Territory

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Good morning,’ the physiotherapist said.

  ‘Good morning.’ Henrietta nodded politely to the young man, then left the room. She didn’t like to watch the physiotherapy sessions. Every movement the young man forced Jock to make looked painful. He would stretch out the old man’s arm and pull at his hand and fingers, talking boisterously all the while. ‘Come on Mr Galloway, you can do it!’ And Margaret would join in. ‘Try, Jock, try!’ she would insist, ‘it’s for your own good,’ and Jock would protest in his garbled jumble of noises. It was distressing to witness.

  Henrietta felt deeply sorry for the old man. He may have been a tyrant, but no-one deserved to live in this state. No-one.

  One afternoon, during Jock’s sleeping hours, she slipped into the front room to see him. She had no particular intention, perhaps just to sit with him for a while.

  He wasn’t asleep, he was lying propped up in his bed, his body listing to the right as it invariably did. The bed faced the bay windows, and he could have looked out at the view if he’d chosen to do so, but he was staring vacantly down at the floor. Henrietta stood there, undecided. Why had she come, she wondered, she could do no good.

  ‘Hello, Jock,’ she whispered. There was no response, and she sat in the bedside chair and took his left hand in her own, stroking the work-worn skin. He’d always been a lean man, but he seemed to have withered, she thought, as she felt the bones of his fingers. ‘I just thought I’d come and say hello.’

  She looked at him, seeking a reaction as she stroked his hand. ‘They don’t mean to hurt you,’ she said. ‘Everyone wants you to get well, Jock.’ Then, realising how inane she sounded, she started to talk about Malcolm. How big he’d grown, how strong he was. ‘He misses you, Jock,’ she said. ‘You could always make him smile.’

  When she felt the claws of his fingers curl gently around hers, her heart started to beat faster. He could hear, she was sure of it. She looked at him. He continued to stare unseeingly at the floor, but he was listening, she knew it, the insistent caress of his fingers urged her to keep talking.

  The door opened and Margaret swooped into the room. ‘He’s supposed to be sleeping,’ she said with a disapproving scowl.

  ‘He can hear me, Margaret,’ Henrietta said excitedly, ‘I know he can. I was talking about Malcolm and he moved his fingers. Look.’ But the old man’s hand now lay still in hers.

  ‘He often does that. I sit with him for hours at night.’ Her tone was a mixture of hurt and accusation; you didn’t know that, did you, she was saying. ‘And I talk to him. I talk to him endlessly.’ You didn’t know that either, did you? ‘And he often holds my hand, sometimes quite strongly.’

  Henrietta refused to be daunted. ‘Then you must believe he can hear you.’

  ‘Of course I believe he can hear me,’ Margaret said harshly, ‘and he understands every word. So I’ll thank you to tell Terence to stop speaking disparagingly in his father’s presence, he takes no notice when I tell him.’ She didn’t allow Henrietta to reply but continued to issue orders as she walked briskly around to the other side of Jock’s bed and started hauling him upright, propping his bad arm on a pillow. ‘And if you must disturb his sleeping hours then I’d be grateful if you’d straighten him up. You know he’s not supposed to lie crooked.’

  ‘Yes, of course I will,’ Henrietta said. ‘I’m sorry, Margaret.’ She wanted to say she was sorry for everything, for all the hurts and the blows Margaret had suffered, but she quietly left the room.

  Barely three weeks later, Margaret made her announcement. ‘I’m taking Jock to Adelaide,’ she said to the family over dinner, ‘In two weeks. Nigel and Sarah are accompanying me.’ Nigel and Sarah were the physiotherapist and the nurse. ‘I have booked us into an excellent nursing home where there are family quarters and I can stay there with him.’ Margaret had arranged it all without saying a word to the others.

  Henrietta and Charlotte exchanged amazed glances and Nellie stopped clearing the plates to stare in surprise at the missus. Only Terence appeared unmoved.

  ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d approve, Terence.’

  Terence ignored the sarcasm in his mother’s voice. ‘He needs full-time care,’ he said.

  ‘But he gets it here.’ Henrietta, in turn, ignored her husband’s sharp glance which warned her not to interfere. ‘And he’s made such improvement.’ She addressed herself to Margaret.

