by Judy Nunn
A week later, the day before her trip to Darwin, he told her he was going bush for a few days to meet up with Buff Nelson and check on the muster. It was a month into the dry season and Jackie and his team were out mustering the herds. Henrietta immediately assumed he was about to renege on their arrangement, but he wasn’t. ‘Leave instructions for Nellie to hand out the rations on Friday,’ he said, ‘I’ll be gone first thing in the morning.’
He made love to her that night in his customary brutal fashion, and although, as always, there was no pleasure for Henrietta in the act, she was gladdened by the knowledge that he still desired her. He’d made no sexual advances for the past month, a fact which, coupled with his irritability, made her feel very insecure about his affections.
She was still drowsy with sleep when he left at dawn and, when she awoke an hour or so later, Henrietta felt excited, like a small child about to go on a holiday. She was to meet Aggie at the Hotel Darwin, Paul was taking them all to lunch.
‘But I’ll have Malcolm with me,’ she’d said when Paul had telephoned, delighted to hear that she was coming to town.
‘He doesn’t eat much, does he?’ Paul had replied. He had insisted they all dine at his beloved Hotel Darwin in order to celebrate its recent reopening. Michael and Chrissie Paspalis, who had won their bid to lease the hotel from the Government, were just the people needed to return the ‘Grand Old Dame’ to her pre-war grandeur, Paul maintained, and they’d certainly started out the right way. The Hotel Darwin had reopened with a gala ball, and Paul had moved back in with alacrity, grateful to be out of his poky little room at the Victoria Hotel.
Paul was full of plans for Henrietta. After lunch he would take them for a drive, Aggie always enjoyed being taken for a drive, he said. And, on the Friday evening, following the kiddies’ party in the afternoon—‘or rather should I say “Aggie’s consolidation campaign”,’ he added, his tone heavy with irony—perhaps she’d agree to have dinner with him. Her trip to town was perfectly timed, he told her, he was due to leave for London on the Monday. ‘It’s a six-month assignment,’ he explained, ‘a series of articles for National Geographic on post-war Europe. A farewell dinner would be perfect.’
‘Thank you Paul, but no,’ she’d laughed, ‘I’ll have the baby with me.’
‘Aggie said she’d love to babysit Malcolm.’ He hardly drew breath. ‘And she also said, as you’re not leaving until Saturday, perhaps we could have a picnic lunch at Mindil Beach before you go.’
Henrietta sensed the collusion. Between the two of them Aggie and Paul had it all worked out. ‘We’ll see,’ she smiled, feeling a little swept off her feet.
Shortly before midday, she left explicit instructions and lists with Nellie, packed Malcolm and the suitcase into the Landrover and waved goodbye to Pearl who stood on the front verandah waving back.
Lunch in the vast and splendid dining room of the Hotel Darwin proved to be a far more relaxed affair than Henrietta had anticipated. She’d worried a little about Malcolm, it was hardly the place to take a two-year-old child. But the waiters were very accommodating. A highchair was instantly fetched and, as Henrietta fed him, she made sure the bowl was well out of his reach so that he couldn’t throw food about, which was his favourite trick. Several times he got a little demanding, letting out a squeal as he smashed his fist on his tray-table, but no-one seemed to mind, least of all Aggie and Paul. It was so good to see them.
‘What a change from beef,’ she said as she tucked into her grilled barramundi.
They chatted about Aggie’s new foot. When they’d met in the foyer Henrietta had been surprised by the absence of the carpet slipper. Aggie still wore trousers but protruding from the cuff of the left leg was a smart walking brogue and, as the three of them had proceeded through to the dining room, she no longer clumped. Even her limp was minimal.
‘I’m very impressed,’ Henrietta remarked over lunch.
‘You sound like Paul, that’s exactly what he said.’
Paul nodded, his mouth full of eye fillet.
‘It’s a proper prosthetic foot, the latest thing,’ Aggie proudly boasted. ‘I should have had one fitted years ago, it’s far more comfortable, but I’d probably never have got around to it at all if it hadn’t been for the school.’ Henrietta looked mystified. ‘The carpet slipper was too distracting,’ Aggie explained, ‘so was the way I clumped about, the children paid far more attention to my pegleg than they did to their lessons.’
