by Judy Nunn
‘Well, you took your time, Henrietta,’ she said in her usual blunt manner when she first heard the news, ‘but good for you.’ Then her weathered face broke into a grin, ‘I was worried you were going to end up like me.’ Henrietta had been very touched at the time and, as her pregnancy progressed, Charlotte continued to be responsive and caring. So much so that Henrietta had to insist she was perfectly capable of continuing with her chores about the house.
‘All right, all right,’ Charlotte agreed. But she insisted upon no more horseriding. ‘Florian can live without you for a while,’ she said.
It was sensible advice and Henrietta complied, although she missed Florian. She and the animal had become good friends. She still couldn’t control him if another horse took off in his presence, but he no longer frightened her, and he behaved impeccably during her riding lessons with Charlotte. Henrietta had even insisted on riding Florian when Terence had taken her up to the escarpment to show her his long-promised view of the waterfall.
Henrietta was convinced that it had been that day—that glorious day which would live in her memory forever—that had been the turning point in her life.
The day had augured well from the very outset. Terence had been in one of his good moods, and when they’d completed their painstaking climb to the top of the escarpment the landscape had been as enthralling as he’d promised it would be. The rock formations, intricately carved by the forces of nature, were as ornate as the pillars and domes of ancient temples, and the gorges and the waterfalls were breathtakingly dramatic.
‘The Northern Territory in all her glory,’ Terence had boasted as they stood on the peak of a ridge and gazed across the gorge at the waterfall, cascading sixty feet to the blue-green pool below.
Henrietta had been overwhelmed. The waterfall symbolised something powerful, she realised as she looked down into the huge crater, surrounded by its towers of rock, to where the growth was lush and verdant and the animal and birdlife thrived. In all its majesty, the waterfall symbolised the very force of life itself. She’d stood in awe, and Terence remained silent beside her, gratified by her response.
They’d sat on a flat rock at the top of the gorge, sipping from the waterbag, watching the waterfall whilst the horses grazed quietly nearby, and he’d kissed her. So gently. Then a little more fervently as his passion grew. When she’d looked self-consciously about, realising that he wanted to make love, he’d laughed out loud.
‘For God’s sake, Henrietta,’ he’d said with genuine humour, none of the customary sarcasm in his tone, ‘who’s going to see us? A few blacks maybe, and they wouldn’t mind, they’d probably applaud.’ At which she’d looked about again, nervously this time.
‘No, my darling,’ he’d assured her, ‘no blacks, I promise, I was only teasing.’ And they’d made love, high up there on the ridge.
Henrietta had experienced no fresh awakening. She was only slightly aroused by the time he climaxed, but she had long ceased to expect anything different, blaming herself for being unable to keep pace with his sexuality. But something else had happened, something far more important to Henrietta than her own satisfaction.
‘I love you,’ he’d said as he lay on his back looking up at the sky. Then he’d propped himself up on his elbow and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘I love you more than you could possibly know, Henrietta, don’t ever forget that.’ There had been such passion in his gaze and in his voice that Henrietta, moved, had been at a loss for words. Then, only seconds later, he’d stood and helped her to her feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he’d said as if nothing had happened. But it had. To Henrietta something vast had happened. For the first time since she’d come to this strange outback land she felt assured of her husband’s love. And the assurance had been wrought by the very land itself, she was sure. High up here where the force of nature demanded truth, Terence had been moved to declare his love. In that moment, Henrietta felt at one, not only with her husband but with the land itself, and she was glad she had come to the Territory.
Terence teased her during the ride back down the escarpment. ‘What would you have done if we’d been surrounded by blacks whilst we were doing it?’
‘You said there weren’t any around here.’
‘Oh yes there are,’ he replied in all seriousness. ‘This is Warai land. We were damned lucky we weren’t clubbed to death, they can be a pretty wild bunch.’
‘Terence!’ She was aghast, until he let out a burst of laughter and she realised he was joking.
‘No, they’re not dangerous,’ he assured her, ‘but Warai do live around the escarpment. They camp up here, and we have an agreement. Have had since my grandfather’s time. If the odd dumb steer wanders up to the ridges then they’re welcome to it, so long as they leave the rest of the herd alone. It works well for both sides.’
