that Australia
was to send military advisers to South Vietnam.

‘A damn good thing too,' he'd said, ‘wipe those dirty commos from the face of the earth. We quelled them in Malaya and we'll bloody well put a stop to them in Indo-China.'

‘But Australia isn't sending combat troops, Dad,' Kit had said.

‘Eh?' Terence had seemed prepared to deliver a tirade, and looked taken aback at Kit's interruption.

‘They're only sending instructors to help train the Vietnamese. South Vietnam hasn't asked for troops.'

‘Well, they bloody well will, boy, you mark my words.' Terence had been annoyed. ‘It'll just be a matter of time before our boys are over there fighting those commo bastards.'

Ignoring the fact that Kit seemed keen to continue the discussion, Terence directed his attention to his elder son. ‘You'll probably end up in the thick of it, Malcolm, when you leave Duntroon.' That was when he'd turned to Frank. ‘Malcolm's off to Duntroon next year, Frank, did he tell you?'

Aggie had concentrated on the glass of wine which Terence was pouring for her, but she'd found herself once again in a state of shock. As Kit had leaned forward intensely, eager for discussion, there had been an intelligence and enquiry in his unwavering grey eyes which she had seen before, many years ago and on many an occasion. Kit's eyes were the eyes of Paul Trewinnard.

Then the birthday cake had arrived, and the mood had returned to one of levity.

Aggie had tried not to look at Kit as she ate her small portion of cake slowly, not enjoying one mouthful. Her mind was reeling. Was it truly possible that Kit was Paul's son? And if he was, did Terence know? Was it perhaps why he had been studying her throughout the evening? The cake seemed to lodge in her throat, she was having
difficulty swallowing, she wished she could go home. But suddenly Terence was signalling the housekeeper and suggesting they have their coffee upstairs, and Aggie heard herself say ‘lovely'.

‘Help yourself to the beer, boys,' Terence said with largesse as he rose from the table, ‘no more for you younger ones.'

‘So how do you find my sons?' Terence now leaned back in his armchair on the upper balcony, as affable and as charming as ever.

It was an innocent enough comment, but Aggie felt strangely as if she was being put to the test. She also felt shaken and nervous, but something told her she must not let it show.

‘They're fine young men, Terence,' she sipped her coffee. She was aware of the ceiling fan whirring and, beyond the fine mesh of the insect screen, she could see the navigational lights of a small vessel on its way up the harbour. She forced her eyes to meet his as she smiled. ‘You must be very proud of them.'

‘Oh I am, I am. But you haven't seen them for so long, surely you must have noticed some changes?'

Again the smile of a proud parent. So why did she feel uneasy? She forced a laugh which sounded surprisingly relaxed. ‘Of course I do. My God, I can't believe how tall young Kit's grown.'

‘Yes he has, hasn't he?' Does she know, has she guessed, Terence wondered. If so, she was giving nothing away. ‘He's a bright boy, very intelligent, an enquiring mind.'

‘He was always bright,' Aggie agreed. ‘As a child, he was my favourite pupil.' She decided that she would be on safer ground if she played the school teacher.

‘He's going to go to university. An arts degree, he says. He wants to be a writer.' In his role of fond father, Terence made the announcement with boastful pride. Actually he no longer cared whether Kit went to university or not, as
far as he was concerned the boy could do whatever he liked.

‘Oh I'm so glad,' Aggie's response was genuine. ‘He always had a great love of literature. Just like Henrietta. He's so like her in every way, Terence.' Was she imagining it, or had her instinctive response hit a chord? ‘It must be a great comfort to you,' she added. She sincerely meant it.

Terence breathed an inward sigh of relief. She didn't know, she hadn't guessed. ‘It is, Aggie. It is a very, very great comfort to me. Would you like another coffee?'

‘Please.'

As Terence poured more coffee from the jug which Fran had left them, Aggie felt herself relax, and they spent a further half hour discussing the boys. Particularly Malcolm who, in Terence's opinion, would make a fine officer, and Aggie agreed, praying that the boy would pass his examinations.

