FLIGHT
‘Shit and derision!’ screamed Haskins Gould. His fist pounded the surface of his desk as he stared with outraged eyes at the headlines of the newspaper spread in front of him. ‘I do not believe it. I do not fucking well believe it!’
He knew he had a name for being a foul-mouthed screamer. So he was. No doubt there were some who didn’t like it. Well, they could lump it. His power in this city had meant he didn’t have to give a damn what other people thought; he never had. It was one of his many strengths, along with a nose that could sniff trouble a mile off.
He had not sniffed this.
He couldn’t sit still. He gathered himself, rose from his executive leather chair – hand-crafted in Germany to suit his bulk– and turned to the window behind his desk. His sausage-sized fingers clenched and unclenched as he stared out at Sydney. Circular Quay and the harbour with the Manly ferry carving its wake across the blue water; the frigging Opera House: not that he would be seen dead in there; the million-dollar view of the city sprawling thirty floors below him. He had been a major player in this city for twenty years, off and on. The city? Say Australia, rather. Say the world. He still was and was determined to remain so. This – whatever the sodding Monitor might say – was a hiccup, no more than that. All the same, some drastic action was needed, and at once.
He took a deep breath, squared his massive shoulders and returned to his desk. He snatched up the paper and glared at it, willing the story to disappear, but it did not. The inch-high letters screamed back at him as he knew they would be doing across every boardroom in the land.
HASKINS’S HORDE!
GOULD’S SECRET MILLIONS REVEALED
It was all there: the Swiss bank accounts, his dealings with Selwyn Raucher, the letters he had written – in confidence! – to the Zurich District Attorney’s office. There was even mention of the suicide of a currency trader and the murder – murder! – of the wife of a wheeler dealer who it was alleged had links to Haskins Gould.
Some hiccup, he thought. And all of it – the embarrassment, the adverse publicity and likely trouble with the taxman – was down to The Monitor and its triple-damned proprietor. Obviously someone had talked and he would deal with them in due course, but that was for later; what mattered now was how to kill off the story or, if it was too late for that, to insulate himself against the possible fall out.
Lots of times the authorities had tried to corner him but every time he’d managed to dodge the bullet. Until now.
One thing was certain. Gaol time was not a proposition.
His brain was a boiling soup of contradictory objectives. He had set his heart on grabbing Brand Corporation; he couldn’t grab Brand Corporation because without his Swiss funds that was impossible. He had to get to Zurich to take control of his various bank accounts and switch their contents to a safer jurisdiction; now the story was out he daren’t go to Zurich and face questions from the hard men of the Swiss regulatory authorities. He must stay in Oz to clear his name; he daren’t stay in Oz and risk having not only his assets but his passport frozen when the tax boys got on his case, which would assuredly happen within hours.
He had money in the States and friends in Mexico. He liked Mexico: the people were friendly, the living cheap and it had a warm climate. He knew enough Spanish to get by. Maybe Cancun, on the Yucatan Peninsula, he thought. The beaches were as good as you could get anywhere, the nightlife was hot and the senoritas hotter still. Or so it was said. He had mates who’d get his money out of Zurich somehow. For a steep percentage, naturally – nothing for nothing, right? – and it would take time, but that couldn’t be helped.
Maybe it was time to call it a day, hang up his boots. It was a pity he wouldn’t be able to nail young Sara Brand but in this game you had to know when to cut your losses. And besides, another day another dollar. Who could say what the future might hold?
He had ten grand in hurry money in his safe. He took it and stuffed his wallet. He went out, beaming at the receptionist. ‘Going to lunch. OK?’
He knew she would have seen the headlines – the whole of goddamned Sydney would have seen them – but she showed nothing as he waved gaily at her and went out and down in the express lift to the parking garage in the basement.
Three hours later he was in the air, enjoying the comfort of his first-class seat and sipping a glass of free bubbly as the Boeing headed east across the Pacific.
AN END AND A BEGINNING
Three days later Sara received a call from the manager of the resort in Thailand, giving her the news that she had been dreading but had come to accept was inevitable. Hilary, definitely, was dead.
The boatman who had taken Hilary and Craig into the hong had survived. To the police sergeant who questioned him he explained that he had been standing to one side of the entrance tunnel when the water arrived – driven by the demon Mara and the evil daughters of Mara, he said – and so had missed the worst of the impact that had hurled his two passengers to their deaths against the limestone cliffs.
Protected by the sea goddess Mazu and being young and agile he had escaped the rising waters by climbing into the topmost branches of the tallest tree in the hong, where he had clung, expecting every minute to be his last. There had been monkeys in the tree with him but – praise to Mazu! – they had been terrified and had not attacked him. After several hours the waters had subsided once more and he had climbed down, barely able to believe he had survived.
He had gone to check on the two Europeans but had seen at once there was nothing he could do for them. He had found the kayak and paddle jammed in the roots of a mangrove tree. They had been damaged but were still usable by someone like himself, a masterful boatman –
‘A masterful braggart,’ the sergeant had said. ‘Spare us your boasting.’
