by Judy Nunn
‘Right, Harry.’
‘Because if you say anything … anything to anyone at any time, I’ll get you, Ben.’
There was murder in Harry’s eyes and Benjamin was genuinely fearful of the man. Harry, recognising his fear, relaxed.
‘Besides,’ he said, releasing Benjamin’s arm, ‘there’s only the two of us and if it ever came to light it’d be my word against yours. I’d tell them you did it because you were pissing yourself with terror at the sight of a couple of blacks, which of course they’d believe,’ he sneered, ‘and I’d say that I covered for you because you’re so young and helpless.’ He grinned contemptuously. ‘And I’m a much better liar than you, Ben.’
‘I won’t say anything, Harry, I promise.’
Two days later, when the Moonta upped anchor and they departed the cove, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The bodies had not been discovered.
It was presumed by some aboard that Harry Stafford and Benjamin Sullivan must have had a falling out. Not that there was any friction between them or that they ever spoke ill of one another, but they’d been such good friends and nowadays they were rarely seen in each other’s company.
Now that their secret was safe, Harry had no time for Benjamin, whom he considered a coward, and Benjamin was relieved to be free of Harry’s company. Harry’s violence not only frightened him, but the mere sight of Harry Stafford was a reminder of that hideous morning.
Six months later, when they were working side by side on the survey team and news reached them that the young draftsman, Bennett, had been speared to death by natives, Harry felt thoroughly vindicated.
‘See,’ he hissed to Benjamin, ‘I should have killed more of the murderous bastards.’
But Benjamin didn’t feel that way at all. By then he had had many happy communications with the black people, there had been many employed along the way to work with their teams. And the more he came to know them, the more the image of the pregnant black woman lying dead in the rocky creek came to haunt him. As did the image of the black man, stepping out from the bushes, unarmed, the locket held up innocently in his hand as a peace offering.
Benjamin often looked at the locket. He knew it was wrong that he should own it, a thing of such beauty acquired the way it had been, but then what was his alternative? He could not return it to its rightful owners, and he could tell no-one his story.
So, when he returned to Port Darwin several years after the survey and started planning his life, building his modest home and investing the healthy sum of money which he had saved from the expedition, he invented stories about the locket. It was a good way to make friends, he found, an impressive introduction. And, as the years passed, the stories became quite real to Benjamin, until, every now and then, something brought back the memory.
He needed to find a wife, Benjamin thought as he watched Annabelle Masterson lightly tap her fingers together in applause for the soprano. He needed a woman who believed in him, a companion, he was lonely, and above all he wanted children. He’d hoped to find a woman locally, but single women were in short supply in Port Darwin. He must stop merely thinking about it, he must go to Adelaide, and soon.
Perhaps the locket would aid him in finding a wife, he thought as he slipped it back into the pocket of his vest. Women were always very impressed with the locket—well, with the exception of Mrs Masterson—perhaps he’d better invent a story other than the Larrakia ‘princess’ though. Certainly if he wished to attract the right sort of woman.
If Henrietta had expected sympathy from Aggie regarding the sale of Bullalalla then she was destined for disappointment.
‘I think it’s wonderful news,’ Aggie said as they sat in her lounge room drinking tea, ‘for once I’m in agreement with Terence. And it is, after all, his prerogative to sell the property.’
Disliking Terence as she did, Aggie could nevertheless see his point of view. It was quite possibly a shocking thing he was doing, selling off the life’s work of his father and grandfather, denying his own sons their heritage. But then if the station was struggling, and if he could get a good price and open a thriving business, then surely it was the practical thing to do. Aggie was not a sentimentalist, nor was she a hypocrite, and she did little to conceal her delight.
‘It’ll be a whole new life for you, Henrietta,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘you can become involved in things.’ ‘Involved’ was one of Aggie’s favourite words, and she waved a hand about airily, signifying the hundreds of things worthy of involvement, and the lack of necessity for her to be specific. ‘And with the boys away you need to become involved.’ With the boys away Henrietta needed something other than the sole company of her tyrant of a husband, Aggie thought, but forthright though she was, she knew better than to make any comment on Henrietta’s matrimonial affairs.
