by Judy Nunn
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.
‘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 daught
er-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.
