Territory (8 page)

‘It's a boomerang.'

‘Yes.' She stroked the wooden crescent with her fingertips. Flat and smooth, delicate to the touch, it was a beautiful thing. ‘Yes, I can see that.'

Bernie was surprised. He hadn't expected the young Englishwoman to know what a boomerang was. ‘Do you know what it does?' he asked.

‘You throw it and it comes back to you,' Henrietta said simply. Jackie Yoorunga, the head stockman, had shown her; Jackie was a master of the boomerang.

Bernie laughed. ‘Well, it comes back to them,' he corrected her, ‘the Abos. That is if it hasn't killed or stunned something they've chucked it at first. That's what it's for, you know, it's a weapon, but I've never seen a white bloke who could make the things work. Come on, let's give it a burl.' He jumped up from his seat on the front verandah and offered her his hand as they walked down the front steps. He didn't know why, offering his hand by way of assistance to young women wasn't the sort of thing Bernie did. But then he often behaved in a peculiar fashion when he was with Henrietta Galloway. Perhaps it was because she seemed such a lady, with her creamy skin and her
lilting voice which sounded almost Irish. ‘Better get away from the house in case we bust a few windows,' he said, self-consciously releasing her hand at the bottom step. She laughed her agreement and they walked down the slope towards the stables and the barn.

It was Bernie's third visit to the homestead, and the second time he'd gone AWOL. He hoped they wouldn't miss him. ‘Just going for a walk,' he'd said, aware of the strange looks from the others at the campsite. Where the hell was there to walk to, they were thinking. All except Reg, that was. Reg knew where he was going.

Bernie hoped he wouldn't cop it when he got back. They hadn't missed him the last time but hell he was pushing his luck—two times in a row. What the heck, it was worth it.

Reg had been with him on the first visit he'd paid to Bullalalla station, and Bernie hadn't been AWOL then. He and Reg had both had two days' leave, and Reg had agreed to join him on his hike to the homestead. Old man Galloway had given them a right royal welcome. They'd arrived at the gates, about a half a mile from the cluster of buildings which formed Bullalalla station, and were admiring the fine homestead set amongst its trees when Jock had cantered up to them on his whopping great chestnut.

‘What are you boys doing so far from home?' the old man had bellowed, then without waiting for an answer, ‘Come on up the house and have a beer.'

Bernie had grinned, about to say ‘Good on ya mate', but Reg had quickly replied ‘Love to, sir, thank you very much.' The two young soldiers were the best of friends but twenty-three-year-old Reg found Bernie very young and very gauche at times.

‘Make yourself known to the missus. Just on my way home myself, be with you when I've watered down The Baron here.' Jock touched his heels to the horse by way of introduction and the stallion wheeled on the spot in response to his master's command. Jock knew they looked
impressive. The Red Baron stood nearly seventeen hands and, as Jock constantly boasted to his mates, looked a dead ringer for Phar Lap. ‘Tell her the boss said to break open the icebox,' he called before he took off in a cloud of dust. Jeez, for an old bloke he couldn't half ride, Bernie thought.

It was a good thirty minutes later when Jock burst through the back door and into the kitchen where Bernie and Reg were starting on the ice-cold beers Margaret had placed before them. Both had been a little uncertain as to their reception from the dour mistress of the house, but Jock quickly dispelled their misgivings.

‘Jock Galloway's the name, lads,' he said. ‘Good to see you. One for me too, love.'

Margaret fetched him a beer, although she didn't approve of him drinking during the day; he never did normally. But then normally they didn't have visits from soldiers. When the lads had arrived and Bernie had said, ‘G'day missus, we met the boss and he said to break open the icebox,' she knew it wasn't just cheek on the young man's part, the words were pure Jock Galloway. Her husband was keen for the company of military men so that he could boast of his own exploits, she'd seen it all before.

They'd been chatting for a good half hour, Margaret opening a further two bottles of beer, before Henrietta arrived. Reg and Bernie had introduced themselves and Bernie had asked about the bloke who buzzed the station and Jock had proudly announced that it was none other than his son, whereupon he'd launched into a boastful account of Terence's exploits.