‘Do you think they saw us?’ Henrietta felt stupidly girlish, but she couldn’t help blushing at the thought.
‘No. But like I said, they’d probably have applauded if they had, they’re a highly sexed bunch, they approve of that sort of thing.’ He laughed as her blush deepened.
Two months later, when Henrietta discovered she was pregnant, she knew she had conceived that day up on the ridge. Just as she knew, in the very depth of her being, that the force of the outback had willed it.
There was only one person at Bullalalla who didn’t appear particularly happy about the impending birth of Henrietta’s child. Margaret was constantly disgruntled these days, which surprised Henrietta. Given the number of jibes she’d received from her mother-in-law about her barren state over the past three years, Henrietta would have expected Margaret to be the happiest of them all. Then she realised why she was not. It was old Jock Galloway. More than ever, he ignored his wife, lavishing attention on Henrietta every minute of the day. It was a simple case of jealousy, Henrietta realised, and she tried as hard as she could to redirect Jock’s interest towards his wife, but with little success.
‘Let me feel that grandson of mine,’ he’d insist and she’d reluctantly stand by his chair as put his hand and his ear to her distended belly. ‘Kick, boy, kick!’ he’d demand, and the baby always seemed to obey. Then Jock would roar with delight. ‘That’s a Galloway in there! The next generation!’ And Henrietta would look apologetically at Margaret nearby, ignored and forgotten, and she’d wonder what on earth Jock would do if the baby was a girl.
The birth was two weeks premature, completely unexpected and very quick. It was mid-afternoon, Terence was at the RAAF base, Jock, Charlotte and Jackie were out fencing and it was young Pearl who discovered Henrietta. She was crumpled up outside the door of the chook-house, the feed bowl dropped at her feet, birdseed scattered in all directions and angry fowl squawking on the other side of the door, demanding to be fed.
Fifteen-year-old Pearl took one look, dumped her basket of washing on the old wooden table by the clothes line and yelled, ‘Hang on, missus!’ Then she belted through the back door to the kitchen screaming, ‘Mum!’
But Nellie wasn’t in the kitchen. Alerted by young Pearl’s screams, it was Margaret who was the first to reach Henrietta’s side.
‘Can you walk?’ she asked briskly, tucking one of her hands under Henrietta’s armpit and circling her wrist in an iron-like grip with the other. Henrietta nodded.
‘I can’t find Mum,’ Pearl arrived panting beside them.
‘Take the other arm,’ Margaret said, and between them they helped Henrietta inside.
They got her upstairs and Margaret started undressing her. ‘Put some water on to boil,’ she ordered Pearl, ‘the big stew pot, then go and find your mother. And bring up some towels.’
‘Breathe deeply,’ she told Henrietta as Pearl scuttled out the door. Then, in one swift movement, she ripped the coverlet off the bed and laid Henrietta down. ‘They’re coming quite fast aren’t they?’ Henrietta nodded, trying to concentrate on her breathing. ‘How long have you been having them?’ she asked bluntly, in the same matter-of-fact manner with which
she discussed the distribution of rations.
‘A couple of hours.’ Henrietta had felt the first pains at the lunch table but she hadn’t said anything. They couldn’t be contractions, she’d thought, she wasn’t due for another two weeks. ‘I thought it was a false alarm.’
‘No point in being heroic, girl,’ Margaret said as she pulled the coverlet over her.
Nellie was at the top of a ladder picking mangoes, it took Pearl fifteen minutes to find her, by which time the labour was well in progress.
Margaret and Nellie were both efficient midwives, and when Jock, Charlotte and Jackie returned just before dusk, the baby was nestled comfortably against Henrietta’s breast.
An hour later, when Terence arrived home, he was informed that he had a son.
Henrietta tried, in every way she could, to show her gratitude to Margaret. Her mother-in-law had been a tower of strength throughout the birth, stroking her hand and her brow, telling her when to push, when to rest. ‘It’s an easy birth,’ she’d said, ‘you’re strong and you’re healthy and it’s going to be quick, there’s no need to be frightened.’