After lunch they called in briefly at Aggie’s house to drop off Henrietta’s suitcase and leave the Landrover behind. Then they all piled into Paul’s Austin and he drove them to Nightcliff where they walked along the clifftops, Malcolm perched on Paul’s shoulders.
It was an impressive vista. The ragged splendour of the sandstone cliff face stretched for miles and the water was at low tide, exposing the vast shelves of rock which extended out to the sea.
Aggie sat on a bench with Malcolm whilst Paul and Henrietta walked down a track to the beach. When they returned half an hour later, Paul’s pockets were bulging with the pebbles and stones Henrietta had insisted upon collecting.
‘Next time we’ll take a bag,’ he complained good naturedly as he emptied them out onto the grass, ‘or you can wear trousers for a change.’ Henrietta’s skirt and blouse were pocketless.
Malcolm had a splendid time arranging and rearranging the different shaped stones which were velvety to the touch, worn smooth and perfect by the sea. There were little round pebbles like marbles, and there were wafer-thin elliptical dishes, and triangles and oblongs, and flat-based domes like miniature Ayers Rocks, and all in every colour imaginable, from the deepest of oranges and burgundies, to the lightest of pinks and lavenders.
‘We’ll put them in a very special bowl when we get home, darling,’ Henrietta promised the child when he protested strongly as she started packing the stones away in her carry bag. ‘And you can play with them whenever you like. Come on now, we have to go.’ She hoped Malcolm wasn’t about to throw one of his tantrums. ‘He’s tired, he’s getting a bit crotchety,’ she apologised to the others. Mercifully he fell asleep on the drive back to Aggie’s house.
‘You’re going to come in for a drink, Paul?’ Aggie asked.
‘Of course.’ Paul pocketed the flask of whisky he always kept in the glovebox of his car. Aggie was the only person he knew whose invitation to ‘come in for a drink’ meant a tea or coffee. To anyone else in Darwin ‘a drink’ meant a gin or a whisky, or at least a cold beer. Paul always travelled prepared.
He carried the sleeping child inside but the moment he deposited him in the spare room Malcolm woke up, thoroughly energised and ready for mischief. Henrietta emptied the stones out onto the scatter rug by the lounge room windows and, instantly, the child once again became engrossed in his arrangements.
‘I shall forgive you the sand in my pockets,’ Paul said approvingly, ‘that’s the perfect distraction.’
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ she agreed, ‘I’ve just become a devoted rock collector.’
‘Would you care for something a little stronger than Aggie’s tea?’ He took the flask from his pocket. ‘Miss Marshall runs an alcohol-free house.’
‘Not today,’ Aggie said as she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an icy bottle of champagne and three glasses. ‘Today she’s laid on supplies. There’s another bottle in the fridge.’
‘Good heavens above,’ Paul exclaimed as he took the bottle from her and started to open it. He looked at the glasses. ‘And I didn’t even know you possessed champagne flutes.’
‘I didn’t until yesterday.’
‘You should be flattered, Henrietta.’ Paul eased out the cork and poured the champagne.
‘I am.’ She was more than flattered, she was very touched.
‘Here’s to your return to town,’ Aggie said and she raised her glass. ‘You mustn’t leave it so long between visits, we’ve missed you, haven’t we, Paul?’
‘We most certainly ha
ve,’ Paul agreed, and he meant it far more than Henrietta could possibly realise. But after one glass of champagne he left the women to talk. He and Aggie had agreed they were worried about Henrietta, and he hoped that Aggie might be able to help in some way.
Aggie had every intention of trying to draw Henrietta out with regard to her problem, the young woman needed someone to talk to, she was convinced of it. But Henrietta was evasive. Yes, she was quite happy, she replied, perhaps a little tired, Malcolm was a handful, and the beef business wasn’t doing well so Terence was a bit tense lately. She wouldn’t go any further than that, but turned the conversation back to Aggie. Was she enjoying teaching again, Henrietta asked. But they’d talked about the school over lunch. Drastic measures were required, Aggie decided.
She opened the second bottle of champagne. Aggie normally drank very little and the alcohol had gone straight to her head. Emboldened by its effects, she decided to tell Henrietta her own story, to use herself as an example in order to help the young woman.