‘Learned to fly at the Royal Aero Club of South Australia no less, made me send him down there when he was just a boy, not much older than you, Bernie.' Bernie bristled just a little. He'd be twenty next month, but everyone took him for seventeen or eighteen, and it annoyed him.

‘Mind you, he wasn't aiming on being a fighter pilot
then,' Jock continued. ‘“Light aircraft's the way of the future, Dad,” that's what he told me, he was no more than eighteen at the time. “We'll be one of the first stations to have our own airstrip”.' The old man swigged from his glass, wiped the foam from the stubble of his upper lip and laughed with pride. ‘Well, we haven't quite got around to that yet, but he always was a forward thinker, my Terry. Just like me. A chip off the old block. Ah Henrietta, come in and meet the lads.'

Reg jumped to his feet as Henrietta entered and Bernie followed suit, gathering it was the right thing to do.

‘This is Reg from Sydney and Bernie from Wagga Wagga. My daughter-in-law Henrietta.'

‘How do you do, Mrs Galloway,' Reg said.

‘G'day,' Bernie nodded, ‘Mrs Galloway,' he added.

‘A beer, my dear?' Jock asked expansively, and before Henrietta could say she'd get herself a cup of tea, Margaret interrupted.

‘I'm sure Henrietta would prefer a cup of tea.'

‘No, a beer would be lovely, thank you.' Damn it, Henrietta thought, why had she done that? She didn't set out daily to annoy Margaret, it was just that, on occasions, she couldn't help herself. Oh well, too late now. ‘It's rather stifling, isn't it?' She smiled at the older woman with a touch of apology.

It wasn't, Margaret Galloway thought. It was a mild day by normal standards. And who ever said ‘rather stifling' anyway? The girl was mocking her.

‘Let me,' Henrietta said as Margaret went to the icebox to fetch more beer.

‘No, no,' Jock insisted. ‘Sit down, sit down and entertain the lads. Look at them, they're so polite they won't sit until you do. Come on, come on, sit, girl, sit.' Henrietta did as she was told, no-one disobeyed Jock.

‘Charlie'd be here to entertain you too,' Jock said to the boys, ‘but she's out mustering.'

Reg and Bernie exchanged a bewildered glance as they sat.

‘She's been out bush for three days now,' Jock added, ‘she's a damn fine stockman, but if she was here she'd be proud to entertain two fine members of the Australian armed forces.' Jock hadn't eaten since breakfast and the beers were going to his head.

Margaret plonked Henrietta's beer down in front of her. She was far more annoyed with her husband than her daughter-in-law now. Entertain the armed forces indeed! She was the one doing the entertaining and yet he didn't cast a look in her direction, just roared for more beer. She contemplated calling Pearl in from the laundry tub to dance attendance upon the men, but decided that it wasn't worth it. The aftermath would be unbearable. ‘These are the men defending our country!' he would roar at her later, in private, ‘They deserve to be entertained by the woman of the house!'

‘Thank you.' Henrietta said in acknowledgement of the beer, and she smiled encouragingly at her mother-in-law, but Margaret merely turned away. The woman was offended, and Henrietta understood why. It was justifiable too, she thought, Jock was often very hurtful to his wife.

As it turned out, it was Jock who provided the entertainment. Talk quickly turned to The Great War, he made sure of that, and the nobility of battle for one's King and Country.

Reg listened avidly. His father had died at the battle of the Somme, a hero, the reports said. Reg believed in his father's noble death and it upset him when some of his dad's returned servicemen mates talked about the bloody waste of war. ‘Cannon fodder, we were,' that's what some of them said. Reg hated it. Jock's stories were far closer to the truth, and he leant on the old man's every word.

Bernie, however, was barely aware of Jock's rantings, he couldn't take his eyes off Henrietta. Perhaps it was because
it had been a long time since he'd been in female company, or perhaps it was because she was the most sensual and attractive woman he'd ever seen, he didn't bother to analyse which.

Margaret, having heard all of Jock's stories a hundred times, observed every facet of the proceedings and it annoyed her that Henrietta appeared totally oblivious to the boy's fascination. She called Pearl in to prepare food for the men, they were not going to get drunk in her kitchen.

