Territory (49 page)

‘For when the inspiration hits you,' she said. She'd even changed the curtains and bedspread and cushions to give the room a more masculine look.

‘But this is your bedroom and that's your typewriter.'

‘Not anymore, I'm perfectly comfortable in the spare room, and I'm going to treat myself to a new Olivetti, it's high time I did.'

Kit was taken aback by her generosity, but she was glowing with such joy that he knew there was no point in arguing the case.

The ensuing weeks were amongst the happiest in Aggie's life. Had she been lonely before? If so, she hadn't realised it. But now she delighted in their evenings together, when Kit would return home with stories from the workplace which so obviously stimulated him. Sometimes they'd sit up talking until late in the night. Sometimes he'd retire to his room and she'd listen to the chatter of the typewriter as she made him a fresh pot of coffee.

One night, she pulled out her old cardboard box of photographs and they had what she referred to as a ‘sob session' reminiscing over pictures of Henrietta. It was very healthy, Aggie thought.

‘Here's one of Paul,' Kit said.

‘Yes, it's the only one I have. I took it the year before he died, I wanted something to remember him by. He didn't want me to take it but I bullied him into it.'

Kit laughed, he could well believe it. He looked at the face of the man who had been his childhood hero and wondered if he would ever have aspired to become a writer had it not been for Paul Trewinnard. He owed the man a great debt, he thought. Paul had given him a purpose.

For the first time in her life Aggie enjoyed cooking, it was fun to plan evening meals. Once a week she would allow Kit to take her out to dinner, usually to Foong Lee's restaurant in Cavenagh Street, and after some initial argument, she accepted the rent he insisted upon paying, recognising not only his need for independence but her own tendency to smother.

Kit too was happy. He loved his work, everything about
it. He loved the busyness of the tin shed, stifling though it was in February with no air conditioning. So what? The closeness and humidity intensified the smell of the ink which assailed him the moment he stepped in the door. He loved the smell of the ink, just as he loved the clacking of the typewriters and the insistent ring of the numerous telephones. He sat at his desk, right shoulder hunched, handpiece clamped to his ear, as he speedily tapped out the radio station's programmes. He was doing television and radio this week, next week it might be the weather and shipping news. He loved the variety. Every day he seemed to learn something new. And that's what he loved most of all.

Kit also loved Aggie. But not as a mother figure. Aggie was, as she had been for as long as he could remember, an inspiration. She fed his excitement and fired his ambition. She never tired of hearing about his day, and they endlessly discussed current affairs and literature. When they talked of books, Kit was reminded of the conversations he'd had as a boy with Paul Trewinnard. Aggie had the same love of literature.

The weeks became months and Aggie encouraged him to stay. ‘You have an excellent work setup here,' she'd say, ‘why bother moving?' Kit was aware that he really should be out flat-hunting. ‘Besides,' Aggie would add, ‘the rent money certainly does come in handy.' And he'd be further lulled into a state of complacency.

Aggie was lying, she didn't need the rent money, she just couldn't bear the thought of him leaving.

Then one night in mid-April Kit was revisited by one of his dreams. They'd recurred less and less over the years, he hadn't had one for a couple of months now, not since he'd been at Aggie's. But when he had them they were as hideous and as frightening as ever.

He was running. He was always running in the dream. But he was never going anywhere. His lungs were bursting,
he couldn't seem to get any oxygen into them, and he was gagging with the effort. His legs were a blur of movement, his fists were pounding the air, but he couldn't make any ground, it was as if he was on a treadmill. And all about him was noise. Explosions and fire and belching black smoke. Then, out of the smoke, things would float towards him, circling slowly in the air then passing him by. Severed limbs, an arm or a leg, then a hand or a foot. And then Beady's head. Always Beady's head. But Beady's head would not pass him by. It would hang in front of him as his feet pounded the ground and, try as he might, he could not run past it. Then the mouth would move and Beady would speak to him. ‘Hear you're a crack shot, Kid,' he'd say, but the voice was distorted. Evil. The lips were twisted into a sneer and the eyes were malevolent. Beady's head mocked him.

