A Woman of Courage

by J. H. Fletcher

  Lance leant slowly forward. Their lips barely touched. He sat back. ‘There you go,’ he said.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘It’s a start.’

  A little later his left arm was round her shoulders, his lips were on hers, his right hand had somehow found its way inside her dressing gown, eased up her bra and now was cupping her left breast.

  Things were getting out of hand, she hoped. She broke off the kiss. ‘This is where I am supposed to say stop it,’ she said.

  His hand remained where it was. It did not move but the touch of his palm against the tender skin was sending quivers all the way to her toes.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then I would have to resort to other strategies.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I could slap your face.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be nice.’

  ‘Or I could smile and do nothing.’

  ‘Lie back and think of Queen Victoria?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘That sounds like a lot more fun.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  The hand was moving again. Gently smoothing. Stroking. The quivers were growing more intense, force five on the Richter scale and climbing. Any moment now the walls might come tumbling down. If they hadn’t already.

  ‘Are you still feeding the baby?’ he said.

  ‘Not for months now.’

  ‘Are they still sore?’

  ‘Maybe a bit tender.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be very gentle.’

  Later, lying naked on the bed, she watched him put his shoes on.

  ‘I had been planning to have a bath when you arrived,’ she said.

  ‘Have one now,’ he said.

  ‘Could do.’

  She knew she would not. For tonight she would keep the scent and substance of him intact. Awake or sleeping she would lie surrounded by the memory of what had happened. She would relive the taste of him on her lips and in her body. She would kiss the air where he had been.

  Next day she was distracted, waiting for a call that did not come. She thought: You fool, you couldn’t wait to get your knickers off, could you? He’s a man, for God’s sake. He’s had his fun and moved on. What else did you expect? You bastard, she thought. How dare you fill me and now leave me empty? How dare you? She’d give him a talking to, the next time she saw him. If she ever did.

  She went home to the flat that evening. She played with Jennifer, she bathed and fed her, played with her some more, and all the time there was a dull ache in her heart that nothing would shift.

  You fool. You nincompoop. You moron. On and on.

  The ring of the bell brought her heart to her throat. She was careful not to run to the door. She opened it.

  ‘I’ve brought Chinese takeaways,’ Lance said. ‘I hope that’s all right.’

  Her heart was doing cartwheels. ‘I’ve no wine,’ she said.

  He put the cardboard boxes in the kitchen. ‘Give me five,’ he said. And was gone. In no time he was back with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and another of brandy.

  ‘Remy Martin,’ she said. ‘Wow!’

  ‘Think rich,’ he said.

  ‘Think bankrupt,’ she said.

  ‘What I’ve been hearing, I don’t see that as a problem for you any time soon,’ he said.

  ‘What have you been hearing?’

  ‘That in commercial terms Hilary Brand is on the road to big things. And getting there fast too.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said.

  At the end of the evening she turned to him: ‘You want to stay over?’

  ‘Would that be wise?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Her eyes grew intense. ‘You want to stay over?’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Nothing you haven’t had already.’

  ‘Offering seconds?’

  ‘You never know your luck.’

  ‘What a splendid idea. But I’ve no toothbrush.’

  ‘That I can provide.’

  ‘And a razor?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘You believe in being organised.’

  ‘I believe in hanging on to what I’ve got,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.

  ‘Make sure you do. But in the meantime…’

  2

  She was obsessed, no other word for it. She wanted him with a passion she would not have believed possible. More than desire, it was a physical illness that left her body aching. She needed to feel his body on hers, his body in hers. She could have wept with the intensity of her feelings.

  They were seeing each other most evenings; then Lance phoned. His voice was taut. ‘I won’t be able to see you for a few days.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I have to go away. I’ll be back at the weekend.’

  ‘I shall miss you,’ she said, too proud to ask the questions that were shouting in her mind. Why? Where are you going? And why can’t you tell me?

  She wondered if he might say he loved her. He did not. Neither did she speak but waited, hoping.

  ‘See you,’ he said.

  At the weekend, he had said. I shall be back at the weekend. It seemed an eternity. Even Dave noticed her preoccupation. ‘Not like you at all,’ he said.

  She told herself to be patient. With patience all would be resolved.

  On Thursday she turned up at the office as usual. Tomorrow night, she was thinking. He will be home tomorrow night.

  Sandy looked up as Hilary walked in, Sandy with an anxious expression on her face.

  ‘Good morning,’ Hilary said, falsely bright. Then saw the woman sitting on the other side of Sandy’s desk. Sitting waiting on the other side of Sandy’s desk. And knew. No word spoken but she knew.

  ‘This is Mrs Bettinger,’ Sandy said.

  Sandy knew; of course she did. She knew and Dave knew and all the world knew, didn’t it, because Hilary had made no attempt to conceal her feelings. There had been no reason to hide them, had there?

  Now this.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to come in,’ she said to Mrs Bettinger.

  Quite pretty, she thought. Not as brash as I’d imagined. Not bad at all. While the doom bells rang in her head. She managed somehow to smile as she spoke but was thankful to reach her chair and collapse into it, all strength gone from her legs.

