Territory (42 page)

Aggie suddenly felt embarrassed. Had she appeared a meddlesome gossip? Or worse, a dangerous rumour-monger? She must have, surely. ‘I know it's none of my business, Foong Lee,' she felt herself flush, ‘I hope you don't think that I …'

Foong Lee interrupted, quick to put her at her ease. ‘Your enquiry springs from your love for Henrietta, I know that.' Aggie nodded fervently. ‘You were a very good friend to her, Aggie, and you of all people know that her marriage had its turbulent times. But it was a faithful marriage which produced two fine sons.'

Aggie nodded, her embarrassment replaced by self-consciousness. She felt rather like a child, one of her own pupils in fact, with a benevolent school teacher instructing her upon the finer points of life.

‘And Henrietta was most fortunate in having the friends she did to support her through the less pleasant times,' Foong Lee concluded. ‘She had you. And she had Paul Trewinnard.' He raised the pot. ‘More tea?'

They chatted amiably for a further twenty minutes and, when Aggie left, Foong Lee prayed he had convinced her of the foolishness of her suspicions. For her own sake. He knew of her friendship with Terence, and he was convinced that should Aggie Marshall, in her well-meaning but at times interfering way, ever take it upon herself to tell Terence Galloway the truth, her very life could be in danger.

 

Foong Lee's words had certainly had an effect on Aggie. Whether she believed him, or whether it was the humil
iation she'd felt over her impertinent enquiry, she no longer searched for signs of Paul Trewinnard in Kit. And now, five years after Henrietta's death, she saw none. Kit's eyes had become Kit's, and the query that had plagued Aggie no longer existed.

The news that Henrietta had now been officially declared dead was indeed somehow shocking and, as Aggie sat in Terence's splendid office overlooking the huge showroom of Galloway Motors, she found her heart going out yet again to the man. His wealth and his position were obviously of little comfort to him, she thought as he rose from his chair, agitated.

‘I'm signing her estate over to the boys,' Terence said as he crossed to the bar in the corner. ‘Malcolm's twenty-one now, and Kit's share will be held in trust until he's of age.'

‘She would have been so proud of them, Terence,' she said. ‘And of you and the success you've achieved. She would have been so very proud.'

‘Yes she would, wouldn't she?' Terence was grateful for Aggie's sympathy, he was feeling maudlin. It was a pity Henrietta wasn't here to share his triumphs. He hadn't realised lately just how much he missed her, the contact from the solicitors had brought it all home to him. If she were here now, he thought, she'd be the most beautiful woman in Darwin, married to one of the most successful businessmen, feted and admired by all.

He poured himself another hefty Scotch. It was a pity Aggie wasn't a drinker, he'd have liked someone to get drunk with, but he was grateful she was here. Good old Aggie. And she was quite right, Henrietta would have been proud of him.

Terence sat back at his desk and looked out through the plate-glass windows of his office at the impressive showroom. Behind their own small glassed-in offices lined along one side, smartly suited salesmen sat at their desks busy with their paperwork, and on the main floor the brand
new, glossy green British Landrovers sat invitingly on display. Galloway Motors specialised in four wheel drive vehicles, and the previous year Terence had imported a new line of Japanese four wheel drives called Toyota. Local reaction had initially been adverse to Toyota, given Darwin's relationship with the Japanese, but practicality had won out and the vehicles were currently selling like hot cakes.

On the opposite side of the street, he had acquired an adjoining property and extended the Galloway Emporium to include a department dealing exclusively in outback equipment and camping supplies. Everything from drover's wet-weather coats to gas lamps, from tents to inflatable dinghies could be found at Galloway's. He had cornered a thriving market and business had never been better.

‘She would have been very proud,' he agreed. ‘I miss her so much, Aggie.' He took another healthy swig at his Scotch.

Aggie was concerned. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, far too early for him to be drinking so heavily, particularly straight whisky with neither ice nor water. But she knew better than to admonish him. She changed the subject instead.

‘Tell me about the boys,' she said. ‘Kit's doing very well at university, he writes to me occasionally.'