Had Margaret forgotten how kind she’d been to a young woman fearful in the throes of labour? Surely not. But it would appear so. The more intimate the contact Henrietta attempted, the more withdrawn Margaret became. And again Henrietta knew why.
Jock Galloway was a tyrant, she realised it now more than ever. Just as she now realised that she had been scarcely more than an incubator during her pregnancy, as far as Jock was concerned anyway. She’d been an incubator for his precious grandchild. Nothing existed for Jock but his son and his grandson. Least of all his wife. His wife knew it, and she seemed to blame Henrietta. But didn’t Margaret realise, Henrietta wondered, that she too was now redundant?
Henrietta could make no inroads with her mother-in-law so she tentatively approached Charlotte on the subject. ‘Jock has other grandchildren,’ she said. ‘Your brothers have given him four grandchildren between them.’ Henrietta had met neither the brothers nor their families, but she knew of them through conversation—with Charlotte more than Terence.
‘They weren’t Terence’s children,’ Charlotte replied simply. ‘This was bound to happen.’ Charlotte Galloway was fully aware of the problem. ‘Poor mother,’ she said, more to herself than to Henrietta, ‘it was bound to happen.’
Henrietta found herself praying that Terence would not desert her now that she had produced a son. Surely she was not a mere incubator to him. But Terence was so like old Jock in so many ways, as Charlotte was always ready to point out. ‘A breeding mare’, that’s what Charlotte had told her in the early days. Was it true? Was that all she was to the men of this family?
But Terence appeared as proud of his wife as he was of his son, and, even as he encouraged Jock’s indulgence with the baby, hurtfully ignoring his mother, he displayed more affection towards Henrietta now than he had throughout their marriage. And grateful, Henrietta determined she would do everything she could to maintain his affection.
Little Malcolm Galloway was two months old. It was a pleasant afternoon in late July and Henrietta was sitting in the rocking chair on the front verandah, the baby asleep in her lap, when the flywire door slapped open and Jock appeared, a glass of beer in his hand. He pulled up a chair beside her, plonked his glass on the small coffee table between them, and held out his arms.
‘Bring him here,’ he said with an affable grin, but it was an order nonetheless, ‘bring him to Grandad.’
‘He’s asleep, Jock.’
‘Not when he’s with Grandad, he always wants to give Grandad a smile, bring him here.’
Henrietta rose reluctantly, there was no point in arguing, and, aware of Margaret watching through the bay windows of her office, she placed the baby in Jock’s arms.
Jock jiggled the child on his knees. ‘Wakey, wakey, Malcolm, give Grandad a smile,’ and the baby dutifully woke, gurgled and grinned back at the old man pulling funny faces. Henrietta had to admit that Jock had a way with Malcolm.
‘See, what did I tell you?’ Jock said proudly. ‘He loves his old Grandad, don’t you, Malcolm?’
Tickling the baby’s tummy with his left hand, Jock reached out with his right, grabbed his beer and took a swig. Then he saluted Malcolm with his glass. ‘Not long before you’ll be joining your Grandad in a beer, eh?’
He took another swig, put the glass back on the table and took the baby’s tiny hands in his leathery fists, dandling the child like a puppet in his lap. Henrietta wondered whether the old man might be a little drunk. Not that he was as a rule, it was rare to see Jock drunk, and never during the day, but he seemed to be particularly jovial this afternoon.
The truth was that Jock was feeling strange, a bit out of sorts, weary and a little light-headed. It had come on him quite suddenly and he’d popped out to play with the baby by way of distraction.
He made a fool of himself, as he always did, pulling ugly faces for the baby’s amusement, and he felt proud when the child smiled back at him. He seemed able to make special contact with Malcolm and he’d convinced himself that they had a particular bond. That, even at this tender age, Malcolm somehow sensed he was the favourite. Jock had been favourite of Lionel, Terence was favourite of Jock, and now here was little Malcolm ready to carry on the line as the favoured one. The chosen of the dynasty, the vital link.
Jock laughed with delight as the baby wriggled in his lap and gurgled its laughter along with his. He was feeling better by the minute. He reached once more for his beer but, as he did so, he felt suddenly faint. Breathless. And his heart was beating more quickly, irregularly it seemed.
