by Judy Nunn
She was startled. No attempt had been made to reach the mainland, which was no more than a vast shadow in the distance. Through rough, shark-infested seas, the journey was considered too hazardous. And should such a feat be accomplished, who knew what savages roamed the shores of the Great South Land.
‘You will die in the attempt,’ she said.
‘It will be a better death than I will find here.’
There was such resolve in the young man’s voice that Lucretia felt the faintest glimmer of hope. Not only for Dirck Liebensz but for herself. This was surely why God had kept her alive. She fumbled amongst the linings of her skirt and withdrew the locket.
‘I have something for you,’ she said and she gazed for the last time upon the symbol of her love. Gently, she kissed the diamond sun, ‘Farewell, Boudewijn,’ she whispered.
Lucretia knew in her heart that she would never see her husband again, and she had no misgivings in parting with the locket if it would save the young man’s life. There was no God on this island but perhaps a symbol of His mercy remained in the locket, which she was convinced had preserved her up until now. She prayed that its power would preserve the boy.
‘Give me your hand, Dirck,’ she said and, for the first time she looked at him. The young man held out his hand and she pressed the locket into his palm. ‘If you survive, you will need to buy your way back to Holland. This may be of assistance.’
Dirck stared at the locket, the diamonds glinting brightly in the sun, never had he seen a thing of such beauty. ‘Vrouwe van den Mylen …’ he said, overwhelmed and he lifted his head to gaze up at her.
Lucretia smiled. She had thought she would never smile again. ‘The locket will see you safe, Dirck,’ she said, ‘I know that it will. Take care and Godspeed.’ She pressed his hand once more. ‘Wait here for ten minutes after I am gone.’
Lucretia was animated tonight, Cornelisz thought. He’d become accustomed to her silence and he was pleased and flattered by the change in his mistress. And she looked more glorious than ever.
Lucretia had brushed her hair vigorously, and it hung, free of its snood, like a magnificent mane across her shoulders. She had pinched her cheeks until they flushed a comely pink and she had rubbed oil on her lips. She wished to look distracting tonight.
‘I am in the mood for company,’ she’d said, ‘could we not invite Judick to dine?’ If Judick were there, Coenraat van Huyssen would be present, and if van Huyssen came, then many others of Cornelisz’s closest company would too. It would become a party, and the fewer of the mutineers wandering around the camp tonight the better.
Cornelisz was only too delighted. ‘We’ll have a banquet,’ he announced and he ordered his lackeys to break open the wine and prepare a feast for his company of friends.
Lucretia pretended to drink the wine and she talked to Cornelisz’s vile companions, all the while observing the actions of those in command. When the feast was being brought to the table, she saw Zeevanck issue orders to one of the men, and she knew it was around the time when they changed the guard.
‘Will you not favour us with one of your verses …?’ she said to Cornelisz who sat beside her. She tried to say his name in order to charm him. ‘Please, Jeronimus,’ she meant to say, but she could not bring herself to do so. Not because it would arouse suspicion; the man’s ego was such that he was delighting in the amiability of his mistress, not questioning her change of heart, convinced that she found him attractive, as well she should. But even now, when Lucretia would do anything to aid the escape of Dirck Liebensz, she could not bring herself to utter the name of the Devil.
Only too happy to oblige his mistress’s request, Cornelisz sprang to his feet calling for silence, and launched into one of his favourite French odes. Everyone paid rapt attention. As Lucretia well knew, no man would dare leave the tent when their master was reciting.
‘Bravo,’ she said when he had finished, and she swigged at her wine, pretending she was affected by the alcohol. ‘Another.’
The assembled company followed suit. ‘Another,’ they cried. Anything to keep the Captain in good humour.
The following morning, one of the smaller rafts was discovered missing, and a guard was found with his throat slit. A head count revealed that the perpetrator of the crime was the young clerk Dirck Liebensz. Cornelisz gave orders for parties to be sent to the nearby islands, the boy would pay dearly for his crime. His would be a slow death.
But as the makeshift boats prepared to depart a cry went up.