  It was true, Jock was communicating these days. Not with words, but he would look others directly in the eyes, and he would make signals with his left hand. There had even been the vestige of a smile on his lips the other day when Henrietta had held Malcolm in his lap, and he’d stroked the boy’s little fat legs with his fingers.

  ‘I cannot give him my sole attention when I have station business to attend to.’ It was as if Margaret hadn’t heard. ‘You are skilled enough to take over the books, Henrietta, and Terence, you shall take over Bullalalla as it was always intended.’ There was an unpleasant twist to her mouth as she smiled. ‘You will receive your inheritance a little earlier than you’d expected, I don’t suppose you’ll complain about that.’ Then she turned to Charlotte. ‘And Charlotte, you will come with me and live at the nursing home, I shall need your help.’

  Whilst Charlotte stared back uncomprehendingly, Terence finally reacted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, ‘I need Charlotte here.’

  ‘You do not, Terence. Charlotte has never been needed here, she’s simply been free labour. You can employ another drover, it’s no job for a woman.’

  ‘It’s a job I like,’ Charlotte said. But she said it quietly, as if she was already conceding defeat.

  ‘You’ll like living in Adelaide better when you get used to it,’ Margaret said, not unkindly, ‘you can go to the theatre, and meet people.’

  Henrietta looked at Terence, expecting some argument, but he offered none. ‘It’s probably a good idea,’ he said again, then he added, ‘for all concerned.’ But he didn’t look at Charlotte as he said it, he nodded to Nellie instead, signalling that she bring in the dessert.

  It was a sad day when they left. To Henrietta anyway. She had only been a part of it for a short while, but it seemed to her that an era was ending. Nellie, Jackie and Pearl obviously felt the same way. Pearl was crying, and Nellie seemed not far from tears.

  As they all gathered on the verandah, Jackie knelt and shook Jock’s left hand. ‘Bye, boss,’ he said, and Jock clasped the Aborigine’s hand in return and nodded, obviously moved.

  Charlotte refused to give in to any overt display of emotion but it was quite obvious she too was moved. She clung to Nellie for a little longer than necessary when they embraced. And when she shook hands, man to man, with Jackie and he said ‘Bye, missus, you take care down there in the big smoke,’ she gave in and embraced him instead. But she refused to give way to tears. She seemed philosophical about the turn of events her life had taken.

  ‘Who knows what I’ll do?’ she had shrugged earlier in answer to Henrietta’s query. She didn’t share with her sister-in-law the fact that she no longer wished to remain at Bullalalla under Terence’s regime. To Charlotte an era had most certainly ended and, without knowing exactly why, she no longer wished to be a part of the next one. She would remain with her mother for as long as it proved necessary and, if life in Adelaide did not agree with her, as she predicted it wouldn’t, then she would return to the outback. But not to Bullalalla.

  ‘Mother needs me at the moment,’ she’d said to Henrietta, ‘I can tell.’

  Henrietta wasn’t so sure; Margaret appeared to need no-one. She wouldn’t even let Terence drive them to the airport. ‘Nigel will drive us,’ she’d said, ‘it’s all arranged. He needs to return the car he borrowed to the garage anyway, it’s more convenient this way.’

  Terence hadn’t insisted. ‘Dad would probably rather say goodbye here,’ he’d agreed, obviously thankful to be relieved of the duty.

  As Malco
lm wrapped his tiny hand around the old man’s thumb, Jock seemed close to tears. It was apparent that he didn’t want to go. Just as it was apparent that his wife couldn’t wait to leave.

  Margaret Galloway relished the prospect of having Jock to herself. For years she’d watched from upstairs as he’d walked down to the Aborigines’ camp, knowing he was going to assuage his sexual appetite with a young black girl. For years she’d been ignored as he’d focussed his attention solely on his eldest son. And, until the stroke, it had appeared that for the rest of her life she was to be destined to the sidelines as his world revolved around his grandson. At last he was hers, totally dependent upon her, and there was no competition.