When they went downstairs to phone for Aggie's taxi, they discovered that Frank Steriakos was decidedly drunk and the mood of the party had become raucous. Both older boys had obviously been guzzling copious amounts of beer since the adults had left the table, but although Malcolm too was feeling the effects, he knew better than to allow it to show in front of his father.

Terence grinned at his elder son, fully aware that the boy was drunk but successfully disguising the fact. Excellent, he thought. Old Jock had always said, and quite rightly too, Terence maintained, that the way a bloke handled his liquor sorted the men from the boys. Terence was pleased to note that Malcolm had already taken the lesson to heart.

‘Have another beer, son,' he said, interested in testing the lad's threshold of control, ‘you only turn seventeen once, eh?'

As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, Aggie looked up at them through the car window. Terence stood at the top
of the steps with his sons, an arm around each of their shoulders, Malcolm's body swaying a little unsteadily but his feet firmly planted on the verandah. The three of them waved to her and she waved back.

For the next several days Aggie couldn't get the image of Paul Trewinnard's eyes out of her mind. Had she imagined their likeness in Kit's?

She lifted out her messy old cardboard box of photographs, she had a picture of Paul somewhere, she was sure. She found it easily enough, amongst a host of photographs she'd kept of Henrietta. It was a picture of the two of them together, Henrietta and Paul, and she'd taken it the year before he'd died. He hadn't wanted her to, she remembered, but she'd nagged him into it. She studied the face closely, particularly the eyes, for signs of Kit, but she could see none. The face in the photograph was that of an old man, ravaged by illness, and she had no pictures of the younger Paul.

Had it just been her foolish imaginings, Aggie wondered. Her notion that Terence had been putting her to the test had most certainly been a product of her imaginings. He'd simply wanted to talk proudly of his sons, it was obvious, and Aggie felt ridiculous when she recalled her nervousness. She must forget the entire incident, she told herself. She must stop musing upon the subject of Kit Galloway's parentage which, after all, was no business of hers. Even if, by some remote chance, Paul Trewinnard was the boy's natural father, Henrietta had obviously kept the fact a secret from her husband. My God, Aggie thought, if it were true and if Terence ever found out …!

But much as she tried to erase the question from her mind, Aggie couldn't. She was plagued by the need to know. It was far more than mere curiosity. Had Henrietta lived such a lie for all those years? If so, what torment she must have experienced. Had Paul known the truth? In the last years of his life, he and Henrietta had been very close,
had it been because they shared a son? For no purpose other than her own peace of mind, Aggie determined to find out the answer. There was one person, and one person only, who might know the truth.

Foong Lee chatted amiably as he poured the
heung ping
into Aggie's small china cup. It was five o'clock in the afternoon and they were sitting in his deserted restaurant in Cavenagh Street. It didn't open for diners until 6.30, but Foong Lee was always there in the afternoons, taking deliveries and organising the specials for the evening menu. He enjoyed being a restaurateur, leaving the financial management of the store and his many other business interests in Albert's capable hands these days.

He was pleased when Aggie called in. She used to call in more often, he remarked, as he poured the jasmine tea. He and Aggie saw each other often at their mutual charity concerns, of which there were many, but they'd socialised rarely of late.

‘I know, I've been altogether too busy this past month or so,' Aggie said, ‘too many students and too many fights with councillors.' She tapped the knuckles of her middle finger and forefinger on the table as he finished pouring her tea, and Foong Lee smiled his approval. He had long ago taught her the Chinese etiquette of table tapping. ‘It's our way of saying thank you when someone serves us food or drink,' he'd explained.

‘How courteous,' she'd remarked.

‘Not really. It's laziness more than anything. It replaces the
kow-tow
you see.' He'd got down on his hands and knees, touched his forehead to the floor, then stood up and laughed. ‘We let our fingers do the bowing instead,' he'd tapped his knuckles on the table, ‘it's a lot kinder on the knees.'

