by Judy Nunn
But his proudest moment was to hand right now. The moment when Terry would salute him. Fresh from battle, his son would circle the homestead. It was a triumphant tribute shared between father and son and, each time, Jock felt his chest would burst with pride. The boy was a chip off the old block, all right.
‘At the double!’ he bellowed again. ‘Outside! He’s here!’ And, belying his sixty-one years, he bounded down the several steps from the verandah with the agility of a man half his age.
His wife Margaret, and Charlotte his daughter, quickly joined him. But Terence’s young English wife reluctantly followed in their wake.
It wasn’t that Terence’s antics particularly worried Henrietta, but she failed to see why Nellie and Pearl must be forced to endure something which so obviously terrified them.
‘It’s all right,’ she assured them as she always did. And Nellie gave her customary tight smile and nod, grateful for the assurance, but the whites of her eyes shone nervously in her normally placid, brown face and she kept a tight hold on her twelve-year-old daughter’s hand.
‘Could you not tell your father to let them stay inside?’ Henrietta had asked Terence in the early days of his aerobatics when his father had taken to demanding that the entire household stand in the baking heat to applaud his son. ‘Nellie and Pearl are absolutely terrified, every single time.’
But Terence hadn’t appeared particularly concerned. ‘It’ll do them good,’ he’d shrugged. Then by way of explanation, ‘Teach them they can’t run away every time they’re frightened. Besides,’ he’d added, realising his answer had not satisfied her, ‘you try telling Dad to do anything.’
She’d had to accept that. It was true, nobody told Jock Galloway to do anything. But she’d found it unsettling to later discover that, after buzzing the homestead, Terence took delight in dive-bombing the native camp several miles away. It was the start of the dry season and the Aboriginal stockmen and their families had moved into the tin huts and humpies there preparatory to the annual muster. ‘They ran like scared rabbits,’ she’d overheard Terence boast to his father one day, and it had chilled her to hear him say it. Had he changed, she was beginning to wonder, or had there always been a cruel streak in him which she had failed to recognise in London?
Three months in the Northern Territory had opened Henrietta’s eyes to many things, not least of all the gradual metamorphosis in the man she had married.
Now she stood with the others, fifty yards from the house as Jock always instructed, and, hand shielding her eyes from the blinding sun, she gazed up at the approaching aircraft.
The Spitfire circled the homestead three times, as it always did, lower and lower each time. Then it ascended, turned and dive-bombed. Involuntarily, Henrietta wanted to duck, or to turn away, even to run, but she had learned to stand her ground and watch, just as Margaret and Charlotte did.
Margaret Galloway, although subservient to her husband, was as strong as old Jock in her own way, her back as ramrod straight as his, her thin, weathered visage as stern. Charlotte too, Terence’s older sister, once handsome, was hardened by the living conditions and the harsh northern sun. Not yet thirty-one years of age, her thick hair, always pulled back in a practical ponytail, was iron grey, and her face was as rugged as a man’s. Both were outback women, tough and resilient like the landscape itself. They had adapted to the adversities of life in the Territory, and Henrietta supposed that it was her duty to mould herself the same way, although she couldn’t imagine how she was to go about it.
The Spitfire dropped like lead from the sky and was coming straight for them. Was it her imagination, Henrietta thought for an instant, or was it flying lower than usual? She glanced briefly to her side. Old Jock’s arm was raised in salute and Margaret and Charlotte continued to gaze ahead without even shielding the sun from their eyes. The roar of the engine was horrendous. Behind them, the windows of the homestead rattled, and the branches of the impressive lemon-scented gums which Jock’s father had planted as saplings and which lined the drive to the house, swayed and swirled as they did in a gale.
The aircraft seemed all but upon them when young Pearl broke away from her mother and ran shrieking towards the verandah. Nellie stared down at the ground, longing to put her hands over her ears, visibly trembling, tormented by the scream of the engine.
