Territory (7 page)

‘Well, that was a while back now,' he assured her, ‘times have changed.'

They hadn't really. Terence knew full well that his own father had had his fair share of dalliances with Aboriginal women in the past. Discreetly of course, for fear of incurring the wrath of his wife. And Terence himself, encouraged by his father, had lost his virginity at the age of fifteen to the eighteen-year-old daughter of a black drover. Jock had boasted of the fact to his mates. ‘The boy's developed an early taste for black velvet,' he'd said, and Terence had felt like a man.

Henrietta still looked rather shaken and Terence realised she needed further reassurance.

‘My grandfather was a good man, Henrietta,' he said, ‘he did the right thing by Nellie. He gave her a decent education at Port Keats Mission, and he found her a husband, and I'll tell you something else,' he added with pride, ‘you won't find another black family around here who can boast their own cottage a half a mile from the homestead! Built on the boss's orders, I might add.'

It was true, Lionel Galloway had been a good enough man, and he'd been fond of Nellie in his own way. Her arrival shortly before his fifty-second birthday had imbued him with fresh blood, made him feel young again. And she'd proved an asset furthermore.

His wife's intense annoyance had been appeased when, at the age of fifteen, the girl had returned from the mission to take up her role as a hard-working domestic, costing the household no more than her keep. And when Nellie had caught the eye of young Jackie Yoorunga, the horsebreaker from Queensland and the best at his trade, she'd been worth her weight in gold. The quickest way to keep Jackie on the property had been to offer him the boss's daughter and a cottage to boot. Lionel Galloway had been a good man, but also a practical one, exceptionally astute when it came to business.

‘Now don't look so shocked as if we're all monsters,' Terence said teasingly. ‘Remember, the sins of the grandfather should not be visited upon the grandson.'

Terence was right, Henrietta thought, this was a different world she now lived in. She must learn not to be so easily shocked.

‘I need to be tougher,' she said in all seriousness the following day, having thought long and hard on the matter. ‘More like Charlotte and your mother.'

‘Oh no,' he insisted, ‘don't you dare.' He kissed her fiercely and affectionately. ‘Don't you dare become like
Mother and Charlotte, you stay exactly the way you are.'

During the several days' leave he'd had after her arrival in Darwin, he'd taken her for a drive and shown her the countryside. As much of it as he could, he said, in a Landrover.

‘The only way to really see it is on horseback,' he'd told her. ‘When Charlotte's taught you to ride, I'll show you the gorges and the waterfalls. And rock formations that look like cities. And at the end of the wet season I'll show you the rivers and the plains.'

But she'd seen enough to impress her. From the rough bush track in the high country she'd looked down over the wetlands and marvelled at the lush vegetation and the wildlife. She'd thrilled to the sinister shapes of the salt-water crocodiles which Terence had pointed out to her, basking amongst the pandanus trees on the banks of the swollen creeks. And the birdlife fascinated her, the flocks of honking magpie geese and the noisy blue-winged kookaburras. The sulphur-crested cockatoos, the corellas, the Major Mitchell galahs and the lorikeets, she'd never seen birds of such colour. She had thrilled to it all and Terence had delighted in her excitement.

Yes, she thought, she had delighted him then. So what had happened?

Henrietta had finished feeding the chickens in the coop at the rear of the house—‘chooks' she reminded herself, ‘chooks'—but she didn't want to go inside, despite the intense heat and the clamminess of her white cotton blouse and the fact that, without a hat, the sun was indeed making her feel light-headed. She wasn't in the mood for Margaret, she decided, as she stood in the shade of the huge water tank, high on its stilted wooden platform beside the chicken coop. She wouldn't mind having a quiet cup of tea with Charlotte, she'd come to like Charlotte strangely enough, but it would be lunchtime soon, little chance of that.

The back flywire door swung open and Pearl appeared with a basket of laundry. She crossed to the clothes lines which stretched between the chicken coop and the hessian-covered vegetable garden (Margaret's pride and joy) and set the basket down on the old wooden table.

‘I'll do that, Pearl.'

The Aboriginal girl was startled, she hadn't noticed the young missus standing silently in the shade of the water tank. She hesitated.

‘You go inside and help Nellie with the lunch.'