‘Take the baby,’ he said suddenly to Henrietta.
‘Are you all right, Jock?’ Henrietta was on her feet in an instant, the baby in her arms. Jock looked pale, he held his hand to his chest. Was he having a heart attack? Should she call Margaret?
‘I’m not feeling very well,’ he admitted. Was he having a heart attack? Should he call Margaret, he wondered. Margaret would take control of the situation, he could rely on Margaret. But he was loath to call her. To do so would be to admit his dependence. In his own way, Jock had always known he was reliant upon Margaret.
‘Don’t worry, Henrietta. Don’t worry, it’ll pass,’ he waved a hand dismissively, commanding her to sit down and stop fussing.
Henrietta returned to the rocking chair, and cuddled the baby, watching Jock closely. He was insistent and she wasn’t sure what she should do; Jock’s word was the one that carried in this house.
‘You see?’ he said with a bravado he didn’t feel, ‘I’m fine,’ and he reached out for his beer. But his right arm wasn’t working properly. He tried to reach further, but his arm wouldn’t obey him. He shifted his weight in the chair in an attempt to get his hand, which suddenly seemed crippled, nearer the glass, but the whole right side of his body wouldn’t obey him.
Henrietta watched, horrified, as Jock’s chair toppled over, taking the coffee table and the beer glass with it. She jumped up, clutching the baby to her, and looked down at Jock sprawled on the verandah. He was in a state of stupefaction, staring up at her, his hand clutched to his chest.
‘Margaret!’ she screamed.
On 14 August 1945, the Japanese surrendered. Finally, the war was over. Australia revelled in a frenzy of celebration. But nowhere in the country was victory in the Pacific felt as intensely as it was in the Top End’s gateway to the north. The people of Darwin, predominantly in the services, and those few civilians who had remained, had cause to celebrate beyond that of the rest of the country. They had defeated invading forces, they had fought and won a war which had threatened them on their very own soil.
As a married man with a young baby, Terence was amongst the first to be demobbed, but his welcome home was not that of the conquering hero as he would have anticipated it might be a month previously. His father was not waiting on the front verandah to embrace him and bellow, ‘I’m proud of you, son.’ In fact the whol
e household seemed to be in mourning.
It was little more than a fortnight since Jock’s stroke and, at Margaret’s insistence, the homestead had become a virtual hospital to cater for her husband, his needs and his hopeful recovery.
They had been advised by telephone that it would be unwise for the patient to travel and Margaret had carried out all instructions, arranging immediately for a specialist to be flown up from Adelaide. The prognosis had not been good. ‘It’s impossible to predict at this early stage,’ the specialist had said, ‘as to the degree of Mr Galloway’s eventual recovery. We won’t know for the next several weeks. Certainly, for the next fortnight he will have apparent remissions and relapses, after which, when he stabilises, he will need physiotherapy. Only time will tell.’ But by the tone of the specialist’s voice he didn’t hold out much hope.
By the time Terence came home to stay, a nurse and a physiotherapist were living at the house, both flown up from the Stroke Unit at Royal Adelaide Hospital, and the homestead’s large office, Margaret’s pride and joy, had been converted to Jock’s bedroom and care facility. No expense was to be spared, she had instructed the specialist, and he had taken her at her word. Jock’s recovery was costing a fortune.
‘What’s the point?’ Terence said to Henrietta as they sat in the front room, the old man curled over in his wheelchair staring at the floor, ‘he’s never going to recover.’ Jock was indeed totally incapacitated, his right side immobile, his face contorted, and the sounds he made unintelligible as any form of speech. It was shocking to see.
Although, inwardly, Henrietta agreed, she was taken aback by Terence’s callousness. This was his father. His hero. Wasn’t he upset? More importantly, what if Jock could hear?
‘The specialist said there’s every possibility …’ she started to say, but Terence interrupted.
‘Rubbish,’ he said harshly. ‘The old man’s had it, he should have died.’ And he walked out of the room, just as Margaret arrived with the physiotherapist. Terence ignored his mother, and Margaret ignored Henrietta.