‘Did I ever tell you about my marriage, Henrietta?’ she asked filling her own glass. She went to fill Henrietta’s but it was untouched. ‘You’re not drinking,’ she remarked.
‘I’ve already had three glasses,’ Henrietta smiled, ‘another one and I’ll be on my ear. I didn’t even know you’d been married.’
‘For five years, I was very young at the time, just twenty-two.’
‘The same age as me,’ Henrietta remarked, ‘I was twenty-two when I married Terence.’
‘Yes.’ Aggie had known that, just as she also knew that Henrietta had been married for five years. ‘It wasn’t a happy marriage from the outset,’ she continued, ‘but I wouldn’t admit that, least of all to myself. It took five years for me to realise that things would never change and that he was destroying my life.’
Why was Aggie telling her this, Henrietta wondered. Why did she feel the need to talk about her marriage, it had been years ago? It was probably the effects of the alcohol; Aggie certainly wasn’t accustomed to the amount of champagne she’d drunk, and now she was draining the glass.
‘I blamed myself,’ Aggie barged right on as she reached for the bottle. ‘For years I thought I was responsible in some way for his moods and irrational behaviour.’ She poured herself another glass, the taste already souring in her mouth, but the alcohol was certainly giving her Dutch courage. ‘Even when he hit me I blamed myself.’
‘He hit you?’ Henrietta was shocked.
‘Oh yes, quite often, when he was drunk. Of course he’d be full of remorse the following morning.’ Aggie realised that Henrietta’s shock was genuine. Well that’s something, she thought, at least Terence doesn’t hit her; she and Paul had wondered if he did. ‘Strangely enough, though, the physical violence wasn’t the worse part. I’m actually grateful for it now.’
Aggie suddenly realised that she was rather enjoying her one-sided conversation. She had never spoken this way to anyone and, after ten years, it was interesting to analyse her past. ‘I left him because of the violence. Perhaps if he hadn’t hit me I’d still be with him,’ she took another swig from her glass. ‘I’d still be thinking it was my fault, still being manipulated, forced to play his games. The games are the worst part, Henrietta. The mental games, when a man plays with your mind and makes you feel insecure and uncertain of yourself.’
Henrietta felt distinctly uneasy. This was sounding too familiar, was Aggie trying, in a clumsy way, to compare their respective marriages?
‘I’m sure women can do the same thing to men,’ Aggie rambled on, ‘but I’m not talking about other women, I’m talking about us.’ She threw caution to the wind as she drained another glass, convinced that Henrietta’s attentiveness was a sign of her recognition and agreement.
Anger surged through Henrietta. ‘We’re not talking about us at all,’ she said coldly, ‘we’re talking about you, Aggie. At least you’re talking about you. How dare you make such a presumption.’
At the sound of his mother’s voice, raised in anger, Malcolm looked up from his arrangement of stones.
‘My husband doesn’t beat me,’ Henrietta said a little more quietly, her eye to the child, ‘I have a happy marriage and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.’
It was Aggie’s turn to be shocked. She’d assumed that Henrietta had been following her train of thought, identifying with her, even agreeing. ‘I’m sorry, Henrietta,’ she said, ‘I only wanted to …’
Malcolm started to cry. ‘He’s tired.’ Henrietta rose from her chair, end of conversation, her tone said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Aggie repeated, cursing herself for her stupidity.
‘I’ll give him his feed, he’ll soon be ready for bed.’
When the child was asleep in the spare bedroom, the two women shared an uncomfortable meal, eating little, awkward in each other’s company, and then they too retired.
Both had a sleepless night. Aggie, aware that she’d gone too far, felt wretched. And Henrietta, recalling Aggie’s words, was filled with doubt. Did she indeed have an unhappy life? She hadn’t wished to see it that way, but Terence did play mental games, and she often felt insecure and unsure of herself. But he loved her, she told herself. And he’d certainly never hit her, surely that meant her marriage was not on a parallel with Aggie’s. She couldn’t afford to listen to such innuendo.