  She took a deep breath, willing her shaking limbs to be still. Because this woman was the enemy, was she not? An enemy to be destroyed, if possible, but in any case to be handled with care. With very great care.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘You know my husband,’ Mrs Bettinger said.

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed?’

  She was wearing a little too much make-up, Hilary thought, her lips scarlet and challenging. As was her way of sitting in the chair, leaning forwards with an aggressive expression on her face. It was confrontation, then, and knowing it steadied Hilary’s nerves. If this woman thought to browbeat her she was in for a disappointment.

  ‘I was under the impression you had moved to Queensland,’ she said.

  ‘Lance is still my husband.’

  ‘I understood you were planning to make another life for yourself. In the cane fields.’

  ‘No business of yours,’ Mrs Bettinger said. ‘Anyway that’s all over now. I’m back.’

  ‘On a visit? Or to stay?’

  ‘I’m here to take back what’s rightfully mine,’ the woman said. ‘I’m here to tell you to keep off. Lance isn’t for you.’

  I suppose Lance has a say in that.

  The words trembled on Hilary’s lips but she did not speak. What this woman thought or said did not matter. What Hilary thought and said did not matter. Only Lance could decide. At least she had learnt one thing at the Northcote home. She knew when to keep her mouth shut, her thoughts hidden. Lance would decide.

  ‘Thank you for coming round,’ Hilary said
. ‘For being so frank with me.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Lance’s wife said. ‘Keep off.’

  Darkness threatened her. She denied its presence; even at night she refused to accept it yet there it was, hovering at the edges of her mind, waiting to engulf her. The weekend came and went. Lance will phone, she told herself, but he did not. She heard nothing. Pride prevented her trying to contact him but by Tuesday she could bear it no longer. She held the receiver in her hand for a full minute while her thoughts warred with one another. She drew a deep breath. She dialled.

  ‘Lance Bettinger…’

  ‘I am sorry to trouble you,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice even. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he said, his voice cool. ‘At the Baron. Twelve-thirty.’ It was a stranger speaking.

  The Baron of Beef was a local pub. They had eaten there before. She had an appointment but that could be changed.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Lance was there first and had taken a table in a corner partly hidden behind an ornate screen the publican claimed he had brought back from Java but that some customers said had come from a Subiaco junk shop. The ambiguity suited the occasion, the denial of what Hilary had believed was love. Perhaps Lance had chosen the table for that reason or – more probably – to ensure they were hidden from the rest of the dining room.

  She sat down. She found the conventional words – How are you going? A bit warm today, isn’t it? – but to look at him across the cloth-covered table, even for the instant she permitted herself, brought a pain so savage that for a moment she doubted she would be able to talk or eat or indeed do anything but endure.

  No, she thought, I shall not let him do this to me.

  Therefore she forced herself to look at him as the warm tide of an unanticipated emotion flooded through her. She had expected politeness, the hard cold politeness of a stone. She had expected distance, as though Lance were watching her through the wrong end of a telescope. She had not expected tears.

  His face was wet, his clenched hands knotted on the table in front of him. Without conscious decision Hilary reached out to cover those hands with her own, aware how indescribably precious they were to her, and realised that after all this was to be a meeting not of dismissal but of shared pain.

  ‘It is the children,’ he said.

  Now all Hilary could think of was how to ease his suffering. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Please…’

  ‘I have a duty to them,’ he said.

  She tightened her hands on his. ‘Don’t.’

  The four hands clung together in mute acknowledgement of that reality. Hilary sensed the wife smiling in the shadows. The wife who had talked of her rights, her ownership.

  ‘I don’t think there is any point in this,’ she said. A wry smile, as brittle as sticks. ‘I doubt I could eat anything, anyway. We both understand and accept the situation. I shall think of you always with… affection’ – she would not mention love, for fear her voice would break – ‘I blame you for nothing. You brought me such happiness. Such joy –’ her voice creaked after all ‘– but as we must part, let us part with dignity. Yes?’ She stood. She reached out and touched his hands. For the last time. She found the strength to share her love in the brittle smile she gave him. For the last time. She turned and walked away, her senses numb.

  So the world ends.

  Yet it was not so. Six weeks later the doctor confirmed what she had already suspected. It seemed that in one respect the world was not ending at all but just beginning.

  2004

  A MEETING WITH A POWERFUL MAN

  1

  ‘Everything arranged,’ Martha said. She seemed very pleased with herself.

  ‘Tell me what we’re talking about,’ Sara said.

  ‘We are talking about China. About huge business opportunities for us in China!’ Martha was not quite dancing but it was close. Then her happy face sobered. ‘If we play our cards right. If things go well for us tonight.’

  Sara laughed. ‘Always the riddles! Why don’t you tell me what you’re on about? What’s so special about tonight?’

  ‘Tonight we meet Mr Wong Chee-Weng.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘A top man. Very important here and in Beijing. He has a lot of influence in China! But the meeting has to be very hush hush. He’ll come with his advisers. If things go well this could be a big deal for Brand Corporation!’

  ‘How did you manage to arrange it?’

  ‘Family connection; my second aunt’s husband has a cousin in the administration.’