Then, as quickly as an eagle having swooped successfully upon its prey, the Spitfire was back up in the air and Henrietta could have sworn she’d heard Terence laughing. Or was it Jock? Jock was certainly laughing now. Laughing and waving proudly to his son. Henrietta put a reassuring arm around Nellie, and Nellie shamefacedly beckoned Pearl back to her side.
Terence was pleased with himself. It had been a particularly good dive, he thought, barely fifty feet from the ground, he could swear. He decided against a further show of aerobatics, the aircraft was displaying a distinct and repetitive shudder, he’d better get back to base and have them check the damage he’d copped from the Zero. He briefly contemplated dive-bombing the native camp, but decided against that too. The muster was well under way now, only women and children would be there. The stockmen would be out bush, rounding up the cattle on the plains, penning them in the bush stockyards, sorting the steers from the breeding stock and the new season’s calves from their mothers.
The first time Terence had buzzed the homestead and the camp he’d been showing off. It put the fear of God into the native stockmen, he knew it, but he was just playing a game, a boyish prank, that was all. But when his father had called his performance ‘a salute of triumph’, he’d quickly changed his views. The old man was right of course, it was a victory celebration. Hell, if anyone knew about the triumphs of battle, it was Jock Galloway.
He descended and circled the homestead one more time, smiling proudly at the sight of his father once again standing stiffly to attention. He noted with irritation that Henrietta was comforting the two blacks. He’d told her not to in the past and she was disregarding his orders, as she did on occasions when she disagreed with his views. It annoyed him. Not that he wished to break Henrietta’s spirit. It was her spirit which had first attracted him. She was such an interesting contradiction, such a mixture of strength and naivety. Like a healthy young mare, Terence often thought, not a racehorse, she was not elegant enough for a racehorse. High-spirited as she was, she lacked the neuroses that accompanied a racehorse’s inbreeding, and that was fortunate. But she possessed all the natural beauty, all the strength and enthusiasm of a healthy young mare. And she was a chestnut, what’s more. Terence had always been fond of chestnuts.
His annoyance faded and he felt a wave of affection for his young wife. He would admonish her for fussing over Nellie and Pearl when he got home, certainly, but he would not round on her. In time he would teach her and she would become accustomed to the ways of the outback, he had no wish to change the essential Henrietta. God forbid that his wife should grow bitter like his sister Charlotte, or worse still, humourless like his mother. Much as Terence respected his mother, he was the first to admit that Margaret Galloway singularly lacked a sense of humour. He turned his aircraft and headed south towards the base. A beer with Hans and the boys and an exchange of exploits and tactics was the next pleasurable item on the agenda.
Jock gave a final salute to the receding Spitfire. ‘He’s fearless, that boy,’ he announced to the sky, ‘utterly fearless.’ A chip off the old block, he was thinking. A son any man would be proud to call his own. And the boy worshipped him. Always had.
Jock recalled the barbecue at a neighbouring homestead when Terry had been barely ten years old. Asked how he wanted his steak cooked, the boy had loudly stated, ‘Same as the old man, rare and bloody, it’s the only way.’ Then, encouraged by his father’s delighted guffaw, he’d added, ‘Just cut its horns off and wipe its arse.’ He’d heard his father say it in male company on a number of occasions.
The women had been disapproving, and Terence’s two younger brothers had ducked for cover, fearing their
father’s wrath. But, far from angry, Jock had laughed fit to burst. ‘A chip off the old block,’ he’d proudly said to his mates when he’d regained his composure. ‘That boy’s a chip off the old block.’ He’d been saying it ever since.
And now his son was a hero. Defending his country just like his father had. And, just like his father, he was fearless in the face of battle.
Over the years, Jock had conveniently forgotten that he had never fired a shot in combat. He was a Gallipoli veteran and you didn’t get a more honourable war record than that. The truth was that Jock could remember, in the dead of night, climbing down the rope netting, full tackle on his back, and into the boats. And he could remember the boats being towed by the pinnaces away from the ships and then released near the shore. He could remember rowing with all his might. They’d chanted as they’d rowed and he’d concentrated on the heaving back of the man in front of him, just as he knew the man seated behind him was concentrating on his back. ‘Heave! two, three, four …’ They were a team, ‘two three four …’ Then all hell had broken loose. That was the last thing Jock remembered. The noise! The unspeakable noise!