Henrietta was annoyed by Aggie’s over-simplification of the whole predicament, and her apparent empathy with Terence. ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ she said a little archly.
‘Oh but it is,’ Aggie insisted, fully aware of Henrietta’s irritation. ‘You said the sale has gone through and Terence is locked into his plans, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Then make the most of it, use the opportunity, move with the times. There’s no point in sulking about it, just look at you.’ Aggie scowled, mocking Henrietta’s sullen expression, and Henrietta couldn’t help but laugh. Aggie looked for all the world like a ferocious old lion with her mane of grey hair and her bushy greying eyebrows.
Now in her early fifties, Aggie had resisted her hair-dresser’s suggestion that she enhance her hair colour with a ‘gentle blue tint’ as many middle-class Darwin matrons did (‘no dear, they look like hydrangeas,’ she’d said), and she steadfastly refused to pluck and shape her eyebrows in the fashion of the day. Aggie remained a non-conformist.
The ferocity dropped away now as she smiled, and the twinkle in her eyes was that of a mischievous child. ‘Oh Henrietta, we’ll have such fun, you and I,’ she said.
By the following morning Henrietta was feeling very positive and she left in high spirits. The two women embraced at the front door.
‘You’re a tonic as always, Aggie.’
‘Oh my dear, I can’t wait for you to come into town.’
Terence was waiting for Henrietta upon her return. She was a little surprised, she’d presumed he’d be out working on the property.
‘I thought we might spend the day together,’ he said pleasantly as they walked up the front steps, ‘go for a ride, maybe take a picnic lunch up to the waterfall.’
It was an odd suggestion. In all these years they’d never once been back to the waterfall. No-one went there, he’d said, it had been a special treat. And certainly no-one went for long rides and picnics in November.
‘Bit of a risk,’ Henrietta remarked as she stood on the verandah and looked up at the clouds gathering overhead.
‘No, it’s going to blow over,’ he said with confidence, ‘I heard the early forecast on the radio.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘I thought you’d like the idea of a picnic.’
‘I do,’ she replied. She couldn’t help but feel suspicious. What was his motive, she wondered. But it was wise to agree if it kept him in such an affable mood, and besides, she’d enjoy the ride. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’
He opened the flywire door for her and they went inside.
Half an hour later when she’d changed into her riding gear she found him in the kitchen with Nellie, who was quite happy to pack them a picnic lunch but a little wary of their plans.
‘Going to be a storm by and by, boss,’ Nellie was saying.
‘No, it’ll blow over, I heard it on the radio.’
But Nellie still had misgivings. ‘I dunno,’ she said with a shake of her head, ‘not good to go too far.’
‘We’re not going far, just to the home paddock.’ Terence turned as Henrietta entered the kitchen. He joined her at the door. ‘No point in worrying her,’ he mutte
red, indicating Nellie, who was still shaking her head as she ferreted about in the refrigerator.
Henrietta rode Florian and Terence was on Blocker, the big bay stallion which was his current favourite. Florian was twenty-one now and somewhat calmer than in his youth, although still spirited enough to take on a dare.
Past the home paddock and out on the flats, Terence urged Blocker on and Florian gave chase. For a short while they were neck and neck but the older horse quickly ran out of wind and had to concede defeat. Reluctantly, he allowed Henrietta to rein him in, panting and puffing, and she laughed and patted his neck.
‘Good boy, Florian,’ she said. ‘Good boy.’ She loved the animal. He’d been so much a part of her introduction to this wild country, it was as if they had grown up together.
Way ahead, Terence wheeled Blocker about and cantered back to join them.
‘He’s still got some spirit in him,’ she said proudly, keeping Florian to a walk although, panting as he was, the arrival of Blocker brought a skip to his gait as if he wanted another race.
‘So have you, Henrietta,’ he said, a little strangely she thought. Then he smiled. ‘You’re a very good rider now, you handle a horse excellently.’