‘Captain!’ One of the men was pointing to the far-off High Islands where a smoke signal clearly wound its way up into the sky. Weibbe Hayes and his men had found water.
Lucretia prayed. She gave thanks to God, convinced that this timely distraction was His doing, and, for the first time in months, she prayed for something other than her own death. She prayed fervently for the safety of Dirck Liebensz.
The young clerk was forgotten in an instant. Weibbe Hayes and his men lived! Cornelisz immediately set about making his plans.
An emissary would be sent to the High Islands to negotiate with the soldiers. Being seasoned soldiers loyal to the VOC, Cornelisz was aware that, under normal conditions, they would have little interest in accepting his terms. But these were hardly normal conditions. After all, he held all the weapons, did he not? His proposal was simple. Weibbe Hayes and his men were to enter into a pact with him, in return for which they would be granted special treatment. If they refused, they would be destroyed.
Lucretia listened throughout the night as Cornelisz composed his letter of negotiation and, the following day, she watched as the emissary set off for the High Islands, but she was not thinking of Weibbe Hayes and his brave soldiers, although she prayed that they might somehow be spared. All of her thoughts were focussed on young Dirck Liebensz. May the power of the locket keep him safe, she thought, as she gazed at the mystical shadow on the horizon. The shadow of the Great South Land.
Paul was near the end, his body finally succumbing to the illness which ravaged it, and he could no longer deny the fact. For three years he’d deluded himself that his love for Henrietta could keep him alive forever and, in a way, it had. The past precious three years had been worth more to Paul Trewinnard than the rest of his existence. But he didn’t want her to be with him at the end. He wanted to make his farewell in a lucid state.
‘Will you spend Friday evening with me?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. She knew it was time, he had been very open with her.
‘I shall stay the weekend with Foong Lee,’ he’d said, ‘and on Monday he will take me to the hospital. I don’t want visitors.’
She’d stared out of the car window at the raging storm and said nothing, determined not to cry, it was not what he wanted.
‘And I rely upon you, my darling, to keep Aggie well away.’
She’d turned back to him and forced a smile in reply to his. ‘I promise.’ Then he’d asked her to spend Friday evening with him.
‘Yes.’
They were sitting in Henrietta’s car parked down by the docks, Paul no longer drove, not trusting himself at the wheel, and they were enjoying the ferocity of the storm over the harbour. It reminded them both of the storm they’d watched together on the day of his return. It had been November then too, Henrietta thought, nearly three years to the day. The most wonderful three years of her life.
‘I’ll spend every night with you, if you wish,’ she added.
‘No, that might be gilding the lily,’ he laughed gently, ‘just Friday evening will do. I’ll book a room for you at the hotel.’
They drove to the school to collect Kit, who ran through the deluge to meet them.
‘Can we go to Mindil Beach and watch the storm?’ he asked as he scrambled into the Holden.
Henrietta looked at Paul, she knew he was in pain, he should go back to the hotel and rest.
‘Of course,’ he said.
Kit idolised Paul. The boy’s imagination was fi
red with stories of far-off places, and he devoured the books Paul gave him, Rider Haggard and Buchan and Somerset Maugham. Kit would be thirteen in four months’ time but his reading was far in advance of his years. One day he would travel to those places, he told himself, and one day, like Paul, he too would write. He’d already written several short stories, much to his father’s irritation, and Paul had treated them very seriously, teaching him about structure and narrative and dialogue. But even while pointing out his errors Paul had told him he had a talent. Kit was inspired.
Kit had known for a long time that Paul was not well but, until recently, he had not realised the gravity of his illness.
‘I’m going to boarding school next year, Paul,’ he’d said, ‘but I’ll keep writing, and when I come home for the holidays you can read my stories and tell me where I’ve gone wrong.’
‘I may not be here when you get back, Kit.’ The boy was so eager that it broke Paul’s heart, but he was deeply thankful. He’d been granted a lifetime’s gift in the knowledge of his son, he must ask for no more than that.
Kit noted the expression on his mother’s face as she and Paul exchanged a glance.