Then nothing but silence. He barely remembered the hospital ship. A month or so later, he recalled the English nurses and the crisp cotton sheets of the sanatorium, but all remained silence. Six months later, back in Australia, honourably discharged from the army on medical grounds, his was still a world without sound. It was nine months before his hearing started to return, and then only slowly.
Jock had been sorely cheated. Like so many, keen for adventure, eager to fight a war, he’d been quick to volunteer, even at the age of thirty-three. He’d lied about his age and, as he’d looked every bit as fit and strong as the men ten years his junior who were enlisting beside him, no-one had raised an eyebrow. He’d suffered no guilt at leaving behind a wife with a three-year-old daughter and a new baby son; King and Country called, he said. And he’d revelled in training camp. He loved army life and the rigours it entailed, he was a natural soldier who ached for battle. And he’d never got to fire one bloody shot! He’d been cheated, all right.
It didn’t help, after the war at Anzac Day reunions, when old army buddies said, ‘Jesus, Jock, you were well out of it, count your lucky stars, mate.’ At first he’d thought they were mocking him. But he soon realised they weren’t. ‘Bloody hideous war,’ they said. ‘Nothing noble about it, I can tell you.’ ‘You can stick the army right up your arse, mate.’ They all seemed to be in agreement, but Jock did not concur one bit. A military life was a noble life and if a war was thrown in then all the better.
He stopped going to reunions where he might meet disenchanted fellow veterans and, from the stories of others, he created his own history. But his was a noble history and his battles were glorious. Over the years, nobody, his wife, his four children, even his domineering father, ever doubted the veracity of Jock’s stories. Jock Galloway was a Gallipoli veteran, with his medal and discharge papers to prove it.
The Spitfire was a speck in the distance. Soon it would disappear over the far-off hill to land at the RAAF base beyond. Jock turned to discover Henrietta standing barely ten yards away, she too apparently lost in thought. Margaret had hustled the Aborigines back to their chores, Nellie and Pearl only too happy to obey, and Charlotte had left her father to his reverie as she always did, Jock invariably watching until the aircraft had disappeared from sight. But this time Henrietta had remained. Just as she should, Jock thought. Paying tribute to her husband, it was only right.
‘He’s a fine man, the man you married,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t what Henrietta had been thinking.
‘Put on a hat if you’re going to stand around in the sun.’ Jock’s voice was as gruff as always but his intention was kindly enough. Although Margaret would have preferred an Australian daughter-in-law, Jock approved of his son’s choice. A good strong body, shapely, but not plump. A healthy bosom, good child-bearing hips, a sound young filly when all was said and done. Jock had always likened women to horses. No insult was intended, indeed more often than not he considered his comparisons a compliment to the woman to whom they were directed. They certainly were in this case. Henrietta was a filly with excellent breeding prospects. A chestnut into the bargain. Chestnuts had always been Jock’s preference. ‘Or else come into the house,’ he said, ‘the sun’s not kind to complexions like yours.’
‘I’ll come in when I’ve fed the chickens,’ Henrietta replied. She wanted to be on her own for a while.
‘Chooks, girl! When will you learn? Chooks!’ But he smiled his leathery smile as he said it.
‘Chooks.’ She smiled back. ‘Chooks. Yes.’
Henrietta watched him mount the steps to the verandah. She watched the flywire door slap shut behind him. The heavy wooden front door remained open, as all the doors in the homestead did on still days like this, to channel through the house any available vestige of breeze.
The flywire door had amused her at first, it was at odds with such an imposing house. ‘Designed by my grandfather,’ Terence had proudly informed her three months previously, as he’d pulled the Landrover up in front of Bullalalla homestead. ‘Built entirely from imported Tasmanian oak.’