  She made no attempt to return her daughter-in-law’s awkward embrace; Margaret was not physically demonstrative at the best of times, but her words were kind.

  ‘Bullalalla is in your hands now, Henrietta, and you’ll do a fine job, you’re a good wife.’ Perhaps because Henrietta no longer presented a threat, or perhaps because, after all, she genuinely felt an affection for the girl, she said, with the utmost sincerity, ‘It’s your turn now, my dear. Good luck.’

  She was not as receptive with her son, but stood rigid as he kissed her dutifully on the cheek. Terence’s farewell to his father was equally remote.

  ‘Bye, Dad,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch regularly.’ But it was obvious from his tone that he wouldn’t.

  The car wasn’t even out of sight when Terence turned to Henrietta. ‘We need to buy you a new dress, my darling.’ He was in extremely high spirits. ‘There’s a garden party at Government House next week.’

  Aggie Marshall clumped into the foyer of the Hotel Darwin, her wooden foot thumping heavily on the highly polished floors. Wood to wood, it was always the same. Most of the houses in Darwin also had wooden floors so it seemed she was always being noisy, always calling attention to her foot, or rather the lack of it. Not that she cared particularly. Friends told her that, now the war was over, there would be a huge call for prosthetic limbs, she should get herself a nice new foot and wear nice shoes for a change. As it was, Aggie always bought cheap shoes, it was a waste of money to spend any more when she only threw the left one away. She’d donated her dresses and skirts to charity and always wore trousers these days, which didn’t bother her at all as she’d always preferred trousers, and she wore a carpet slipper on her wooden foot. It did little to muffle the thumping, though, because she tended to stomp—it was like having a pegleg, she said, she felt like Long John Silver. Her friends said she wouldn’t walk so heavily if she had a proper prosthetic foot, but she didn’t listen, she had better things to do with her time and money.

  ‘Paul.’ She saw a head of greying hair buried in a newspaper across the other side of the foyer and recognised Paul Trewinnard’s lanky frame, the only person present, apart from Aggie herself, who was not in uniform. Following the bombing, Darwin had been placed under military administration and the Hotel Darwin taken over as a mess and intelligence headquarters. Paul had promptly disappeared, no-one knew exactly where, and had only recently returned. Now, lazing about in a wicker chair, his beige linen suit slightly crumpled, he presented an image from the hotel’s grand old days. But then, to Aggie, Paul Trewinnard had always seemed a little like a relic of a bygone era.

  Paul rose as Aggie thumped her way over, the thumping stopping for a moment or so when she hit the Persian carpet in the centre of the foyer.

  ‘Aggie.’ He embraced her. They were good friends. Paul liked Aggie Marshall immensely, even though she disapproved of the way he wasted his life, and lost no time in telling him so.

  ‘Do something useful,’ she’d say. ‘Get involved. If you can’t be bothered with yourself, then be bothered with the community. Darwin needs its locals, particularly now.’ So he’d allowed her to inveigle him into joining the Garden Party Committee.

  He took the armload of papers she was carrying from her and together they went into the Green Room, once the hotel’s central drinking hall, in more recent times a military strategy room, and now a strangely deserted mess of tables and chairs. There, they set up for the committee’s final meeting; the garden party was only a week away.

  The Darwinese were limping home. That was Aggie’s phrase for it, and from Aggie it seemed rather apt. Not many as yet, but in dribs and drabs they were finding their way back, some with official permission, some without, to start rebuilding their town. It would be no mean feat as Darwin had been virtually destroyed; only 171 habitable homes remained and these in various states of disrepair. The horrifying fact to those who had lost everything was the knowledge—quickly gained from those who had remained—that their loss had been incurred not only through enemy action but through the acts of Australian soldiers. And not only through random looting which abounded, and continued to do so despite the fact that troops were being withdrawn, but through the Department of the Army itself. Buildings had been gutted, including hotels and the public library, and a large number of premises had been demolished altogether. Either for ‘strategic reasons’, or in order to obtain supplies of material for ‘essential defence works’, it was reported.

  The returning residents were forced to camp in abandoned army buildings or other vacated, half-ruined premises, and already rows of galvanised iron sheds were appearing in the commercial streets of Chinatown which had been totally destroyed.