‘That's nice.' Terence studied his Scotch for a moment before looking up to give her his warmest smile. ‘That's very nice.'

‘And Malcolm is to go to Queensland next year, Kit says, to a special training camp.' Aggie looked concerned. ‘Does that mean …?'

‘Yes,' Terence interrupted, beaming with pride. ‘The Jungle Training Centre at Canungra.' He stood, glass in hand. ‘First Lieutenant Malcolm Galloway will undergo training as a Platoon Commander preparatory to active service in Vietnam.'

‘Oh dear,' was all Aggie could say. She'd been prepared
to offer words of comfort, but Terence actually seemed delighted that his son would be training to go to war. He'd all but saluted as he'd announced the fact, but he'd downed the remains of his drink instead.

‘Malcolm, like his father and his father's father before him, will fight for his country.'

Well, he'd be fighting for somebody else's country, really, wouldn't he, Aggie thought, but naturally she said nothing of her own views on the war in Vietnam. She sometimes felt she was the only person in Darwin who believed the Australians should never have become involved. Darwin, with its military history, seemed very pro-war, and the newspaper reports about the anti-conscription rallies which had been held in several state capitals following the Battle of Long Tan were discussed with vehement disapproval. As was the symbolic burning of draft cards. Conscientious objectors were considered cowards by most, and even traitors to their country by some, so Aggie kept her mouth shut for the most part.

She could discuss her views with Kit, however. They wrote to each other far more than ‘occasionally', she simply hadn't wanted Terence to feel that she favoured one of his sons over the other. She and Kit had become very close through their correspondence, sharing their views and their mutual respect; it was a deeply rewarding relationship for them both. And, according to Kit, the feeling amongst his fellow students, indeed amongst the Adelaide populace in general, was very much against Australia's involvement in the Vietnam War.

‘I insist you join me in a toast, Aggie.' Terence crossed to the cabinet, refilled his glass and poured her a Scotch. ‘Here's to the third generation of Galloway men to fight for this great country.' He handed her the drink and she took it, she could hardly refuse.

‘To Malcolm's safe return,' she said quietly as they clinked glasses.

 

Eighteen months later, Kit was conscripted. He wrote the news to Aggie before he told his father. She immediately presumed he would defer his military training until after he'd completed his university degree. Perhaps by then the whole ghastly business might be over, she thought hopefully. But as she read on, she discovered, to her horror, that Kit did not intend to apply for a deferment. She was further shocked to hear that, following his training, he intended to volunteer for active service.

‘You'll probably think I'm a bit of a phony, Aggie,'
he wrote.
‘As you know, I'm against our involvement in South Vietnam, so on the grounds of principle I shouldn't give in. But I'm going to go because of Dad. Which means you'll probably think me a bit of a wimp as well. But it's not because I'm frightened of him. I can stand up to Dad. Quite honestly I think I can stand up to him better than Malcolm can, but don't ever tell anyone I said that. It's just that I know Dad would feel such shame if I didn't answer the call-up. I couldn't bear the thought of humiliating him in front of his mates.

‘I haven't told him I've been called up so don't say anything yet. My medical's in ten days. I'll pass it of course, skinny I might be but I'm as fit as a mallee bull. Anyway, just in case I find out I've got flat feet or something, I'm leaving it until after then to let Dad know. If I get knocked back I won't say anything, but if it goes the way I'm sure it will, then let Dad tell you himself, and pretend to be surprised. I hope you don't mind the conspiracy, but I wanted you to be the first to know.'

A week after Aggie received the letter, Kit rang his father. He'd been called up, he said. He'd passed the medical and he'd shortly be off to Puckapunyal for his military training.

‘You could have deferred, couldn't you?' Terence's reply was abrupt.

‘Yep, but I didn't. I'm going to apply for active service.
I'll finish my course when I come home.'

There was a brief pause on the end of the line, then, ‘Good on you, son, well done.'

They were the words which each of Terence's sons longed to hear, and Kit was glad he'd earned his father's approval.

‘It'll do you the world of good,' Terence said. ‘The army'll make a man out of you.'