Today Aggie made the gesture automatically, not reacting to his smile of approval, which she would normally have returned. She was distracted, Foong Lee thought,
and he chatted on politely, waiting for her to get to the point of her visit, knowing that there was one. Aggie being Aggie, it didn't take long.

‘Have you seen the Galloway boys since they came home for the holidays?' she asked.

‘The Galloway boys,' he looked mystified for a second, then, ‘Oh, you mean Terence Galloway's sons, what're their names? Kit and who's the other one?'

‘Malcolm.'

‘Malcolm, that's it. Yes, I saw young Kit a week or so ago. I was with Albert at the store and he came in looking for a present for his brother, I believe it was Malcolm's seventeenth birthday. By golly he's grown tall, young Kit, I hardly recognised him. Mind you I'd have trouble recognising either of them at the best of times, I haven't seen them since they were kiddies here at school.' Foong Lee sipped his tea and smiled reminiscently. ‘They used to come into the shop at lunchtime and buy lollies, all the kids did.'

Aggie was at a loss as to how to introduce the subject of her visit, and Foong Lee's garrulous chatter wasn't helping.

‘You were Paul Trewinnard's closest friend, Foong Lee.' It was a statement not a question and it came from nowhere, but Foong Lee appeared to notice nothing out of the ordinary in Aggie's abrupt change of topic.

‘Oh yes, I most certainly was,' he said. ‘A fine man, tragic that he died so young. He didn't even make it to sixty, you know.' Foong Lee himself was sixty-one and, except for the pouches under his eyes, which he'd had since his youth anyway, he looked like a man in his forties. He certainly felt like a man in his forties. ‘And sixty isn't old these days,' he continued. ‘Not anymore.'

He was going to go on, Aggie could tell. Foong Lee was in one of his talkative moods. He was always convivial company, but sometimes he was talkative, chattering away like a monkey, and sometimes he simply sat smiling
benignly. The latter would have been preferable today, she could have found a more subtle way to approach the conversation. She decided to cut to the chase.

‘I couldn't help but notice a resemblance between young Kit Galloway and Paul Trewinnard.' There, she'd said it. In the moment's pause she studied the man's reaction. She'd expected an element of shock, but there appeared to be none. He merely burst out laughing.

‘Good heavens above, Aggie,' he chortled, his pouched eyes disappearing into slits, ‘what a fanciful notion. Are you suggesting that Paul might have been the boy's father?'

Well, she was wasn't she, although she'd not said the words out loud. ‘It's possible isn't it?' she replied a little defensively, Foong Lee was looking at her as if she was a fool.

He stopped laughing. ‘No, my dear, it is not remotely possible,' he said, dropping the garrulous mood he'd adopted the moment she'd mentioned Kit Galloway's name. He'd known in that instant the reason for her visit.

Foong Lee spoke kindly, but firmly. ‘I was Paul's closest friend, and he told me everything, there were no secrets between us. It's quite true that he loved Henrietta in his own way'—he would give Aggie that much, Foong Lee decided, in order to satisfy the romantic in her—‘although of course he never declared himself. And I'm quite sure that, had he had a son, Paul would have wished the boy to be like Kit. The two were very good friends.'

‘Yes, I know they were.'

‘And young Kit idolised Paul,' Foong Lee continued reasonably, ‘so it's quite possible he may have modelled himself upon his hero. Who knows?'

‘Yes, that occurred to me,' Aggie admitted. She wondered if she should mention Kit's eyes.

Foong Lee could tell that she was not fully convinced. Aggie Marshall was treading upon dangerous ground. ‘My dear,' he said with kindly concern, ‘you must put any
such notion out of your mind.' Foong Lee was not accustomed to lying but when it was a matter of life and death, as he believed it might well be in this case, he was most adept. Chameleon-like as always, his face now bore the wisdom of the ages, and his words sounded irrefutable. ‘Rest assured, Aggie, Kit is most certainly Terence Galloway's son.'