  Many basic services no longer existed, including the collection of night soil, so the newly returned Darwinese built ‘flaming furies’, as they called them, in their backyards, army style. A 44 gallon drum was placed over a pit, a hole cut in its top, sheets of galvanised iron placed around it for privacy, and once a week the pits were burned off. Newcomers were quickly taught how. ‘Chuck in a bit of diesel, follow it up with a lighted match and then stand well back,’ they were instructed. The pits would smoke for hours and the stench of burning sewage was ever constant in the town.

  The rebuilding of Darwin would be a long, slow and painful process, and Aggie Marshall was convinced that ‘morale boosters’ were essential and that the first of these must be a Victory Garden Party at Government House. She’d shamed the local authorities by having the idea first. However, it had been ‘very high on their agenda’ evidently.

  ‘But as you can imagine,’ she’d been told, ‘the Government has so many priorities to address that …’

  She’d immediately been given full support from all quarters, to such an extent that everyone now thought the idea had emanated from the public service, a fact which Aggie didn’t mind at all, just so long as everything went according to plan.

  She and Paul prepared the table in the Green Room, setting out Aggie’s minutes at each of the eight places, and the blank paper and the pencils she always brought for those too lazy or forgetful to provide their own. Aggie was very thorough, and meticulous in her insistence that everyone make notes of the duties they’d been allotted. ‘If you’ve written it down you can’t blame me if you forget it,’ she’d say jovially.

  Along with the Government and military officials, several prominent businessmen were on the Garden Party Committee, and the first to arrive was, as usual, Foong Lee.

  The three greeted each other warmly. Foong Lee had been most surprised to discover that Aggie had managed to acquire the services of his old friend Paul Trewinnard.

  ‘How did you do it, Aggie?’ he’d enquired. ‘And more precisely, what on earth does Paul have to offer?’ But his pouched eyes had gleamed mischievously and he’d given Paul a hooded wink, he was only too delighted to see Paul Trewinnard about to do something productive with the time which he normally idled away.

  Aggie had been quite defensive. ‘He is going to write all of our literature,’ she’d said. ‘Our leaflets, our pleas to various departments, and he’s going to publicise our events in his articles for the Northern Standard, now that it’s started up again.’ The Northern Standard had ceased publishing immediately after the bombing of Darwin and had only recently reopened f
or business. ‘Paul is going to be extremely useful,’ Aggie had said adamantly.

  ‘Of course, of course, I have no doubt.’ He didn’t tell her he’d been joking. When Aggie was fervent about something there was little point.

  Foong Lee had been delighted when Aggie had asked him to join the committee, and he was generously donating countless supplies for the event. By mutual choice, the Chinese and Europeans had always lived in separate communities and Foong Lee was of the firm opinion that segregation should play no part in such a celebration. Both parties must participate.

  ‘It is a common victory we celebrate, Aggie,’ he had said, ‘your garden party must be for the whole of Darwin.’

  ‘Well, for those of us who are still here,’ she’d corrected him, even as she’d nodded in vociferous agreement.

  It was the weather which was her main worry. ‘Early October,’ she’d said, ‘the start of the wet, it’s a tricky time to plan a garden party.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Foong Lee assured her, ‘they say it’s going to be a long dry season.’ She looked at him sceptically. ‘It’s true,’ he swore, ‘I heard a long-term weather forecast yesterday on the wireless,’ and it was impossible to tell whether or not he was lying. ‘Besides, we shall plan for indoors as well,’ he announced, ‘Government House is very large.’

  Foong Lee was well acquainted with Government House, from as far back as 1930 when he’d been one of the representatives to present the aviatrix Amy Johnson with gifts from the Chinese community at a welcoming ceremony in her honour. He’d been just twenty-nine at the time, already a successful businessman, and since those days he had been a guest at many a Government House function.

  ‘It’s simply a matter of gaining permission,’ Foong Lee advised. ‘I’m sure Government House will “come to the party” …’ His eyes disappeared into slits as he smiled at his pun.

  Aggie was grateful for Foong Lee’s support, he was a very calming influence, she decided.