The boatman had ignored this – a wise man did not argue with the police – and later had led a party to the hong.
‘Where are the bodies now?’ Sara asked.
‘Stored in the mortuary at the hospital,’ the resort manager said. ‘I did not know what you wanted to do, whether to have them repatriated or buried here.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ Sara said and rang off.
Dear God, she thought, first Emil and now Hilary. At least Emil had left her a one-line message. I have always loved you. But from Hilary, whom she had loved and admired so much, there was nothing but memories.
She sat, clasped hands on the desk in front of her, staring at emptiness. She and Hilary had never found it easy to express their feelings to each other. There had been admiration, yes; respect, certainly, but the loving mother-and-daughter chitchat that others achieved had never been there for either of them. Too much alike? Too close to rivalry? Perhaps. But that had been only on the surface. Underneath the feelings had been there all right. The love. Affection. Trust.
There were tears now, welling uncontrollably, flowing in choking floods down her face. She got up. Making no attempt to stop the tears she walked to the picture window, resting her hands on it. She looked out, saw nothing but blur. She could have smashed the window in her grief.
Hilary dead, her love unexpressed. Too late.
The phone rang.
A half-dozen furious steps; she snatched it up. ‘I thought I said –’
‘Martha Tan,’ Janet said. ‘I thought you would want to speak to her.’
A deep breath. ‘Of course. Put her through.’
‘I am so sorry,’ Martha said. ‘I loved her too, you know. I truly loved her.’
‘I know you did. I did too, but somehow I never seemed able to say it. I wish I had.’
‘Not important,’ Martha said. ‘She knew. Always she knew.’
‘You think so? You’re not just saying it?’
‘So much like you. How could she not know?’
More tears then, a tempest of tears.
Martha was crying too. ‘She was like a mother to me too.’
‘Towkay neo,’ Sara said, remembering the nicknam
e Martha had given her.
‘Oh yes. Always the big boss. But she had a good heart also.’
It was as good a summary of Hilary’s life as you were likely to get, Sara thought. ‘She did, didn’t she?’
It was obvious that Jennifer should be allowed to have her say but Sara was not sure of the wisdom of discussing funeral arrangements with her at this late stage of her pregnancy. She took a chance, phoned anyway and spoke to Martin.
‘As we feared. It seems they died together, which I suppose is something. The thing is, can you break the news to Jennifer? She must be told, obviously, but with the baby due so soon… How is she, anyway?’
‘She’s fine. Worried, of course, and sick to death of lugging that ton weight around –’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’
‘Exactly. But I’ll try and break it to her gently.’
‘I’m afraid the media is likely to be on it pretty soon. You may get phone calls.’
‘That’s easy. I’ll leave the phone off the hook. Are you having her brought back?’
‘No. I thought we could have a memorial service for her here when Jennifer is out and about again but they’ll be buried together in the Protestant cemetery in Penang. They were happy there and it was their home.’
‘Jennifer won’t like that.’
‘I know. And I am sorry it won’t be possible for her to fly up for the funeral but this isn’t about Jennifer or me or anybody else. It is what Hilary would have wanted.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘It’s the tropics, Martin. We can’t hang about.’
‘Will you be going?’
‘I shall.’
‘I shall be sorry to miss it myself,’ Martin said. ‘But in the circumstances –’
‘I understand. And I want you to do something for me.’
‘Name it.’
‘I want a painting of Hilary for the boardroom. So that people who sit there in the years to come will have something to remember her by.’
‘Continuity,’ Martin said. ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea.’
‘You’ll be having some continuity of your own in the near future,’ Sara said.
‘The company and the family and the future,’ Martin said.
‘And your paintings,’ Sara said. ‘With all that going for us how can our future be anything but bright?’
ONWARDS AND UPWARDS
The cemetery was old, with many ancient trees shading the stone monuments to the dead. Francis Light, founder of the British colony of Penang, was buried there. Traffic roared beyond the perimeter fence but beneath the trees it was still, the dead undisturbed. The air breathed reverence and Sara thought it a fitting place for Hilary Brand who, like Light, had done so much in her life and died prematurely. It was the right place for Hilary and the man she had loved, together in death as in life.
Sara had been unsure how many would turn up but the funeral at the Anglican church in Lebuh Farquhar was heavy with brass. She gave a brief eulogy. Vivienne Archer was in the congregation; in their absence they had left Robert Clarke and Desmond Bragg to mind the shop; Desmond had already set his gremlins to work on preparing a documentary on Hilary’s life. Martha Tan had flown in from Hong Kong, the Australian High Commissioner from Kuala Lumpur. A representative of the Malaysian government was present, bringing a message from the prime minister that Sara read to the congregation. The manager of the Penang Children’s Society and several of the children were there too, along with the many friends Craig Laurie had made over his years on the island.
The reception was at the E & O Hotel, which had plenty of experience in catering for both the living and the dead.