‘Yeh, Miss Henrietta,' Pearl said with reluctance. She hoped she wouldn't cop it from the old missus, she'd copped it once already this morning, for running away from the aeroplane.

Henrietta understood the girl's hesitation—Margaret Galloway ran the household with a rod of iron. ‘You tell the missus,' she said very firmly, ‘that I told you I wish to hang out the clothes.'

‘Yeh, Miss Henrietta.' Pearl smiled, that would get her off the hook. She liked the young missus.

Henrietta watched her go inside. She liked Pearl too. She wasn't sure whether the girl was lazy or shy, probably a mixture of both, but she was devastatingly pretty when she smiled.

Henrietta hung out the clothes in a desultory fashion, buying time, waiting to be called in to lunch, wondering why she felt depressed. Terence buzzing the homestead in his Spitfire, she supposed; she'd grown to hate it. And he'd be home in a couple of hours, fired with adrenalin and excitement, and she knew what would happen then.

It wasn't the lovelessness of Henrietta's sex life which was making her unhappy. A virgin at twenty-two, she had realised, on her wedding night, that sex was a woman's duty and that, despite romantic novels and girlish gossip, it did not involve affection on the part of the male. Ensuing sexual relations with her husband had led her to
accept this as her lot in life, but what had become of the affection which Terence had displayed when she'd first come to the Territory? And in London? He'd been a different man when he was courting. She'd naively said as much to Charlotte.

‘Well of course all men are different when they're courting,' Charlotte had replied. She'd offered her friendship to Henrietta from the day the girl had arrived. Someone should, she'd thought, feeling sorry for her brother's young wife.

‘But he was romantic in London.' Henrietta knew she sounded like a deluded schoolgirl, but she was grateful for Charlotte's support, and was determined to speak her mind no matter how foolish she sounded.

‘He wanted to win you.' Charlotte too was prepared to speak her mind. She always did. And she could see no change in her brother. Terence had always insisted upon control, and that's what he was doing with his pretty young wife, taking control, Charlotte had no doubt of it. Perhaps, in his own way, her brother loved Henrietta. But in what way was that? The same way he loved a horse he'd broken in? ‘He does love you, Henrietta,' she'd said, hoping to be of some comfort, ‘in his own way.' And she'd left it at that. She refused to lie.

But Henrietta had brought the subject up again and again; Charlotte was her only ally. Exasperated, Charlotte had finally spoken her true mind. ‘Have you ever thought you might be a breeding mare, Henrietta?' She was gratified by the shock she saw in the girl's face; she'd intended to shock. But she'd shocked herself also in the saying of it.

In the silence which followed she added, ‘We all are, you know. All we Galloway women. It's why my husband deserted me when he found I was barren.'

They were seated in the big open kitchen, by the windows, and Charlotte's expression was bitter, her eyes hard, as she stared unseeingly out at the water tank. ‘It's why
Terence treats me with such disdain. Well, he doesn't so much now,' she corrected herself. ‘He respects me now that I do the work of a man.' It was true, Charlotte could handle a rifle, ride a horse and round up cattle along with the best of them. The men called her Charlie and accepted her as a fellow drover on many a muster. ‘But he didn't always respect me,' she concluded, turning to Henrietta. ‘Not when I was supposed to be a breeding mare.'

Charlotte's comments indeed shocked Henrietta. But self-preservation persuaded the young Englishwoman that her sister-in-law's views were the result of a deep and understandable cynicism. Charlotte was barren, her husband had deserted her, of course she would feel cynical where men were concerned.

Charlotte realised she had gone too far. ‘You've come to know our father,' she said as reasonably as she could. ‘Terence has spent his whole life training to become the man his father is. He's intent on building a dynasty, just like the old man, he's the next Galloway in line, the next leader.' Charlotte shrugged, in her opinion it was the truth, so why not tell it. ‘Even my brothers recognise it, you wait 'til you meet them, you'll see what I mean. They jump to his command just as if he was Dad.' Her smile was scathing. ‘That's why they both married young, I swear it—to get out of home before Terence took over.'

‘You're very observant, Charlotte.' Henrietta was saddened by the loss of her only ally. She would not speak again of her husband, she did not believe Charlotte. She could not afford to.