After they'd eaten, Jock took Reg and Bernie on a guided tour of the homestead and its immediate surrounds. The large outhouse to the rear of the station was the storeroom, he explained, from where they doled out the clothing, rations and provisions for the stockmen and their families. The flywire-encased shack beyond that was the meatroom where they hung the bullock carcasses before butchering, and beyond that, in the distance, was the slaughter yard, where, fortnightly, they killed two steers to supply the homestead and native families with meat.

They'd walked around to the front of the homestead, Jock enjoying playing lord of the manor, and he pointed out the stables, which was a tack room really he explained, and the barn, both about a hundred yards or so to the left of the house.

‘Take your pick, boys,' he said, it had been agreed they would stay the night. ‘In the stables you'll get horse shit—normally the horses are out in the paddock, but Molly's about to give foal—and in the barn you'll get mice, maybe rats. Take your pick.' Reg and Bernie opted for the stables.

‘You'll sleep well tonight,' Jock assured them, ‘with one of Nellie's stews inside you, you'll sleep like babies.'

He'd been right. The stew was the best meal they'd had since they'd left home. And Pearl delivered ample bedding supplies to the stables. With real pillows! Christ, Bernie
said, a bloody sight better than camp!

The breakfast the following morning had been even more unbelievable. Steak and eggs! Reg and Bernie looked at each other across the table. Beef that wasn't tinned? Eggs that were fresh? Bernie tried not to eat like a pig.

Margaret thought Jock had gone too far in his offer of hospitality. There was room enough at the kitchen table, certainly, with Charlotte out on the muster and Terence staying at the base as he often did, but surely Pearl could have delivered the men something to eat at the stables. She said nothing of such thoughts to her husband but as Reg and Bernie took their leave and Jock said heartily, ‘Any time lads, any time, pay us a visit,' she thought, over my dead body.

Two days later, on his return from the base, Terence's thoughts had been much the same. ‘They stayed the night, Dad?'

‘Yes, in the barn.'

‘And had breakfast in the kitchen!'

‘They're soldiers, Terry!' The old man couldn't comprehend his son's lack of understanding.

‘They're bludgers, that's what they are.'

Terence had heard the whole story from his mother. ‘They drank beer for hours,' Margaret had told him, ‘then they had lunch, then dinner, then stayed in the barn, then they had breakfast, right here in the kitchen, before they left.'

Terence didn't like the sound of it at all. They were privates too, his mother had said, no rank, just two young soldiers out for a free ride.

‘Bludgers,' he repeated, ‘bloody young bludgers.'

‘Listen boy,' Jock said, and the baleful glare which Terence remembered well from his childhood days, was as grim and malevolent as ever, ‘these are soldiers! These are men fighting for their country! Just like I did! Don't you ever forget that! If I meet a man who's fighting for his
country, then he's a mate of mine, don't you ever forget it!'

Jock had made his point, he knew it from the look on his son's face. He smiled. ‘Just like you're fighting for your country, Terry, and I'm proud of you. Hey, they're gunners, son!' He clamped his hand around Terence's shoulder. ‘These are the men who protect you up there. You owe them, boy. You hear me?' He gave Terence's shoulder a hearty thump. ‘You owe them!'

Terence left it at that. His father was still boss, for the time being anyway. But Terence wasn't at all happy when he'd heard that young Bernie Spencer had paid another visit.

The boy had been on his own this time, and he hadn't stayed the night. Of course he wouldn't have dared, Terence thought, he'd have gone AWOL, he wouldn't have had another day's leave so soon. But why the hell was he bothering to hike ten miles to the homestead, spend a few hours and then hike the ten miles back to camp?

‘What did he do?' Terence asked his mother.

‘Had a cup of tea, your father wasn't here so I didn't offer him a beer, and talked to Henrietta.' The look on her face spoke multitudes.

Terence had later queried Henrietta, but she made light of the episode. ‘He's just a boy,' she shrugged, ‘he's lonely.' And Terence said no more on the subject, but he seethed. Just one more time, mate, he thought. You try it just one more time!

And now Bernie was back. Barely a fortnight later. He had a present for Henrietta, he said to Margaret, knocking back the reluctantly offered cup of tea—Margaret knowing full well that if Jock were there he would expect her to offer tea at the very least—and she watched disapprovingly through her office windows as the two sat on the front verandah and examined the boomerang.