Territory (59 page)

‘No-one is ever to know that Kit is not my son,' he'd said, his words indelibly imprinting themselves on her brain. ‘I would not only kill you, Henrietta, I would kill your bastard child.' Then, only minutes later he'd thrown her to what he'd thought was her death. Terence Galloway was most certainly capable of murdering her son—it had been no idle threat.

The news of Terence's death had put Henrietta in a turmoil of indecision. She wanted desperately to make herself known to Kit, but how would he react to her? She would never regret the fact that she had informed him, through the locket, that Paul was his father. She owed it to Paul and she owed it to her son. Kit should know he'd been blessed with blood that was not Terence Galloway's. But how had Kit reacted to the knowledge of his mother's infidelity? Had he been shocked? Did he despise her? Henrietta didn't know whether she could confront her son's scorn.

Foong Lee's simple solution to return and carry on where she'd left off had bewildered Henrietta. What was she to tell her son? Was she to tell him that his stepfather who had raised him for all these years was a murderer? And then, seemingly unaware of the myriad of implications, Foong Lee had added the girl. ‘She is obsessed with the locket, Henrietta, she needs to know its history, and now that Terence Galloway is dead, perhaps she could talk
to you. She need not know your true identity of course,' he'd added, as if that presented no problem. ‘May she call on you?' And Henrietta had found herself saying yes. Foong Lee was a difficult person to refuse and it was quite obvious he wanted her to meet young Jessica Williams. Besides, it had seemed the least of Henrietta's problems at the time. There would be no harm in telling the girl her story of the locket, she'd decided. She would tell her that it had been a symbol of love. That it had been given to her by a man called Paul Trewinnard who had long since died. And she would tell her that it had been lost over thirteen years ago in the horrific accident which had nearly cost her her life.

But Jessica's quest of discovery had moved Henrietta, just as it had Foong Lee. Had that perhaps been his intention? Had he hoped that Jessica Williams would be the deciding factor? That she would inadvertently persuade Henrietta to reveal her identity? Foong Lee was quite capable of such manipulative strategy, Henrietta knew. Just as she knew that she could not reveal the locket's whereabouts without giving away her secret.

Henrietta was deep in thought and still plagued with indecision when Jessica returned from the kitchen.

Jessica too had been thinking. She knew that Henrietta had been buying time to avoid telling her the story of the locket. Now, as she sat, putting the tea tray on the coffee table, it was quite obvious to her that Henrietta Southern was troubled. She was staring out the window, her fine brow furrowed, her eyes troubled. Jessica felt concerned. Had she raised some spectre from the past in her enquiries about the locket?

‘Miss Southern,' she said tentatively. ‘Henrietta,' she corrected herself. ‘You're upset. If I've been presumptuous in coming here, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any pain …'

It was all Henrietta needed. ‘My name is not Henrietta
Southern,' she stated. ‘It is Henrietta Galloway. And I have a son. His name is Kit.' Henrietta dragged her gaze from the window to look squarely at Jessica. ‘Kit has the locket.'

Jessica stared back at the older woman, not daring to answer. Henrietta's tone was grave and her eyes were begging Jessica's trust.

‘I will tell you a little of what has happened in my life,' she said. ‘And I must swear you to secrecy—do I have your word?'

‘Yes.'

‘Come with me, Jessica.' Henrietta eased herself up from her chair a little awkwardly. ‘I shouldn't really sit for so long,' she said. ‘I tend to freeze up.' Jessica followed her into the hall. ‘My hip's deteriorated a little over the past year or so,' Henrietta said, leaning heavily on her cane as she walked. ‘They say I may need some revision surgery. Oh well, what will be will be.'

Henrietta was still chatting amiably as they entered the small spare bedroom which she'd converted into a form of office, but Jessica could tell that the woman was preoccupied. ‘I'm actually better if I keep mobile,' Henrietta said. ‘Please take a seat.'

Jessica looked about at the clutter. A large desk, wedged in one corner, took up half the room, and upon it were a typewriter, manuscripts, open reference books, and endless sheets of paper covered with jottings. There were two bookcases. One, beside the desk, housed hardbacks and the other, beside the door, was stacked with messy piles of paperback editions. Stuck haphazardly up on the wall beside the desk were yet further scribbled notes.

Henrietta offered Jessica the one and only office chair. ‘I really am happier moving about for a while,' she
insisted. With the cane propped at her side, she leaned against the desk and started sifting through a pile of folders on the middle shelf of the bookcase.

Jessica remained standing. She glanced at the titles of the paperbacks, which appeared to be mostly crime fiction. How strange, she thought, she wouldn't have picked Henrietta Galloway as a crime fiction fan. Then she noticed, on one of the covers, the name Henry South. She picked up the book.

Having taken a scrapbook from amongst the folders, Henrietta turned and gave a wry smile as she saw the paperback in Jessica's hand. ‘Oh dear, you've caught me out,' she said. ‘They're of the penny dreadful variety, I'm afraid.'

