by Judy Nunn
Henrietta drifted away, lulled by the ageless sound, the sound of the Territory, she thought, and she knew no fear, aware that she would feel no pain.
1938
The somewhat shabby seaport of Darwin housed a surprising heart. One of kaleidoscopic colour and activity, exotic and exciting. Chinatown. In direct contrast to the apathy of the rest of the town where failing businesses sat beneath shaggy palms in half-finished streets, Chinatown was a hive of bustling enterprise.
In the shacks and shops of Chinatown, hard-working tailors could cut and immaculately stitch six suits in one day, if a prospective buyer’s ship was docked for only twenty-four hours before its return to Singapore. Jovial laundrymen, undaunted by the heat, joked and chattered away as they spat on their burning-hot irons beside their burning-hot fires. In the open-shuttered doorways of the patriarchal shops, the daughters of Chinatown, beautiful in their shining satin tunics and trousers, sold figurines carved in ivory and silken scarves, jars of sugary sweets and delicacies from the East. Brightly pantalooned children darted amongst the many laneways, happy and playful in the freedom of their world. And everywhere the air tantalised the senses. The delicate fragrance of incense conjured up the mystique of the East, and the lusty aroma of roasting pork and ginger awakened the appetitie.
Tom Sullivan walked purposefully through the productive chaos of Cavenagh Street. It was market day, but he did not stop to browse in the verandahed shops or the stalls as most Europeans did. He crossed Peel Street, paused for a moment, then strode through an open shopfront.
In the welcome shade of the shop he saw two Chinese, one behind the counter, the other opening a display case, each tending to a customer. To Tom all Chinese looked the same, only their age set them apart, and he’d been told to seek out the younger one. The man at the display case was wizened and minus several teeth. He looked ancient, although of course he might not have been, you could never tell with the Chinese, but he was definitely the older of the two.
Tom approached the man behind the counter, but then realised that the younger of the Chinese, although well dressed and dapper, looked like a boy. Small in stature, fresh-skinned, he might have been fifteen. Damn, was there another bloke somewhere, Tom wondered, and he peered through the open doors at the rear of the shop.
The young Chinese looked up from the wares he’d been showing his customer. ‘Hang on a second,’ he said to Tom in a pronounced Australian accent, ‘I won’t be long.’ He gave a friendly grin and returned his attention to his customer.
Tom recognised the voice of authority. This was no boy, he realised, this was the man he’d been told to see. He waited patiently, browsing about the shop, which was fascinating. Samples of silks and brocades, satins and linens, hung from pegs, the rolls of fabric neatly stacked beneath them. A tailor’s and dressmaker’s business was run in the back rooms of the shop. Shelves were lined with carved ivory figurines, jade statuettes and jars filled with things colourful and mysterious. The valuable merchandise was displayed in glass cases. Jewellery, some gold and gaudy, some dainty and delicate. An impressive collection. Yes, Tom thought, he’d come to the right place.
Five minutes later the customer, a sailor, left the shop with his purchase and the young Chinese turned to Tom. ‘What can I do for you, mate?’ he asked in the outback vernacular. He’d recognised the young man as either a drover or a gold miner, bearded, bush-hatted, in khaki shorts and boots, and the Chinese always varied his greeting according to the appearance of the prospective buyer.
Tom walked over to the counter. ‘Are you Foong Lee?’ he asked.
‘I am.’ It was young Tom Sullivan, Foong Lee realised. He’d seen him around town often. Foong Lee knew everyone in Darwin, if not personally then by sight. Not all of them knew him of course; to Europeans all Chinamen looked the same it seemed, a fact which Foong Lee found amusing. This young man’s grandmother knew Foong Lee, however, he had sold several items to the Sullivan matriarch over the years. Old Emily Sullivan had a penchant for fine jewellery.
Foong Lee did not admit to his recognition of Tom, nor to his contact with the family, but he eased up on his outback Aussie accent. The Sullivans, one of Darwin’s ‘first families’, belonged to the upper echelons of society. They owned the longest established surveying company in town, handed down from father to son, and Tom was well educated, although it was rumoured he was the black sheep of the family. Foong Lee himself had heard that the lad was a bit of a ne’er-do-well.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked helpfully.