‘Observation is my hobby.' Charlotte knew that Henrietta would no longer confide in her, and perhaps that was just as well, for Charlotte refused to play girlish games. Not that that was what Henrietta was seeking, the girl merely wanted assurances. But Charlotte refused to offer false encouragement, Henrietta would find out in time. Every Galloway woman did.

Their relationship had changed since that day. They were still friends, Charlotte patiently teaching Henrietta the ways of station life, but Henrietta no longer invited intimate conversation and Charlotte was grateful for it.

At times, in the deepest recesses of Henrietta's being she wondered whether Charlotte could possibly be right. I must conceive, she told herself. It was her duty, after all, to have a child. Perhaps when she'd had a child, Terence would revert to the man he'd been in London. The man with whom she'd fallen in love.

In the distance, young Bernie Spencer watched the Spitfire complete its final circle in the sky before turning south and heading for the RAAF base. He continued to watch until it disappeared from sight.

To Bernie, the aircraft signified their utter isolation. It was a link between everything he couldn't see. He couldn't see the homestead beyond the ridge and he couldn't see the RAAF base far to the south.

Bernie looked around at the gunnery campsite. The cookhouse made of bark with dirt floors, the fires where the men did their own cooking, the lean-to shelters with the beds that they'd made themselves from tree forks shoved in the ground and corn sacks. Christ, it was the back of beyond.

He wondered about the bloke in the Spitfire. Why did he buzz the homestead? Jeez, I'd love to find out, Bernie thought. Then he had an idea. That's what he'd do with the two days' monthly leave he had coming up, he'd pay a visit to the homestead and find out. Hell, it'd have to be better than Darwin.

Bernie had wasted his last month's leave hitching a ride into Darwin with some Yanks on their way through from
the US base near Katherine. Darwin was a desolate place. Sad, Bernie thought. No shops to speak of. Not that he had any money to spend, his payroll went home and his two bob a day allowance didn't buy much. But it was sad to see a town with no shops. 'Course there wasn't much need for shops as such, most of the civilians had fled or been evacuated. Jeez, why would you want to stay if you didn't have to, Bernie thought, the place was a mess, ships sunk in the harbour, even Chinatown a thing of the past.

Bernie had heard wonderful tales of Darwin's Chinatown. Of the smell of incense and cooking spices wafting through back alleyways, and of open-fronted stores selling strange and wondrous things, and he'd longed to eat exotic foods and explore bustling markets. But what little was left of Chinatown was in ruins and the place deserted. Well, the Chinese were no fools, were they? They'd fled Darwin along with the others.

Yeah, that's what he'd do with his next leave, he decided. He'd hike over to the homestead and meet the people who lived there. He'd find out about the bloke in the Spitfire too. Reg might want to come with him. The people at the homestead might even give them a feed, might let them camp the night in one of their sheds. You never knew your luck, Bernie thought. Hell, it'd be something different.

 

Terence was preparing to land, but something was wrong. As he turned into his landing circuit, the rudder jammed. But how could that be? He'd been circling the homestead only a short while ago. Something was jamming the control cables. His aerobatics had cost him dearly, the hit from the Zero was making itself known. Damn it, he should have come straight back to the base.

With the rudder jammed he wouldn't be able to control the aircraft on landing. A Spitfire needed full left rudder to
land, otherwise it would swing hard to the right. Terence knew well what to expect.

Gently, very gently, he brought her in. He was doing less than ninety miles an hour. And he touched down in the very centre of the dirt airstrip with such delicacy, the aircraft obeying him as she should. Responding to his command. Like a good horse, heeding his every wish. The landing was perfect. But that was all he was able to do, the rest was beyond his control. He turned off the ignition and the petrol, and braced himself.

Hans van der Baan, bomber pilot, had left the mess hut to stand by the airstrip and wait for his friend. The other Spits had come in, but Terence hadn't been amongst them. Stupid bastard, Hans had thought, he was buzzing his father's house again. When would he learn?

Now, watching the Spitfire's approach, Hans sensed that something was wrong, Terence was bringing her in so very carefully. He watched the aircraft gently touch down, he could see the damage to its side, then he watched as it turned hard to the right. The rudder was jammed, he thought. Even with the brakes Terence wouldn't be able to control her. Nothing could. The Spitfire circled in a cloud of dust. Round and round, chasing its tail.