‘I'm most impressed.' Jessica looked admiringly at the line-up of Henry South books on the shelf. ‘How many have you written?'

‘Ten in all. They sell quite well, remarkably enough. I tried writing in a more esoteric form but I found I didn't really have the poetic streak. Not like Kit—there was always a bit of the poet in him, even as a little boy.'

At the mention of her son, Henrietta's face once again clouded. She was still undecided as to how much she should tell the girl. She set the scrapbook down on the desk.

‘If you're to meet my son, it might be a good idea for you to know what he looks like,' she said, trying to keep her voice light. Once again she gestured to the chair. ‘Please sit down, Jessica.'

‘I will if you do.' Jessica removed a pile of books from the stool which stood by the door. How could she possibly sit whilst Henrietta remained standing? She placed the stool beside the chair.

Henrietta was touched by the gesture, and together they sat. ‘This is Kit,' she said as she opened the scrapbook.

‘Local War Hero'. Jessica read the headlines on the front page of the
Northern Territory News
. She studied the
picture of the young man with the attractive smile, wondering as she did where the secrecy was leading. It was not unusual for a mother to keep a scrapbook of her son's exploits.

‘He won the Military Medal,' Henrietta said. ‘Foong Lee sent me the article. He sends me all of Kit's articles—he's a journalist now, and a very good one.' She watched as Jessica slowly turned the pages of the scrapbook, glancing through Kit's feature stories, each with a picture of him beside the byline.

Henrietta was very proud of her son. He'd become a fine writer. Paul had always said he showed talent. She remembered the two of them together, Paul holding forth about the great writers of the twentieth century, the little boy hanging on his every word. Paul, too, would have been proud of his son, she often thought.

Jessica turned the page to another article, this time from a magazine. ‘A Family of Territorians' it was headed, but the article had been mutilated. There was a photograph of Kit with a man's arm about his shoulder, but the image of the man had been cut out. And there was a further photograph, of a young, dark-haired man, very handsome, in army uniform.

‘Who's this?' she asked.

‘That's my elder son, Malcolm,' Henrietta said. ‘He was killed in Vietnam.'

‘Oh.' Jessica glanced at Henrietta, not sure what to say, but Henrietta's smile assured her no words were necessary.

‘He was a fine young man,' she said. ‘A hero.' Poor, dear Malcolm, she had thought, dying in battle. His father would have been broken-hearted but proud. ‘My son died for his country,' she could hear Terence boast. Henrietta had thought of nothing but the fear and the pain Malcolm might have known. Dear God let it have been quick, she'd prayed.

‘Turn the page,' she said, not wanting to invite enquiry
about the mutilated picture, although she was sure Jessica would be too tactful to make any comment, ‘there're some photographs on the next one.'

Jessica turned the page without having had time to read the copy which attended the article. She wondered about the man in the mutilated picture. Was it the husband? Surely it must have been.

Three photographs were pasted onto the following page. ‘Foong Lee,' she said recognising the Chinese in the first one. ‘Gosh Kit's tall.'

‘Yes, he is, but then Foong Lee's short.' Henrietta smiled as she looked at the photograph of Kit and Foong Lee in a playful pose outside the front of the restaurant, Kit propping his elbow on Foong Lee's head.

‘And that's Kit and his girlfriend,' Henrietta said. ‘She used to work with him at the newspaper, but they've split up now.'

‘Who's this?' Jessica asked of the final photograph of Kit and a handsome older woman with a shock of white hair.

‘She's a very dear friend who's been like a mother to him,' Henrietta said. Darling Aggie, she thought. She blessed Aggie Marshall daily. And she blessed Foong Lee for sending her the photographs and the articles. They were the only contact Henrietta had with her son and his life, and they were of immeasurable comfort to her.

Henrietta closed the scrapbook and turned to Jessica. Now for the moment of truth, she thought. ‘I haven't seen my son for over thirteen years,' she said.

Jessica made no reply, she didn't dare breathe a word, aware that this was the secret Henrietta had agonised over whether or not she should reveal.

‘Kit doesn't know that I'm alive.' Henrietta's voice was matter-of-fact, clinical. There, she'd said it, now she'd simply have to trust in the girl's oath of silence. ‘He's nearly twenty-seven years old, and since the age of thirteen he has believed that I am dead.'

It was a shocking statement and Jessica didn't know what to say. Why on earth would Henrietta Galloway want her son to believe she was dead? Jessica's eyes obviously asked the question.

‘If I had returned to Darwin during those years,' Henrietta explained, choosing her words with care, ‘lives would have been endangered—my own, and others. The threat no longer exists—if it did, then of course I wouldn't be telling you this—but there are personal reasons why I don't wish to make myself known now.'

Jessica once again wondered why. But this time the query in her eyes went unanswered.