Tom didn’t notice that the Chinese suddenly appeared to be well spoken. ‘I have something to sell,’ he said.
Foong Lee watched as the young man produced an article wrapped in beige kid cloth from his pocket, placed it on the counter and lifted aside the soft fabric.
Despite all of his experience in the assessment and evaluation of fine jewellery, which Foong Lee considered his specialty, he had never before seen such a beautiful piece. He picked up the locket and held it to the light. It was heavy for an item so small. A mountain carved in solid silver and, above it, a sun of perfectly cut diamonds. He recognised the work of a master craftsman.
‘A fine piece,’ he said, taking up his magnifying glass. His tone was non-committal, but he never lied to his customers, believing honesty to be the best policy; his superior knowledge always gave him the advantage in any event. The craftsman’s insignia was engraved on the back, two tiny ‘g’s’. ‘A very fine piece,’ he said as he opened the locket and studied the initials engraved inside. Antique, he thought, but the light in the shop was inadequate for a proper examination. ‘How did you come by it?’
‘My grandmother gave it to me.’
Emily Sullivan had parted with a piece of such magnificence? Foong Lee found it hard to believe. Had young Tom stolen it from his grandmother? Foong Lee never accepted stolen goods. But he was eager to examine the locket closer and he needed to do so in natural light.
Two more customers wandered into the shop, a middle-aged European couple, it was always busy on market day.
‘Good morning,’ Foong Lee greeted them, but they took little notice of him as they browsed around. Realising there was not much likelihood of a sale, Foong Lee turned to his father, who was closing the display cabinet, his customer having left without buying. ‘Baba,’ he said, and he indicated the couple, ‘ngoh yiu hui chut gai.’ He would examine the locket in the open courtyard behind the shop, he had decided.
Foong Shek Mei nodded. ‘Ho la,’ he said, happy to look after the customers.
‘Come with me,’ Foong Lee said to Tom and they walked through the rear doors of the shop to a large open living area where two tailors’ dummies stood in the corner and a cutting table was strewn with patterns and fabric; the tailor Foong Lee employed arrived at midday and worked until midnight. They proceeded through to the courtyard beyond.
‘Take a seat,’ Foong Lee said as he sat by the rickety old wooden table in the centre of the courtyard. Tom joined him, leaning his elbows on the table, studying Foong Lee as the Chinese studied the locket through the magnifying glass he’d brought with him.
So this was Foong Lee, Tom thought, the man whose knowledge of jewellery his grandmother so respected. ‘Find Foong Lee,’ she had said, ‘the younger of the two Chinese who own the shop on the right in Cavenagh Street, near the corner of Peel. He is an honest man and he’ll give you a good price.’
In the daylight, Tom could see that Foong Lee was not a youth as he’d first supposed. He may even have been near thirty. Still very young to be such an expert (Foong Lee was in actual fact thirty-seven), but then, Tom thought, the Chinese were a mysterious lot.
‘You say your grandmother gave it to you?’ It was a simple question, there was no accusation in Foong Lee’s tone, but Tom knew that he needed proof of the gift, his grandmother herself had told him so.
‘I will write you a letter, Tom,’ she’d said, ‘you will need proof of ownership or others will think you have
stolen the locket.’ Grandmother Emily was always very direct, even with her favourite, wayward grandson.
‘I have a letter,’ Tom said, producing a piece of paper from his pocket, ‘from my grandmother stating that it is a gift to me.’
‘Excellent,’ Foong Lee nodded, as if he’d expected as much, although in truth he was rather surprised. ‘Excellent.’ He gave the letter a cursory glance, he could easily authenticate it later, he had Emily Sullivan’s signature on several documents which he held in safe keeping, he always kept documents of valuable transactions.
‘My grandmother said that you would be able to authenticate the letter without much problem.’
Foong Lee darted a glance at Tom Sullivan, was Sullivan reading his mind? It was certainly a bit of a change, Foong Lee was accustomed to holding the upper hand. But Tom grinned back at him disarmingly, and Foong Lee decided that he liked the young man. He returned his attention to the locket.