Sometimes Kit would wake up the moment he saw Beady's head. Sometimes he'd wake up before Beady spoke. He preferred it that way, he hated the sound of the voice.

Tonight, Beady's open mouth started to form the words, but Kit heard another voice.

‘Kit, wake up. Wake up, Kit.'

A hand was stroking his matted hair back from his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. Kit sat bolt upright, as he always did when he came out of his dream. Aggie was sitting on the side of the bed, concerned and anxious.

‘Oh my dear, are you all right?' she said, once more stroking his forehead.

‘Yes I'm fine, Aggie.' He pushed her hand away. He didn't want to be hurtful but he desperately wished she would leave him alone. ‘Please. I'm fine.'

Aggie was too worried to get the hint. ‘You were having the most shocking nightmare, I could hear you from my room.'

‘Yes, well I have them sometimes, please go back to
bed.' He knew his tone was abrupt, but his dreams were not something to be shared, they were his own nightmare world, and he handled them his own way. Aggie, taken aback, didn't move. ‘Go to bed, Aggie.'

It was a command, and in that instant Aggie realised her mistake. He was not a little boy to be comforted in a mother's arms. He was a man. A haunted man, fighting battles within himself which she could never know of. And he looked so old and so weary.

‘Of course,' she said, mortified, ‘I'm sorry.'

Kit was his normal, ebullient self in the morning, but they never spoke of the matter, and he kept his bedroom door closed from then on.

 

‘For God's sake, Kit, when are you going to ask me out?'

A gang of them were at the Victoria Hotel. They invariably went to the Vic on a Friday night after work. Even Jim Bowditch was there, drinking at the bar with a couple of his old cronies.

Kit was at a table with a half a dozen other journos, lounging around in leather chairs. Lisa the receptionist was with them and, when he'd gone to the bar to buy his round, she'd joined him and draped an arm over his shoulder.

‘You're pissed, Lisa,' he smiled, ‘another jug and two white wines, mate,' he said to the barman.

‘No I'm not,' she said. Of course she wasn't. Four glasses of wine, or was it five, she wasn't sure, might loosen her up a bit, but it certainly didn't make her legless. ‘I'm asking for a date, what's a girl supposed to do?' Gee, she thought, it wasn't as if she hadn't made it quite obvious that she fancied him. She had from the moment she'd shown him around the office, and that was over three months ago! Kit Galloway was the most attractive man at
NTN
.

Lisa took a hefty slurp from one of the glasses of white
wine the barman had just poured as Kit pulled out his wallet. Hell, Kit Galloway was the most attractive man in Darwin, she thought. Tall, good body, those eyes that looked right into yours, and that
gorgeous
smile! And he was a
war hero
! At least somebody had told her he was. And they'd been terribly impressed as they'd said it, so of course she had been too. Kit Galloway was
famous
!

She cuddled up to him as he paid the bill. ‘So come on,' she said, ‘ask me out.'

‘I will when you're sober.' As she gave a befuddled frown, he added ‘Well, when I am.' She really was legless. Not that it bothered Kit, everyone got pissed on a Friday night. In fact people drank far more in Darwin than they did in Adelaide, probably something to do with the tropics, he thought.

He could feel the fullness of her breasts as she snuggled beside him. He had to admit he'd noticed Lisa's breasts. Most men did. Lisa Langello had superb breasts. But did she really fancy him? Probably not, she flirted with everyone, even when she was sober. In a good-natured, harmless way, Kit certainly liked Lisa. But he hadn't realised that she fancied him.

They returned to the table and he couldn't take his eyes off her. Why hadn't he recognised before how extraordinarily good looking she was? Dark-haired, sloe-eyed, full-figured and luscious. She glanced at him teasingly and Kit, aware of his growing erection and the fact that he hadn't made love to a woman for over six months, was having trouble following the conversation.

An hour and three glasses of wine later, Lisa was at the falling down stage and Kit walked her home. Or rather half carried her. She lived nearby in Mitchell Street.

‘Do you want to come in?' she said after he'd kissed her at the front door of the dilapidated old wooden house on stilts. Kit did, desperately, but she shared the house with three others, she'd said, and besides, she'd pass out soon.
It wasn't the right time and it wasn't the right place.