She laughed. ‘Only Florian,’ she said, ‘he knows me so well.’
‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he.’
Terence was quiet as they rode together, and she presumed he was enjoying the peace as she was.
‘It looks as if your weather forecast was right,’ she said, looking up at the clouds which seemed to have moved on, revealing patches of blue high above.
‘Yes,’ he said. And they rode in silence until Henrietta felt the need to say something. Aggie’s words had remained with her.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been selfish, Terence.’
‘In what way?’
‘About the sale of Bullalalla. It’s your property, after all,’ she said parroting Aggie’s words, ‘it’s your prerogative to sell if you think it’s the wisest move, which it obviously is.’
‘And what’s brought about this change of heart?’
‘Aggie. She told me you were doing the practical thing and that I should stop sulking and move with the times.’
‘What a wise woman.’
There was mockery in his tone. What had happened to his affable let’s-have-a-picnic disposition, Henrietta wondered, but she no longer tried to fathom the reasons for Terence’s mood swings. She hoped he wasn’t about to spoil the day.
‘She’s a very good friend isn’t she, your Aggie?’
The mockery again, the sarcasm. ‘Yes, she is,’ she said shortly, and she ignored him, looking about at the countryside, wishing now that they were not going on a picnic.
Terence was wondering if Aggie knew about the locket. About Trewinnard, and about Kit.
The moment he had opened the cherished locket which his wife had kept locked and hidden away, Terence had recognised the face of his son in the image of the Englishman. It had explained everything. How could he have been so blinded to the truth? The boy who had always seemed such a stranger to him was not his son. Hatred had consumed Terence. And fear too. The fear of discovery. Did Aggie Marshall know that he had raised another man’s bastard? And if Aggie knew, who else might she have told? He glanced at Henrietta. He would find out soon enough. But Henrietta was ignoring him, she had closed off, he could see it. Oh no, he wouldn’t have that.
‘You’re lucky, Henrietta,’ he said with a sincerity which surprised even himself, ‘very lucky to have a friend like Aggie.’ He actually meant it, he realised.
She looked at him with suspicion. Another game?
‘I mean it. Friends are hard to come by. I don’t think I have any. Hans perhaps, but then I see him so rarely.’ He gave her his most winning smile. ‘I’m glad that you have a friend like Aggie. I really am.’
She would never understand him, and she no longer loved him, that much she knew. But there were times when she realised why she’d married him. He looked so warm and so loving, and so handsome; the realisation came as a bit of a shock.
‘I’m glad too,’ she said simply and she smiled back at him; for the moment his mood was forgotten.
They rode warily as they travelled up the escarpment, occasionally dismounting and leading their horses, it was dangerous territory, particularly in the wet. The recent downpours had rendered the terrain slippery and difficult for the horses to negotiate.
After a long and arduous trek, they reached the top. Henrietta was panting when they got there, they’d had to walk a lot more of the way than the last time they’d visited the waterfall. But it was worth it, she thought as she looked out over the panorama which surrounded her. And the waterfall itself, swollen from the rains, thundered magnificently to the rocks sixty feet below. She walked to the edge and looked down. The pool was obscured by spray and mist. As far as the eye could see, heavy pockets of mist clouded the valleys and the gorges. It was a different view entirely, she realised, than the one she had seen all those years ago. Strange and mysterious, but just as impressive, mirroring the changing image of the Territory’s seasons.
Terence had tethered the horses while she’d been admiring the view, and now he crossed to stand beside her at the edge of the precipice.
‘It’s superb, isn’t it,’ she whispered, still a little out of breath.
‘Yes,’ he said, but his eyes didn’t leave her, he had no interest in the view. She was superb too, he thought. As beautiful as the day he’d met her, perhaps even more so, the fine lines around her eyes and her mouth giving an added strength to her face. And her chestnut hair, with its barely discernible flecks of grey, tumbled as magnificently as ever to her shoulders. Her arms, bare in her sleeveless shirt, gleamed with the sweat of her exertion and her breasts still heaved a little as she panted. What a pity she’s a whore, he thought.