‘Why do you wish to sell it? Such a magnificent piece.’
Tom suddenly realised that, although he’d not mentioned his name, the Chinese knew who he was and was aware of his family’s wealth and position. It further occurred to him that Grandmother Emily must have had dealings with the Chinese, how else would she have had such knowledge of Foong Lee?
Tom sat back in his chair, shaking his head admiringly. Frail and elderly as she was, Grandmother Emily continued to surprise, but then she’d always been a force to be reckoned with. He decided to tell the truth.
‘My father has two other sons who have embraced the family business,’ he said rather formally. He felt it was right to address the Chinese in a formal manner, he seemed such a polite gentleman.
Foong Lee nodded as if such facts were new to him, although he was fully aware of Matthew Sullivan, and the two sons who helped run the business inherited from their grandfather. Old Benjamin had been one of the first surveyors to settle in Darwin, everyone in town knew of the Sullivan history.
‘I don’t wish to join the family company, and I don’t feel I’m needed when all’s said and done, so I want to go my own way.’
Foong Lee nodded again but made no enquiry. The young man was certainly unburdening himself, he’d not expected the full story, but it was most interesting.
‘I need cash to stake my claim,’ Tom boldly announced, ‘I’m going to the goldfields.’
Such an announcement would certainly not have impressed his father, Foong Lee thought. Matthew Sullivan was rumoured to be a stickler for tradition.
‘My father has said he’ll disown me,’ Tom continued, ‘but my grandmother is sympathetic to my cause. She has no cash of her own, but she gave me this locket, which was a gift to her from my grandfather.’
‘It is all I have of any great value, Tom,’ Grandmother Emily had said, ‘all that personally belongs to me, that is. The other pieces I’ve bought over the years have been courtesy of your father and they’re expected to remain in the family.’ She’d said it without bitterness. When her husband Benjamin had died, it was only natural that his wealth had been left to his son. Just as it was only natural that his son was expected to provide for his own mother until the end of her days. And Matthew had done just that. Even indulging her occasionally in her purchases of objets d’art and fine jewellery but, when complimenting her on her taste, he’d always remarked upon their ‘investment value’, making her fully aware that her purchases belonged to the family. How Emily had longed for her independence.
It had been young Emily Soper’s independent streak which had led her, against the express wishes of her family, to marry Benjamin Sullivan, forsaking her comfortable middle-class existence in Adelaide to carve out a life in the northern wilderness. She had loved her husband. ‘Big Ben’ she’d called him, recognising him for the gentle giant he was, covering for his weaknesses and his inadequacies. Little Emily Soper had become the matriarch and the strength of the Sullivan family.
Now, twenty years after Benjamin’s death, at the age of seventy-five, frail and close to the grave herself, Emily had recognised the independent spirit in her youngest grandson and she had been only too happy to help him break free of the family which was stifling him. She had given him her greatest possession. The locket, which her own gentle Big Ben had given her upon their engagement.
In the days of their courting, Benjamin had shown it to her and told her that it had once belonged to a Larrakia king. She hadn’t believed him. Even way back then she’d recognised his stories as a sign of his insecurity, his need to impress. But she’d pretended to believe him, which had spurred him on to tales of a Larrakia princess. On the night that she’d agreed to marry him, he’d given her the locket and she’d boldly announced that they were now officially engaged, knowing that she loved him and that she had the strength to face her family’s fierce resistance.
When their son had been born, they had taken the baby back to Adelaide to show him to his grandparents in an attempt to heal the rift between Emily and her family. It had worked. Emily’s father had even commissioned a portrait of Emily holding baby Matthew. And during her sittings with the portraitist Emily had insisted upon wearing the locket.
Now, all these years later, upon giving the locket to her grandson, Emily had told him that she had no regrets.
‘I can’t accept such a gift, Grandma Em,’ Tom had said, as he unfolded the kid cloth and stared at the locket which she’d placed in his hand.
‘You must, Tom,’ she insisted. ‘It will give me great pleasure.’ Then she’d taken him into her small sitting room and showed him the portrait. Tom had seen it often before. When he was a small child it had even sat over the lounge room mantelpiece until his father had replaced it with a McCubbin landscape which had cost him a fortune. But Tom had never noticed before that, in the painting of the pretty young woman holding her new baby son, his grandmother was wearing the locket.