‘In fact,’ Paul added, ‘I shall be saying goodbye shortly. It’s probable that we shan’t see each other again, and I shall miss you. But that’s the way things are.’ His smile was caring but his tone invited no discussion.
‘Paul’s dying, isn’t he?’ Kit had asked his mother that night.
‘Yes,’ she’d admitted. And when the boy cried, she comforted him, saying, ‘He doesn’t want you to be sad, Kit. You’ve made him very happy.’
‘Where will you stay?’ Terence asked. She’d told him, quite bluntly, that Paul was going into hospital on the Monday and that he wouldn’t come out, and that she intended to spend Friday evening in town.
‘Perhaps I’ll stay at Aggie’s,’ she replied, knowing that was what he would prefer to hear. ‘But then perhaps not,’ she added, she couldn’t be bothered lying. ‘I’ll probably stay at the Hotel Darwin.’
‘He should have been hospitalised months ago,’ Terence said. He’d seen Paul Trewinnard recently. In town buying supplies, he’d bumped into the man. Literally. Nearly bowled him over, he’d had to hold Trewinnard up as he’d staggered. Terence had barely recognised him, he was a walking cadaver, you could see the skull through the skin of his face. Well, what the hell, if she wanted to spend the evening with a skeleton, then let her.
Terence was glad that Paul Trewinnard would soon be dead, he had become jealous of the time Henrietta spent with the man. And he knew that the books his younger son devoured came from the Englishman. Trewinnard was a meddlesome nuisance in Terence’s opinion and he couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
On the Friday afternoon, when Henrietta collected Kit from school, Paul said his final goodbye to his son.
‘I’m going away, Kit.’
Kit looked at his mother. They had driven to Mindil Beach, their favourite place, and they were sitting on the sand. It was a hot, sweaty afternoon.
‘Where are you going?’
Paul looked into eyes which could have been his own so many years ago. How he would love to acknowledge Kit as his son. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘a long way away, we won’t be able to keep in touch.’
‘Mum told me …’ Kit couldn’t bring himself to say ‘that you’re dying’, but his eyes held Paul’s, steady and unwavering, and Paul longed to embrace the child.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I won’t see you again.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a book. ‘I have a small gift for you.’ He gave it to Kit. A slim volume, no more than a short story, really, but with a hard linen cover, prettily bound. ‘It’s a very simple narrative,’ he said. ‘A story of love, and of a good man who found a purpose to his life.’
Kit opened the volume and read on the first page, ‘The Snow Goose, by Paul Gallico’. Beneath the title, in Paul’s neat handwriting, was an inscription, ‘To Kit Galloway, from his friend Paul Trewinnard’.
‘It has a purity of style which I think you’ll enjoy,’ Paul said, rather formally.
Kit knelt and flung his arms around the fragile body of his father, Paul mustering the last reserves of his strength to prevent himself from falling back on the sand.
Henrietta was concerned, Kit was being far too boisterous. But, as Paul maintained his balance and cradled his son’s head to his shoulder, she realised it was the moment he had longed for.
Kit was crying, but trying very hard not to, he knew that Paul didn’t like emotional scenes. ‘Thanks for the book,’ he said, his voice muffled.
‘My pleasure.’ Paul stroked his son’s hair. Over the boy’s head, his eyes met Henrietta’s and he smiled his gratitude. ‘It’s time we were going, I think.’
Kit read the The Snow Goose during the drive back to Bullalalla. Henrietta said nothing but she was aware of the boy’s rapt attention beside her.
‘Did you like it?’ she asked. They were nearly home when he closed the book and looked out the window.
‘Yes.’ He turned to her. ‘Have you read it?’ he asked.
‘Many times,’ she said, ‘it’s one of my favourites.’
‘Why does Paul have to die?’
‘It’s his time, Kit. Just like it was Philip Rhayader’s time in The Snow Goose.’
Kit nodded, but he returned his attention to the window and the passing bushland, it didn’t seem fair somehow.