As he hung up, Terence delighted in the irony of it all. So the boy who had fought him about joining the army was going to war after all. Serve him right.

Safe from the fear of discovery which had haunted him, Terence no longer imagined he saw Paul Trewinnard in the boy. But he was confronted in so many other ways by the fact that Kit was not his son. The boy simply didn't behave like a Galloway. Perhaps the army would change that. Yes, he thought, as he poured himself a Scotch. The army'd do him good, make a man of him.

1940

Old Emily Sullivan had died. She'd been feeling quite ‘chipper', a term she'd inherited from her English mother and one she used often, and had just enjoyed her seventy-seventh birthday with her family around her. Then, a week later, she'd died. Peacefully, in her sleep, the way she would have chosen to go. She would not, however, have chosen the family drama which ensued.

In evaluating the old lady's jewels, and deciding which of the less valuable items he might magnanimously give to his daughters-in-law, Matthew Sullivan discovered that the locket was missing. Enquiries within the family led nowhere and all fingers pointed to Tom. Tom had left the fold eighteen months previously and was occasionally seen around town when he returned from the goldfields for supplies, but he never visited the family.

When questioned, Tom openly admitted to having sold the locket. His grandmother had given it to him, he said, with the express wish that he sell it in order to embark upon his new life. His father called him a liar and accused
him of theft, so Tom took him to the shop of Foong Lee in Cavenagh Street.

In the privacy of his office overlooking the courtyard, Foong Lee produced Emily's letter stating that the locket was a gift to her grandson.

‘It's a forgery,' Matthew Sullivan said. ‘It's quite obvious, the boy forged her signature.'

‘I'm afraid he didn't, Mr Sullivan,' Foong Lee replied. ‘The signature is authentic.'

Matthew Sullivan was unaccustomed to being answered back with such authority, particularly by a Chink. A big man, like his father, and a powerful one at that, people were normally subservient in his presence.

‘You're in this with him, aren't you?' he said threateningly to the Chinese.

‘I most certainly am,' Foong Lee replied with the utmost politeness, ‘your son and I had a business transaction. I paid a good price for property which was his to sell.'

Young Tom grinned openly at Foong Lee, whose expression remained inscrutable, whilst Matthew Sullivan's face grew apoplectic with rage.

Foong Lee continued smoothly, ‘I have other documents containing Mrs Sullivan's signature, you are quite welcome to examine them if you wish.'

Matthew Sullivan cursed his mother. It was just what the stupid old bitch would have done, he realised. She'd considered herself a bit of an adventuress in her time, and Tom had always been her favourite, she'd given him the locket along with her bloody blessing. Matthew forced himself to keep calm, he needed to get the Chinese on side.

‘Tom,' he said, ‘wait out in the shop, I'd like to have a chat with Mr Foong.'

Tom did as he was told and when he'd gone Matthew said expansively, ‘Mr Foong, I believe you're an honest man.'

‘I believe so too,' Foong Lee replied. He knew men like
Matthew Sullivan. Powerful, self-righteous and confident. Bullies accustomed to getting their own way.

‘And I believe you've been misled in this transaction.'

‘As I've said, the signature is genuine.' Foong Lee refused to be bullied.

‘Ah yes, I'm sure you're right there, but you see the old lady would not have been in a sound mental state when she signed it. My mother's mind had been wandering for years before her death.'

‘The entire letter was in her hand,' Foong Lee said, still with the utmost of politeness, ‘and the text does not read like the product of an unstable mind.'

‘Well, of course not,' damn the Chink's hide, Matthew thought, ‘Tom would have dictated it to her, wouldn't he.'

‘The handwriting itself is very confident,' Foong Lee replied. ‘But of course, if you're convinced Mrs Sullivan was not of sound mind, then perhaps there are others who might attest to the fact. Her doctor perhaps?'

Matthew Sullivan realised that the Chinese's courteous façade masked a will of steel. He decided on a different tack. He would be honest with the man.