‘You see, Tom,’ Emily had said, ‘I can always look at the portrait. And when I do, I will pray that the locket has helped you to find a new life. Just as it helped me find mine.’
‘She said that she prayed the locket would help me find a new life.’ Tom repeated his grandmother’s words to the Chinese. He didn’t know why but, despite Foong Lee’s inscrutable expression, Tom felt that the Chinese was sympathetic.
Foong Lee did believe the young man. He would have Emily Sullivan’s signature authenticated certainly, just to be safe, but for all of the rumours which abounded about Matthew Sullivan’s youngest son, Foong Lee had come to the conclusion that Tom was an honest man.
‘I will need several days to evaluate the true worth of the locket,’ he said, ‘its antiquity will be difficult to assess, but it will only add to its value.’ He rose. ‘Come into the shop and I’ll give you a receipt of possession.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Tom said, also rising from his chair. ‘I’ll come back next Wednesday, shall I?’ He offered his hand to the Chinese.
Foong Lee knew that he should have insisted upon the receipt of possession, it was a matter of protocol, after all. But he didn’t. It pleased him to think they were both men of honour. A gwailo and a Chinaman having faith in each other, it should happen more often, he thought. There should be more trust between Europeans and Chinese. ‘Wednesday will be fine, Mr Sullivan,’ he said as they shook hands.
It was the first time his name had been mentioned, and Tom smiled as he left the shop. There was something very reassuring about Foong Lee. Following the dreadful rows with his father, it now seemed that he had two allies. He had the blessing of his grandmother, and apparently that of Foong Lee too. Tom felt very confident as he stepped out into the glare of Cavenagh Street.
Foong Lee stood in the courtyard looking at the locket. He would buy it most certainly, and he would pay a good price. But he doubted whether he would ever sell it. He turned it over and over in his fingers, there was something very special about this beautiful thing.
Aggie Marshall strolled down the Esplanade. She liked to
‘stroll’. The days when she had ‘clomped’ were long gone, certainly, but if she tried to get up any speed her gait was still rather odd, so she ‘strolled’, and her limp was barely noticeable. Besides, she was getting on now, she told herself, it was not dignified for a woman of fifty-six to charge at things like a bull at a gate. But no matter how many times she reminded herself of her age, and no matter how gently she strolled, metaphorically Aggie continued to charge, as her fellow town councillors were fully aware.
Aggie had retired from full-time teaching and although she now devoted her considerable energy to the improvement of Darwin, battling bureaucracy in the process, she continued to give private tuition to select students. Free of charge if the parents were not well off, which was usually the case. The students she agreed to tutor were either those with learning difficulties in need of help, or those with above-average academic skills who, in Aggie’s opinion, should be encouraged to go on to university.
Darwin was looking very beautiful, Aggie thought. The poincianas, frangipanis and bougainvilleas were in bloom, and the wealth of their colour seemed to reflect the town’s affluence and new-found civic pride. Darwin was no longer the shanty town of no-hopers it had been when she’d first arrived, nor was it the shelled-out war zone, all but razed to the ground by the Japanese bombs. The Darwin of the sixties was both practical and romantic in Aggie’s opinion, a marriage of modern business and beautifully restored colonial architecture. And its wealth, employment and harmony owed much to its multicultural origins. Although the colourful pre-war shacks and shops of Chinatown no longer existed, the Darwin Chinese remained a highly successful business community, and only recently the first Chinese mayor, Harry Chan, had been elected to office. The Chinese were closely rivalled by the Greeks whose milk bars were regular meeting places and whose cafés smelled of freshly ground coffee beans. The Paspali brothers Mick and Nick, who had changed their names to Paspalis and Paspaley respectively, were amongst Darwin’s wealthy elite. The Paspaleys’ pearling business burgeoned, the Manolis’s real estate holdings expanded rapidly, successful Greek family businesses were becoming a power to be reckoned with. Darwin was a truly multicultural society, Aggie always boasted, a place to be proud of.