‘If I direct you to the locket,' Henrietta continued, ‘and therefore to Kit, you must give me your word that you will say nothing to him about me.'

‘Why don't you want him to know you're alive?' Jessica couldn't stop herself asking the question. ‘If there's no longer any danger, then surely …'

But Henrietta continued as if she hadn't heard. ‘It would be quite easy. You would simply tell him the story of your search, just as you told me and Foong Lee. Your search would naturally lead you to Kit, Foong Lee having told you that Paul Trewinnard gave me the locket. And you would have presumed that, upon my death, Kit may have inherited it.'

Jessica repeated her question, gently this time. ‘Why don't you want your son to know you're alive, Henrietta?'

There were a dozen answers Henrietta could have given, but Jessica didn't know the full story. So she told her as much of the truth as she could. And strangely enough, as she said it, she realised she was voicing her principal concern.

‘He has a life of his own,' she said. ‘I've been dead to Kit for over thirteen years—it's best he remembers me the way I was.' She recalled how close they'd been, she and her darling younger son. He had been her world as she knew
she'd been his—could she bear to see disenchantment in his eyes? ‘Heavens above,' she said lightly in an attempt to suppress her innermost fears, ‘he doesn't need a middle-aged cripple of a mother he hasn't known since his childhood.'

‘Oh yes, he does.'

It was Henrietta's turn to be taken aback, and she was. Jessica herself was taken aback by her own vehemence. There was a moment of silence, but when she continued it was with the same fervour. ‘Do you know what I would have given to find my real mother? To meet her, to discover who she was and what she'd done with her life? To know her as a woman, this person who gave birth to me? Do you know what I would have given?' Jessica didn't wait for Henrietta to reply. ‘You owe it to Kit,' she said. ‘He's your son and he should be allowed to share your life.'

There was nothing Henrietta could have desired more, but there were extenuating circumstances—the girl didn't know the whole story. ‘There are things that have happened in my life, Jessica,' she said slowly, ‘things that may have altered Kit's view of me, truths that might shatter his world.'

‘Surely it's worth the risk.'

‘It's not that simple.'

‘I believe that it is.'

The girl was pushing her and Henrietta felt confused and uncertain. ‘You don't know the full story,' she said.

‘I'm aware of that.' Jessica was also aware of her own bullying tactics, but perhaps, somewhere deep inside, Henrietta wanted to be bullied. It was quite evident that she loved her son and that she missed him desperately. ‘But whatever the story is, it obviously involves Kit. Don't you think he should be allowed to know the truth?'

How Henrietta longed to tell Kit the truth. The good truths in any event. She longed to tell him about the love
she and Paul had shared, and the love Paul had felt for the son he could never acknowledge as his own. She wanted nothing more than to tell him such truths. But her fear remained.

‘What if he hates me?' she whispered, more to herself than the girl.

Jessica was moved. She wanted so much to help Henrietta, but she knew that there was little more she could say. She didn't want to bully her further. Henrietta was too frightened. She was haunted by fear; it was in her eyes.

An idea suddenly occurred to Jessica. ‘Why don't we go to Darwin together?' she suggested. The words were out of her mouth before she'd given them any thought and, as they hung in the air, she realised that she'd surprised herself more than Henrietta in the saying of them. Why was she so eager to become involved in the reuniting of Henrietta Galloway and her son, she wondered. Was she trying in some way to help heal the wounds of her own loss? The question was unanswerable but, whatever her motives, Jessica was driven by an intense desire to bring mother and son together. ‘You could see Kit from a distance,' she urged, ‘and then decide what to do.' Yes, that was it, she thought. Surely once the woman laid eyes on her son she would feel compelled to reveal herself. ‘You wouldn't have to make yourself known to him if you didn't want to,' she added encouragingly.

‘Yes,' Henrietta breathed. Caught up in Jessica's excitement, she felt the agony of her indecision lifting, ‘yes, I could do that, couldn't I? He needn't even know I'm there.' Why hadn't she thought of it the moment Foong Lee had rung with the news of Terence's death? At least then she would be able to see her son in the flesh. To actually lay eyes on him instead of poring over a photograph or a press clipping. Her heart raced at the prospect, and she blessed the intervention of Jessica Williams. ‘Yes, I'll come to Darwin with you.'

Her decision made, Henrietta was determined to move quickly—any more thought on the subject might invite a return of her indecision. She was going to see her son and that was all that mattered. She had made the momentous decision and it had to happen
now
. ‘Foong Lee can arrange a meeting between you and Kit,' she said, reaching for the telephone on her desk. ‘You'll see the locket and I'll see my son,' she said as she started to dial.

For the past half hour, the locket had been the last thing on Jessica's mind as she'd become embroiled in the mystery of Henrietta Galloway's past.

Henrietta paused mid-dial. ‘Would you be able to go to Darwin if we can get a flight tomorrow?'

Jessica nodded. And now it appeared she was about to become embroiled in Henrietta Galloway's future.