Less than an hour after their return to Bullalalla, Henrietta was once again setting off for Darwin. During the morning, Terence had offered to collect Kit from school, but she had declined.
‘Into town and back twice in one day?’ he’d queried, ‘that’s stupid.’
‘I enjoy it,’ she’d said, determined that Paul should not be deprived of his final moment with his son. ‘I find the drive relaxing. Besides, I won’t be coming back the second trip, I’m staying overnight, remember?’
‘Ah yes, of course,’ Terence had growled.
‘So what time will you be home?’ he now asked, as he put her bag into the back of the Holden.
‘I don’t know.’ He’d have to be satisfied with that, she thought. ‘Some time mid-morning, I suppose,’ she called back through the open window as she drove off.
Terence stood in the early evening light watching the dusty trail of the car for quite some time. Thank Christ this would be the last of Paul bloody Trewinnard, he thought.
Paul had booked a room for her.
‘I’d far rather spend the night with you,’ she said.
‘And compromise your reputation?’ he queried, the customary twinkle in his sunken eyes.
‘Bugger my reputation,’ she replied, and they laughed.
‘It might not be wise, my darling girl,’ he added, ‘the nights can be restless.’
‘We’ll see.’
They didn’t eat in the dining room. Paul ordered a light meal in his room and they sat by the open shuttered windows, the evening breeze and the ceiling fan clearing the humidity of the sweltering afternoon. He’d ordered a bottle of champagne too for their final evening, but he was sipping a glass of water. Alcohol no longer agreed with him. ‘It’s one way to give up drinking,’ he’d said on a number of occasions, with the old sardonic curve to his lip.
‘Kit loved The Snow Goose.’ Henrietta sipped at her champagne. She didn’t feel like alcohol, but he obviously wanted to make their last night festive so she obliged.
‘I hoped he would. The simplest pieces are so often the best, I think he already has the eye to recognise that.’
‘One day I’ll tell him who his father is, Paul.’
The glass of water remained poised at his lips for a second. Then he put it down on the table. ‘Be careful, Henrietta.’
But she’d not said it in an idle moment. Henrietta had often deliberated over whether she would ever tell Kit the truth, and this afternoon, as she’d watched her son with his natural father, she had made her decision.
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‘Kit is your son,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know the man he presumes is his father. He’s confused, he doesn’t know why he doesn’t fit in. And Terence keeps telling him that he doesn’t. “You’re not a Galloway,” he says. He actually says that!’
Paul was looking rather sombre so Henrietta broke into one of her performances, as she often did in order to amuse him. She jumped to her feet and roared an imitation of Terence at his military best. ‘You’ll never fit in, boy, you’re not a bloody Galloway!’ Then she gave a hoot of laughter. ‘My God, imagine the look on his face when he finds out he’s right.’
Despite himself, Paul couldn’t help but smile. Henrietta’s performances were always so boisterous.
‘The boy needs to know why he’s different, Paul.’ She knelt beside him, her hand resting on his knee. ‘I won’t tell him until he comes of age, I promise. But when he’s twenty-one he’ll learn the truth. And he’ll be so proud to know that he’s your son.’
Paul breathed a sigh of relief, there would be no danger if the boy was an adult and could look after himself. And the fact that Kit would one day acknowledge him as his father was the greatest gift Henrietta could have given him. ‘I love you,’ he said.
‘And so you should. Can I get up off my knees?’
‘I demand it,’ he said as he rose, ‘I have a gift for you, and you must sit here where the light is right.’
He seated her at the desk and turned on the lamp. Then he fetched something from his suitcase in the wardrobe. It was an object wrapped in beige kid cloth and he placed it before her.
She lifted apart the soft leather to expose a piece of jewellery. The lamplight illuminated the diamonds in all their brilliance. The diamonds were a sun which shone radiantly over a mountain peak, engraved deeply into silver.
Henrietta picked up the locket. It was heavy in her hand for something so small, no more than an inch in diameter. She traced the engraving, thick and bold. She could feel the texture of the mountain, and the warmth of the diamond sun reflected perfectly upon its peak.