Henrietta turned to him, aware that he was studying her and not the view. How strange. ‘Shall we set up the picnic?’ she suggested.
‘No.’ His reply was brusque. ‘We won’t have time for a picnic.’
She looked up at the angry clouds. He was right, the storm would break soon, they’d have to start heading for home.
She was glad they’d revisited the waterfall though. Her first son had been conceived up here. She remembered that magic day so vividly, she’d like to have stayed a little longer.
‘What a pity,’ she said.
‘Yes it is, isn’t it.’ A very, very great pity.
That tone again, his foul mood was back. The moment was broken for Henrietta and she started towards Florian. But he stopped her.
‘I have something to show you,’ he said, reaching into the top pocket of his shirt. And she watched as he produced the locket.
He reached out his arm and dangled it before her eyes, and Henrietta stood mesmerised, speechless.
‘It’s very pretty,’ he said, as he swung it teasingly in front of her face, ‘valuable too by the looks of it. I wondered where it had come from when I first discovered it. Then I found out.’ He opened the locket and thrust it into her face, involuntarily she flinched. ‘It came from your scrawny English lover didn’t it?’ His voice was no longer teasing. He was keeping his anger in check, but it was a challenge, defying her to deny the truth. ‘From the father of your bastard child no less. Am I right?’ Whore! Whore!
‘Yes,’ she whispered. What else could she say? She stared at the pictures in the open locket. They told it all, how could she lie?
He snapped the locket shut and closed his fist around it as if to crush the images inside and Henrietta was forced to meet his eyes. They were dead, she realised.
‘What will you do, Terence?’ She spoke as calmly as she could whilst she measured the distance between herself and Florian. Impossible to get away, she realised. The horse was tethered, and even if he hadn’t been, Florian was no match for Blocker, Terence would run her down in no time.
‘Kit is recognised as my son.’ Terence’s voice was as dead
as his eyes. ‘He will remain my son. No-one will know that you were unfaithful to me, Henrietta. I won’t have that, do you understand?’
She understood fully. It would be more than Terence’s pride could possibly withstand. What did he want of her? Was she to go away? To simply disappear? She would. She would promise him anything. Her mind was racing as she looked at the madness in his eyes.
‘Do you want me to go away?’ she asked, trying to keep calm. Don’t panic, she told herself, don’t panic. ‘I will, I promise.’ She could come back for her children, she thought, if only he would let her get away now. ‘I’ll leave, and I’ll never tell anyone the truth.’
‘Oh yes, I want you to go away,’ he said. I want you to go very, very far away. ‘But there are a few questions first. Does Aggie Marshall know?’
She shook her head.
‘Does anyone know?’
Again she shook her head.
‘Good.’ It was the answer Terence needed, and he believed her. Despite her brave front, he could see that she was too terrified to lie.
‘Because if anyone did know, I would not only kill you, Henrietta, I would kill your bastard child. You believe me, don’t you?’
She nodded, she believed him implicitly.
‘No-one is ever to know that Kit is not my son.’ He took her right hand and held it out, placing the locket in her open palm. ‘No-one is ever to know that my wife was a whore,’ he said as he closed her fingers around the locket. ‘You keep this, Henrietta, I’m sure that you earned it.’
Henrietta stared down as he made a fist of her hand and held it in both of his, the grip slowly tightening.
‘What was he like in bed, your scrawny Englishman?’ The images had plagued Terence throughout the night. Henrietta in the throes of ecstasy beneath the skeletal body of Paul Trewinnard, it disgusted him. Did you moan and writhe for him in a way you never do for me? his mind screamed. How could she have chosen Trewinnard over him! Trewinnard of all men! Did he give you orgasms? he wanted to yell. He would have killed any man who’d touched his wife, but the knowledge that it was the dead Englishman who had proved his better was the most unendurable insult of all. Each week he’d allowed her to visit her dying friend, and each week he’d been cuckolded, Terence was sickened with revulsion and anger. ‘Did you like fucking a corpse, Henrietta,’ he snarled, ‘was that it?’