Harnessed safely to his seat, Terence watched the world spin by through the cockpit window, waiting for the moment when the aircraft would come to a halt and go up on its nose. That was the moment when the Spit could catch fire, Spits had a nasty habit of catching fire in such situations. He'd have to get out quick.

Finally the aircraft came to a halt and, as it went up on its nose, Terence unharnessed himself, opened the cockpit window, and scrambled out onto the wing.

Men had gathered to watch amongst the trees and the scrub which lined the bush airstrip. Terence could see Hans waving him to get clear, but he didn't need any encouragement. He leapt onto the ground and sprinted
as hard as he could.

When he'd put enough safe distance between himself and the Spitfire, Terence turned back and breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't going to burn. Thank Christ, he thought. If she'd gone up in flames, his late return might have been commented upon and some bothersome questions asked. As it was, he'd probably be congratulated on bringing a damaged aircraft safely home.

He pulled off his goggles and leather helmet and swaggered up to Hans. ‘Rudder jammed,' he said.

‘I could see that.'

‘Pretty good landing, though,' Terence grinned. ‘Neat and tidy, don't you reckon?'

‘You stupid bastard,' the Dutchman growled in his thick guttural accent. ‘You'll kill yourself one day.'

‘What do you mean?' Terence asked innocently.

‘She's damaged, man,' Hans waved an expressive hand at the Spitfire. ‘Just look at her. You go showing off in a damaged aircraft, you're just asking for it, I tell you.'

But even the dour Dutchman couldn't dampen Terence's spirits. He felt elated. And alive. So very alive. ‘Come on,' he said, clapping his hand around the beefy shoulder of Hans van der Baan as they walked towards the mess hut. The men were very good friends and admired each other's skill, sharing endless discussions on tactics. ‘We'll get a mug of tea while I tell you what went on up there.'

 

Henrietta heard the Landrover pull up. So did Margaret. They were seated beside each other at the huge, paper-strewn desk in the office downstairs. The office had been a sitting room in the old days, big and grand, with huge bay windows where people lounged in armchairs and looked out across the verandah to the tree-lined drive and the mango tree grove beyond. The view through the bay windows was the same but people no longer lounged, for this was now the hub of the station. Here was where
Margaret kept her books. Her ledgers and log books and accounts, her records of stock, and of stores and supplies for the native workers. It was from here she supervised, day to day, month to month, year to year, the running of Bullalalla cattle station.

‘Some stations employ a full-time bookkeeper,' she'd told Henrietta, ‘but I believe it is a wife's duty to take on such responsibilities.' And Henrietta must learn to do the same, she was instructed. In time she was to take over the role. Margaret and Jock would retire when the war was over, they'd go south to enjoy the autumn years of their lives and Terence would inherit Bullalalla. Henrietta would need to know her job.

Margaret put aside her accounts books and her ledgers when she heard the Landrover pull up. ‘He's home,' she said. Unnecessarily, Henrietta thought as she heard her husband yell, ‘I'm home!' But she rose dutifully from her chair and followed her mother-in-law into the hall.

Jock was already there. ‘Terry!' he bellowed, as his son burst through the door. ‘Terry, my boy!' And he pumped his son's hand, they never embraced. ‘What a triumph!' Pump, pump. ‘What a salute!' Pump, pump. ‘I'm proud of you, son!'

Terence returned his father's handshake with equal fervour. But where was Henrietta? He was on fire. He looked about, and there she was, to his left, standing behind his mother at the office door. And she looked so desirable.

‘There she is, my gorgeous wife!' He picked her up, whirling her about while he continued to talk excitedly to his father. ‘What about that dive, Dad! A beauty wasn't it? And with a damaged rudder as it turned out. I had some trouble landing her, I can tell you.'

Jock would love to have sat and talked with his son, to thrill to the camaraderie which only men of action could share. But Terence was already starting up the stairs,
his arm around his wife's waist, half dragging her, half carrying her, Henrietta laughing self-consciously.