‘Mr Foong,' he said. ‘Let us just say that you're right. Perhaps the old lady did give the boy the locket, but don't you see, in the whim of her old age, she has led him astray. Thomas has responsibilities to a family business, to a respectable name. He must be taught a lesson for failing those responsibilities. He must be led back to the fold.' The Chinese was listening attentively. Good, Matthew thought. ‘May I sit?'

‘Please.' Foong Lee was interested, what was Sullivan leading up to? Both men sat.

‘I have a proposition for you,' Matthew said, ‘one which is distinctly to your advantage. I will give you the amount you paid my son and you will return the locket to me.'

‘How is that to my advantage?' Foong Lee asked.

‘Hah,' Matthew shook his head in begrudging admiration, ‘you Chinese are true businessmen, aren't you. All right, I'll add ten percent to the purchase price. But of course the true advantage you'll be gaining is the fact that you won't be involved in a legal suit. Because I'll tell you here and now, if I don't get that locket back, I'll sue my son. I'll publicly denounce and disown him, teach him a lesson once and for all.'

‘And if I agree to exchange the locket for your payment, then what lesson will your son have learned?'

‘Humiliation,' Matthew said triumphantly. ‘The greatest way to teach a man his place. Humiliation! Amongst those closest to him, my son will be perceived as a thief. His friends and his family will know that Tom stole his grandmother's locket and that I repurchased it to keep it in trust for those who were always intended to inherit it.'

And what will I be perceived as, Foong Lee thought. A receiver of stolen goods. His expression was unreadable, but he was angry. ‘I believe the locket was the personal property of Mrs Sullivan,' he said, ‘and therefore hers to dispose of as she wished.'

Damn it, the Chink was getting on his nerves. ‘It belonged to the family, Mr Foong.' Matthew's voice once again had a threatening edge. ‘As did all of my grandmother's valuable possessions.'

‘It was given to her by her husband upon their engagement, I'd heard.'

‘Well of course that's what Tom would have told you,' Matthew scoffed.

‘He did.' Foong Lee rose, he'd had enough of the conversation. ‘And I believe him. I'm afraid, Mr Sullivan, that the locket is not for sale.'

Matthew was shocked. The man was not only refusing his offer, but dismissing him from his office. He stood, pushing back his chair so roughly it fell on its side. ‘You'll pay for this, you dirty little Chink. I'll take you through
the courts. You and my son. You're an accessory to theft and I'll make your name mud.'

‘As you wish.' Foong Lee led the way out of the office. ‘Any such action is your prerogative of course.'

The Sullivans left, Tom following his irate father from the shop, too fearful to do otherwise. At the door, he turned back briefly and Foong Lee gave him a reassuring nod.

When the two of them had gone, however, Foong Lee stood with his elderly father, who had watched the proceedings in a state of utter bewilderment, and he felt his bravado falter. He was in deep trouble and he knew it. Sullivan was not only rich, powerful and respected, he was a
gwailo.
It would be a
gwailo'
s word against that of a Chinaman in a
gwailo
court of law. The odds were severely stacked against him, but Foong Lee knew of one man who could possibly save him.

 

‘Of course I'll take on the case,' Paul Trewinnard agreed having listened to Foong Lee's account of the events, ‘but it's a while since I practised, you could perhaps find more experienced representation.'

‘You have the most important credential of all, Paul,' Foong Lee said, ‘you are a
gwailo.
No other European solicitor will agree to represent me, I'm convinced of it, not against Matthew Sullivan. And, sad to say, I doubt whether even the most expert of Chinese solicitors would fare very well with such a case. Besides,' he added realistically, ‘there is a war on. Who will be remotely interested in the honour of a Chinese shopkeeper?'

‘Under the circumstances then, I insist upon taking up your offer.'

Paul knew that Foong Lee was a very worried man. And with just reason. His reputation meant more to him than his very life, and the loss of face he would suffer, particularly in the eyes of the Chinese community in which he was held in such high esteem, would be more than he could
bear. Paul determined to do everything within his power to save his friend. After all, Foong Lee had saved his own life, the least he could do was return the favour.