‘See you Monday, Lisa,' he said, opening the door for her.

‘Oh you will, you will,' and she staggered inside.

As he walked home, Kit decided that it was time to leave Aggie's. First the dream and now Lisa. He needed a place of his own. But he wasn't sure how to break the news to Aggie, he knew that she'd become dependent upon his company.

The following night, he insisted upon taking her to dinner at Foong Lee's restaurant.

‘A Saturday?' she queried. ‘I'm honoured, but what about your friends?'

It had become customary for Kit and two of his work mates, Nick Coustas and Maxie Brummer, to have a rowdy boys' night out on a Saturday, Nick's penchant for gambling inevitably leading them to a card game at one of the illegal gambling houses to which the police turned a blind eye. Kit liked a good game of poker and he particularly enjoyed
pai kew
, the Chinese blackjack-style betting game, but he didn't gamble heavily. He simply relaxed in the male company of his friends and the escape from Aggie's flat which had become claustrophobic. He had lately come to realise, with a sense of disloyalty, that it was even an escape from Aggie herself, and the devotion she lavished upon him.

‘Nick and Maxie can survive a Saturday night without me,' he said.

Kit and Aggie arrived at the restaurant at eight o'clock, Foong Lee personally greeting them at the door as he always did. The restaurant was actually called the Golden Dragon, but no-one referred to it as such, it was simply known as ‘Foong Lee's'.

‘Aggie tells me you've had a feature article accepted, Kit,' Foong Lee said as he escorted them to their table.

‘Well it's not really a feature,' Kit said self-deprecatingly, ‘it's a follow-up story, just a half a page.'

‘On the effects of the French nuclear testing in the Pacific last year, Aggie tells me.'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘Excellent. My congratulations.'

Foong Lee recommended the specials and left them with the menus.

‘You've been showing off again,' Kit said to Aggie after he'd gone.

‘Only to Foong Lee,' she replied, ‘he's always asking after you, he follows your career with great interest, you know that.'

Kit smiled good naturedly. It was true, and he was fond of old Foong Lee. But Aggie would have boasted about him with equal pride to anyone who had the time to listen, she'd become a real mother hen. Which only made his decision all the more difficult to impart, he thought. His smile faded.

He waited until they'd finished their main course, he didn't want to spoil the evening. Then he simply made the announcement, there was no easy way, he'd decided.

‘I'll be moving out next weekend, Aggie,' he said. He'd also decided it would be easier to name a date. If he hadn't found a flat by then he'd stay with Maxie until he did.

‘Oh.' For a moment Aggie looked as if she'd received a physical blow, his pronouncement had been the last thing she'd expected. ‘Why?' she asked dabbing at her mouth with her serviette to mask her confusion.

‘It's time.' He knew she was shocked, as he'd expected her to be. ‘In fact it's way past time, I should have moved out months ago. I've been lazy and complacent, and it's my fault and I'm sorry.'

‘Why?' she asked again, this time with a light laugh and an attempt at bravado, ‘it's hardly as if you've overstayed your welcome. I enjoy your company, you know that.'

‘And I enjoy yours, Aggie. But I need my own space.'

Foong Lee had arrived at the table with the bowls of
lychees and ice-cream. Aggie always had lychees and ice-cream. He made no indication that he'd heard Kit's remark, but he cast a brief glance at Aggie before he left. He had known this would happen, in fact he had tried to warn her.

‘You're not his mother, Aggie,' he'd said as gently as he could, ‘and he's not a child, he's a man …'

She'd cut him off tersely. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Foong Lee, of course I know that. And I don't mother Kit,' she'd said, ‘we're good friends, he tells me himself I inspire his work.'

Aggie stared at her lychees and ice-cream. She'd been a stupid old woman. Foong Lee had been right. She'd stifled Kit, smothered him with her motherly love, of course he wanted to get away from her. That was why he'd been going out most Fridays and Saturdays for the past several weeks, she'd been getting on his nerves. She felt hurt and humiliated. She stirred the melting ice-cream into the lychee juice, not quite able to raise the spoon to her lips.