Ah well, Jock thought, he'd hear it all later, over the dinner table, he always did. Besides, when a man had faced death, it was only right he should seek the pleasures of his wife, any red-blooded male would do the same.

‘Can we eat early tonight?' Terence called before he disappeared upstairs. ‘I skipped tucker at the base and I'm starving!' A final hushed whisper from Henrietta and they were out of sight.

Jock exchanged a glance with his wife. Margaret did not return her husband's grin, which frankly she found a touch lascivious, but she too approved of Terence's healthy libido. The sooner that girl conceived the better, she thought, not only for the provision of an heir, but because Margaret sensed a quiet rebellion in Henrietta. The girl needed to be taught her place.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, Terence ripped at Henrietta's clothes, his mouth engulfing hers as he thrust his groin roughly against her. Henrietta returned his kiss, opening her mouth to him, desperately willing herself to respond, wishing that she could find a passion which could meet his. But it was always the same.

Each time on his return home, despite her self-consciousness at his overt behaviour in the presence of his parents, Henrietta loved being the object of Terence's desire. She loved the thought that she could give him pleasure. But once alone, it was not pleasure he sought, it was brute satisfaction.

A first she had tried to dampen his ardour, just a little, enough to give her time to undress. ‘Gently, gently,' she'd whisper, ‘you'll tear it,' and she'd try to ease off her blouse.

But he'd tear it anyway. ‘I'll buy you five more,' he'd say. Sometimes he'd curse her for wearing trousers. Sometimes he'd just hoist her skirt up and rip off her panties before
thrusting himself into her. Henrietta had learned to simply succumb to his wishes.

Today, however, she had decided upon a different tack. She had planned for his return. After lunch she had removed her brassiere, hoping nobody would notice the fullness of her breasts beneath the white cotton shirt, and she had changed into a very light skirt, easily removable, just a button at the waist. She didn't know why. Perhaps her actions were inspired by her reminiscences this morning as she'd stood in the shade of the water tank. She'd thought for a long time of their days in London, and she so wanted to be a good wife.

Although she'd anticipated his return with her customary resignation, Henrietta had determined to try harder. Perhaps the fault really did lie with her, perhaps if she could teach herself to respond to his passion …

‘Yes, yes,' she now breathed as she undid the button and let the skirt drop to the floor. He barely noticed, one hand behind her neck pulling her to him, the other fumbling with his belt buckle.

Fervently she returned his kiss although she could feel the stubble of his chin rasping her skin as he ground his mouth against hers. She slid her panties over her hips and they slithered down her legs to the floor.

Terence released her long enough to pull off his trousers, noticing as he did so that she stood before him virtually naked, clothed in nothing but the sleeveless cotton shirt. It was open and her breasts were displayed, full and milky-white against the tan of her arms, her belly rounding perfectly to the mound of ginger-gold hair between her thighs. The sight of her raised the fire in him to fever pitch.

He forced her back onto the bed, his hands ripping her legs apart.

‘My darling,' Henrietta breathed, ‘my darling.' She stroked his face with her hand as she said it, willing him to look into her eyes. But he didn't. As always, he neither
looked into her eyes nor said her name as he buried himself deep inside her.

Although it was painful to start with, she tried to meet his thrusts, to let him know that she wished to give him pleasure. But by the time the pain had disappeared and she could concentrate upon the desperate rhythm of his body it was too late. Raised on his arms above her, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, he was unaware of any movement in her body as he ground himself mindlessly into her. Two more thrusts, then a guttural cry, and Terence was spent.

He flopped down beside her, gasping for air. Once again she caressed his face, still seeking a moment she might share. And finally he did turn to her. He laughed, a triumphant laugh as if he'd proved something, then gave her a brief resounding kiss and rolled on his side, his back to her. It was what he always did. He would sleep now, for exactly half an hour, and when he woke there would be no display of tenderness, no affectionate embrace in recognition of their intimacy. He would awake full of energy, revitalised, and spring from the bed ready to get on with the rest of the day.

Her attempts to share his passion had failed dismally, Henrietta thought. She was disappointed but not surprised as she lay quietly beside him. She never rose from the bed until he awakened, never washed herself after their coupling. She lay there, not daring to move, her vaginal muscles firmly clenched, holding his seed inside her, praying that this time she might have conceived.