Afterwards Sara went back alone to Rumah Kelapa. In his will Craig had left everything to Hilary. Hilary’s major assets – shares in Brand, her interest in a huge portfolio of properties around the globe – were tied up in various family trusts, but after several bequests to friends, retainers and charities, especially the Penang Children’s Society, her personal assets were divided between the two girls: the Perth house and other properties to Jennifer, Cadogan Place to Sara. Because she hadn’t known Craig’s intentions regarding Rumah Kelapa it was not mentioned in her will but Sara had fallen in love with it at first sight and was determined to hang on to it, if necessary paying Jennifer more than its value to do so.
Now, as she climbed the steps and walked into the wooden house, it was like walking into her mother’s heart. Here, withdrawn from the world, Hilary had spent the last months of her life with the man she loved. She had loved Craig Laurie for years; it had been her conscious decision to wait before joining him as it had been her conscious decision, when she felt the time was right, to walk away from the business world and what until then had been her life. What had prompted that decision Sara discovered only when she went through her mother’s papers and came across a note from a Dr Chang at Singapore’s Mount Elizabeth Hospital. Heart trouble… Sara would never have known it. Yet even then Hilary had managed her life; never had she been a woman who permitted life to manage her. No, to the end she had been in charge.
‘I shall miss her,’ she told the silent house. ‘How I shall miss her.’
One by one she went through the rooms. The living room, large and welcoming, golden in the sunlight shining through the windows; the bedrooms; the modern kitchen and bathrooms: she felt Hilary’s presence everywhere, sensed her moving through the shadows.
She walked out on to the deck and looked out at the beach, the sea beyond. At night she would see her walking on the sand with Craig Laurie beside her, the imprint of their feet erased by waves foaming creamy-white in the darkness.
The home to which Hilary had returned over the years; the home in which she had found safe haven at last, united with her love. Yes, it was good they were buried there on the island, side by side in the silent earth.
It would be a haven to which Sara would return from time to time. She felt good there, at home there. But not yet. Now there were challenges to overcome, opportunities to seize, the excitement of measuring herself against the future. The next day she would appoint an agent to look after Rumah Kelapa in her absence. She would ask Vivienne to take over the management of the children’s charity; as soon as she had done these things she would return to the world she knew and valued, to the fullness of life and its challenges. She was booked on a plane heading south the next afternoon: to Singapore, first of all, then on the airbus to Sydney. In the meantime she had documents in the briefcase she had brought with her that she must read, decisions that she must make. Towkay neo, she thought. The job for which destiny had schooled her.
‘Onwards and upwards,’ she told the ocean. ‘I can’t wait.’
She turned from her contemplation of the sea and walked into the house.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
As with my earlier books, A Woman of Courage is a work of fiction, and the characters and the incidents it contains are the product of the author’s imagination. However, Hilary’s childhood story is based on historical fact. For many years the British authorities sent children to Australia and Canada, with smaller numbers going to the then Rhodesia and to New Zealand. In many cases the authorities lied to both children and parents, claiming the parents were dead or the children had been adopted in the United Kingdom. In many cases children arriving in Australia were abused unmercifully by those to whom they were assigned. This disgraceful process continued in diminishing numbers until the 1960s.
The homes named in the text both in England and Australia existed although the administrators mentioned are fictitious. At the age of fifteen most girls in the homes were, as happens to Hilary, sent as domestic help to various parts of the country.
The only known Opie portrait of Lachlan Macquarie is in the State Library of New South Wales. The one mentioned in the text is invented for this story.
Myxomatosis did not reach the Pattinsons’ area until af
ter Hilary had moved on.
The property boom in Western Australia took place much as described.
The stock exchange crash of 1987 proved the downfall of many entrepreneurs and others.
Premier is an imaginary company, but China purchased large quantities of heavy earthmoving equipment at the time this story is set.
The hongs of the Andaman coast exist as described.
As is well known, the Boxing Day tsunami killed hundreds of thousands of people, including several thousand on the Andaman coast of southern Thailand. The fictitious character of Sylvia Mudge is based on a real child with some knowledge of the tsunami phenomenon, who warned of the coming disaster and by so doing succeeded in saving many lives.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am pleased to acknowledge the invaluable advice given me by Ian Thwaites, Assistant Director (Services) of the Child’s Migrant Trust, during my research into the conditions to which migrant children like Hilary Brand were exposed during the 1940s and 1950s.
As always, it gives me huge pleasure to thank Selwa Anthony, my agent and friend, for the unstinting help and encouragement she has given me over the years and whose contribution to the present work has been monumental.
I am also grateful to my editors and the magnificent team at Harlequin.
Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.H. Fletcher is the prize-winning author of seventeen novels, published to both critical and popular acclaim in Australia, Germany and the UK, as well as numerous short stories and plays for radio and television. He was educated in England and France and travelled and worked in Europe, Asia and Africa before emigrating to Australia in 1991. Home is a house on the edge of the Western Tier Mountains in northern Tasmania.
THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE
J.H. Fletcher
The story of two remarkable women, united by blood but separated by time – from the author of Dust of the Land
A Woman of Courage Page 40