Two storeys high, the house was surrounded by verandahs on all four sides, and large front balconies opened out from the upstairs bedrooms. A succession of elegant lemon-scented gums lined the last fifty yards of the driveway. They were around thirty feet tall with graceful white trunks and silver-green leaves and, just beyond the gums, where the drive dipped down to the homestead gates and the private road beyond, was the grove of mango trees, glossy green in foliage, rich and luscious. The mixture of sub-tropical and Australian-outback flora was striking, and typical of the area Henrietta was to discover.
‘Two storeys is a bit of a luxury,’ Terence boasted. ‘Grandpa Lionel owned a stud in South Australia. Race-horses. He was very successful. Very wealthy. He only bought the Bullalalla property as an investment, running buffalo for pet meat, it was big business back then. He hadn’t planned on falling in love with the place, but he did, so he built the sort of house he wanted to live in. Personally,’ Terence added with a grin, ‘I think the old bloke wanted to show off a bit of southern style to the locals.’
Terence could barely remember his grandfather, Lionel Galloway, but the stories he’d heard from Jock were romantic and intriguing.
‘Grandpa left the place solely to Dad in his will,’ he continued. ‘Dad was always his favourite, because of his war record and all that. When Grandpa built this homestead, Dad says it caused a lot of comment in Darwin, people thought that Lionel Galloway had tickets on himself. But so what? Good on him! That’s what Dad reckons.’
Henrietta nodded happily. The house was beautiful, she agreed, but it was Terence’s boyish enthusiasm which she found most engaging. She loved him, and she was going to love this house, and Terence’s family, and this strange new country. Henrietta intended to embrace it all.
‘Grandpa Lionel even built a full-scale racecourse, I’ll take you to see it tomorrow. We have an annual race meeting on the station, people come from all over, jockeys and bookies, the lot. Of course it’s all been put on hold for the duration of the war, but you just wait, Henrietta.’ And she laughed as he swept her off her feet and carried her up the porch steps. ‘One day you’ll be the belle of the Bullalalla Races!’
He was about to carry her over the threshold and that’s when she’d commented on the flywire screen door. It was incongruous, the ugly mesh screen masking the magnificence of the hand-carved oak door with its huge horse’s head door-knocker in gleaming brass.
On the other side of the doorway, Margaret Galloway had gathered the family, including Nellie and Pearl, in the hall beside the grand staircase. Even Jackie, Nellie’s husband and head stockman, had been called from his duties. Jackie, Nellie and their daughter did not live in humpies like the other natives but in a small cottage a half a mile from the homestead, and Margaret h
ad insisted that all concerned with homestead life must be present to greet the new wife of her eldest son. Jock had wanted to stand on the verandah and wave and yell at the Landrover as it pulled up, but his wife had maintained that, as an Englishwoman, Henrietta should be greeted with a touch of formality, along the lines to which she was no doubt accustomed. Jock had agreed readily enough, it was acknowledged that Margaret had full reign in the running of the house; it was a woman’s job, after all, and no doubt his wife knew best in such matters of protocol.
Now, Margaret’s lips pursed into a hard, thin line as she heard her daughter-in-law’s disparaging comments about the flywire screen door. Already the girl was being critical. Well, we won’t have any hoity-toity behaviour here young miss, she thought.
Terence laughed. ‘Every door and every window in the place has a screen,’ he said. ‘You’ll find out why soon enough.’
And she had. The flies and mosquitoes had driven her mad for the first few weeks. But she’d quickly taught herself to become accustomed to them. Just as she’d taught herself to become accustomed to the erratic weather.
‘It comes with the territory,’ Terence had laughed, but Henrietta had been suffocated by the humidity on her arrival. They’d been married in London and Terence had flown home shortly after the ceremony for briefing and training with the defence unit. He’d been there to meet her ship and, from the moment she’d stepped ashore and he’d walked her through the streets of Darwin, or what was left of Darwin since the bombing, she’d felt as if she was walking under water. Wading through a wet haze, her legs heavy, her head engulfed in the clammy, moisture-laden air.