  ‘Does Mr Wong know about the Lennox business?’

  ‘Of course. Otherwise he would not agree to talk.’

  ‘Where are we meeting him?’

  ‘At the Kee Club tonight. Very exclusive, very private. Usually bookings have to be made months ahead but for a man like Wong Chee-Weng all things are possible. We should be there at nine-thirty.’

  ‘Dress?’

  ‘Smartest one you have.’

  2

  Sara chose a red and blue qipao dress from Shanghai Tang, one with short sleeves. Before they left the hotel Martha had looked at it approvingly.

  ‘Good choice. You look very elegant.’

  ‘Chrysanthemums for luck, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  When they arrived they got out of the taxi and Sara looked around her. The Kee Club was situated over the Yung Kee restaurant and from the outside didn’t look like much.

  ‘Very discreet,’ Martha said.

  Inside was a different story: a lounge and bar with private rooms leading off and a dramatic gilt staircase leading to a restaurant on the upper level. Martha spoke to a tuxedo-clad man, very tall and thin, who sneered down his nose at them as though he suspected they had come to the wrong address.

  ‘This private club,’ he said. ‘Members only.’

  Martha was having none of that. ‘Mr Boon Kim-Chwee,’ she said in English, and followed it up with a volley of Cantonese as hot as fire.

  The flunky wilted, his expression changing at once. He led them deferentially across the lounge to the door into what Martha said was called the Red Salon.

  ‘Please be seated,’ he said abjectly. ‘I shall inform Mr Boon you are here. A drink while you are waiting, perhaps?’

  ‘Champagne!’ Martha said. ‘And make sure it is imported. None of your local muck!’

  ‘Of course.’

  The man fled. Sara stared at this woman who without warning had transmogrified into the late and unlamented Madam Mao of terrible memory.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  Martha smiled contentedly. ‘I said: “Turtle dung ferret, you dare address your betters in this way? Learn humility or I shall report you to Mr Boon.”’

  ‘It certainly worked. And who is Mr Boon?’

  ‘Alias for Mr Wong Chee-Weng. Famous men, powerful men, often use other names to conceal their true identity.’

  ‘But that waiter knew who he was.’

  ‘Of course he knows,’ Martha said. ‘Everyone knows. They must. Otherwise how can anyone know how important he is?’

  Sara did not try to work out the logic of that. ‘When do you think he’ll turn up?’

  ‘He’s here already, I think. Maybe watching us right now. But important men always arrive late. They like to keep others waiting.’

  ‘To show how important they are,’ Sara said.

  Martha beamed. ‘Now you’re beginning to think like a Chinese woman!’

  The champagne arrived and they sipped it.

  ‘Very good,’ Martha said.

  The door opened silently. Almost before they were aware of it Mr Wong had joined them. He was not alone; two other men came with him but there was no mistaking who was in charge.

  Wong Chee-Weng was a big man, stout, but his flesh was hard. He was smiling but looked formidable and Sara thought he would grin a lot and they would never know his thoughts.

  Mr Wong gave both women a genial smil
e, sat down and spoke to one of his aides. The man nodded and left the room. Wong turned his attention back to the two women.

  ‘We shall eat,’ he said in good English. ‘You enjoy Chinese cooking?’ he said to Sara.

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Good, good. My wife is excellent cook. Could have been professional chef.’ He laughed and patted his belly. ‘As you can see.’

  Who had chosen the menu Sara never discovered but the food was indeed excellent: sweet almond soup, abalone with fresh salmon, crabmeat with egg white, Cantonese roasted duck, hor fun with oxtail… The dishes seemed endless, as did the enthusiasm of the diners. But even the best of things had to end and eventually Mr Wong put down his chopsticks, selected a toothpick and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Lennox Brothers,’ he said.

  He was looking at Sara, so she was the one who answered him. She was aware of Martha watching her; she felt like a schoolgirl facing her first public test.

  ‘We feel humiliated by the Lennox brothers,’ she said. ‘We allowed them to cheat us. It was a serious error and we wish to express our regret at our foolishness in this matter.’

  Mr Wong, hand cupping his mouth, was busy with his toothpick. Eventually he removed both hand and toothpick. ‘There is no profit in discussing the past. Especially as I understand you have severed your connection with these men.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Sara said. ‘As soon as we found out about it we took action.’

  ‘Forceful action is good when dealing with such men. Valiant in defence of right: that is old Chinese saying.’

  ‘And a very wise one,’ Sara said.

  ‘Yet I have read nothing about this regrettable affair in the newspapers.’

  Sara said carefully: ‘It is our belief that publicity would be in no one’s interests.’

  Wong nodded. ‘Good, good. Tell me, Ms Brand, why does your corporation wish to invest in China? To teach us how to improve, heya? To learn from you?’

  His expression was bland, his smile unchanged, but Sara sensed that her reply would prove crucial to what clearly had the potential to be an important relationship.

  ‘I would not presume to think along those lines,’ she said. ‘This is my first visit to China and I am here to learn, not instruct. Both the Brand Corporation and I personally are looking for your guidance, Mr Wong, if you would be gracious enough to advise us.’