Beside her in the bed, Malcolm woke several times throughout the night, and she comforted him and waited for him to go back to sleep. In the morning she awoke, exhausted and strangely depressed. She wished she was back at Bullalalla, on her own; what value were her friends if they made her feel like this? It was a conspiracy, she realised, and Paul had been part of it. He and Aggie were convinced that she needed rescuing, well damn the both of them.
When she emerged in the morning, she discovered that Aggie had been up for a good hour or so. Aggie was always an early riser, and the house was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
‘I popped out to Eddie Quong’s.’ Aggie sliced through the hot crusty loaf. Eddie Quong’s bakery in Smith Street was famous, she said. ‘I bet you’ve never tasted bread like this.’ She chatted all the while as she cut up a mango and set out the jam and marmalade beside the sliced bread, and she carefully avoided any mention of the previous night, which she deeply regretted. And Henrietta made pleasant conversation back, wishing that she could put aside the doubts that Aggie had raised and shake off her depression. It had been the champagne, she told herself, Aggie hadn’t meant any harm. But the harm had been done nonetheless.
Immediately after breakfast, Aggie left to set up the decorations and the presents for the children’s party. She declined Henrietta’s offer of help.
‘No, no,’ she insisted, ‘I have a half a dozen volunteers who’ll be there already. The party is supposed to be as much for the parents as it is for the children, so you stay here with Malcolm. Paul’s picking you up at eleven.’
Mid-morning they gathered in droves outside the old Town Hall. A handsome stone building of intricate design, the old Town Hall faced Smith Street but was set well back from the road, shaded by trees and surrounded by a white picket fence. In bygone days it had been a picturesque and popular venue for many a function and historical event but, during the war, it had served as a drill hall and training centre for the navy. Although it was currently being converted into a museum and art gallery, Aggie had fought tooth and nail for permission to use the old Town Hall as the venue for her children’s party. In keeping with her ‘consolidation campaign’ it was the perfect choice, she’d maintained. ‘The old Town Hall is the spirit of Darwin,’ she’d loudly declared. And as usual she’d won.
Parents and children, teachers and friends now flooded through the main doors. Upwards of a hundred people gathered in the welcome cool of the hall with its high ceilings and cypress pine floors. Aggie’s team of helpers had done a fine job, streamers and balloons festooned the walls, small wooden tables were laid out with kiddies’ treats, jugs
of cordial and party pies, buttered bread colourfully sprinkled with ‘hundreds and thousands’, and in the corner of the hall, piled high on a white-clothed trestle table were gifts wrapped in glossy paper.
Standing by the table, doling out the presents, stood Foong Lee and his son Albert. Foong Lee had donated the trinkets from his new store, charm bracelets and hair ribbons and tiny dolls for the girls, miniature cars and aeroplanes and toy soldiers for the boys, and little mesh bags of sugared almonds for everyone. Albert had sat up half the night individually wrapping each and every one.
The day was an unmitigated success. The children wore party hats and played games and the adults mingled, catching up on the gossip and comparing notes. Henrietta spent most of her time with Paul, who left her side only when Aggie, who was tirelessly working, called for his help.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked when he returned from rigging up the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey board. ‘You seem very quiet.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, trying to dredge up a vitality she didn’t feel, ‘just a bit tired, Malcolm kept me up half the night.’
When the presents had been given out, Foong Lee and Albert joined them. Foong Lee was a very busy man of late. One of the founders of the Chung Wah Society, established to unite the Chinese community upon their return to Darwin, he had nonetheless found time to build a fine new house in Mitchell Street. And his new store and his tailor’s shop were doing very well, Paul told Henrietta.
‘And Albert has had the excellent idea of our opening a restaurant,’ Foong Lee added, while young Albert, towering handsomely beside his squat little father, beamed with pride. ‘It’s been a slow process,’ Foong Lee said, ‘but things are coming along nicely.’
‘A slow process?’ Henrietta shared a smile with Paul. Foong Lee had obviously moved faster than anyone in Darwin to re-establish his businesses, whilst most others were still struggling.
As the party was winding down, Foong Lee asked Henrietta and Paul if they’d like to come to his house. ‘I like showing off my new house,’ he said, his eyes disappearing into slits as he smiled happily, ‘and Lin Mei will make us some tea.’