 

When Paul Trewinnard had arrived in Darwin in April of the preceding year, his first port of call had been Chinatown. Where there were Chinese there was opium and, in Singapore, he had discovered that opium relaxed him. It eased the pain of his memories. Just occasionally, he told himself. He didn't intend to make it a habit.

‘I'm looking for Foong Shek Mei,' he said to the young Chinese behind the counter of the shop in Cavenagh Street.

‘May I enquire as to why?' the young Chinese queried.

‘Personal business,' Paul brusquely replied. ‘I was told Foong Shek Mei is the proprietor of this shop.'

The young Chinese nodded. ‘He is my father and co-owner indeed, but it is I who conduct all business transactions.' Foong Lee had a nasty suspicion that the Englishman was seeking opium, why else would he wish to see Foong Shek Mei?

Foong Lee was angry that his father had been suggested as a contact, and he knew full well who would have made that suggestion. Kwan Man Hop who imported the drug and from whom Foong Lee bought the regular small supply to assuage his father's addiction. Kwan Man Hop would have been too wary to deal with a
gwailo.
Perhaps he thought that Foong Lee, with his many European associates, might be prepared to act as a middleman. Foong Lee was insulted and angry, he would have words with Danny Kwan. But he must first ascertain that his suspicions were correct. He walked to the open back door of the shop.

‘Lin Mei,' he called, and his wife appeared.
‘Lei yiu bo woo po tau,'
he said. It was Foong Shek Mei's afternoon off and he was playing mah-jong with his friends at a
Chinese café. Lin Mei nodded, quite happy to look after the shop, and Foong Lee beckoned to the Englishman.

‘Would you care to come out into the courtyard?' he said.

Paul followed him through the back door. In the glare of the courtyard he could see that the Chinese was not as young as he'd thought. A man in his thirties, Paul guessed, possibly even close to his own age.

‘I am Foong Lee,' the Chinese said offering his hand.

‘Paul Trewinnard, how do you do.' They shook.

‘How may I help you, Mr Trewinnard?'

The Chinese's gaze was so honest and direct that Paul felt self-conscious, he hoped that the contact he'd been given was correct.

‘I've just arrived from Singapore,' he said, hedging a little.

‘Ah yes,' Foong Lee smiled, ‘welcome to Darwin.'

‘Thank you.' The man's courtesy made him feel even more self-conscious. ‘And I was wondering whether you might perhaps be able to supply me with, um …' Paul hesitated.

‘Yes?'

Damn it, Paul thought, the helpful look of enquiry on the man's face was most disconcerting. ‘Just a small quantity, um …'

Foong Lee decided to put the Englishman out of his pain, he looked so distinctly uncomfortable. ‘You wish to purchase a commodity which is easily available in Singapore, but difficult to obtain in Darwin?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Opium is illegal in Darwin, Mr Trewinnard.' Judging by Trewinnard's discomfort Foong Lee was sure he was aware of the fact, but it was only fair he be given the benefit of the doubt.

‘Yes, I did know that.'

‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid you've been
directed to the wrong source. You won't find what you seek here.'

Paul's discomfort multiplied tenfold. In the light of the man's dignity he suddenly felt rather grubby. ‘I do beg your pardon,' he said, ‘I meant no offence.'

Foong Lee was sorry for Trewinnard, he seemed such a respectable gentleman, and yet there was something very lost about him. Was he an addict? If so, how sad. Foong Lee knew only too well the ravages of opium addiction, he watched it daily with his father. Foong Shek Mei was not yet incapacitated by the drug, but he soon would be. All the signs were there, it was only a matter of time.

‘Would you care for some tea?' he asked as the Englishman turned to go.

‘No, please, I don't wish to impose.'

‘It's no imposition, I'd enjoy the company, we're not busy today and my wife will look after the shop.'

‘I'd love some tea, Mr Foong. Thank you.'

They chatted quite comfortably as Foong Lee prepared the
heung ping.
The Chinese was such pleasant company that Paul found himself talking more openly than he had in a very long time. He was a solicitor, he said, but he no longer worked for his family's business in Singapore. He earned his living as a freelance journalist these days.