by Judy Nunn
He did. Amongst the ruins, the radio was mercifully intact. Breath still rasping in his throat, lungs feeling they might burst, Kit made the call.
Malcolm was floating, it could have been for a lifetime, as he lay there in the trench, drifting in and out of consciousness. But it wasn’t, it was only a minute or so. He tried to move but he couldn’t, not a muscle it seemed, and something told him he was dying. Strangely enough he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t in any pain and that was the main thing. It was the pain he feared most, they all did. There wasn’t a man amongst them who wasn’t terrified at the thought of dying in agony.
It was quite pleasant, just floating. But there was something he needed to remember. Concentration was difficult. What the hell was it? He’d been calling in artillery support. And Kit had been with him.
Kit! He suddenly remembered. Kit! He’d seen Kit racing up the hill like a madman. Kit! Was Kit all right? He’d gone out to help him, and that was all he could remember.
‘Malcolm.’
Thank God! Kit was kneeling beside him, concern in his eyes, anxiety in his voice. ‘Are you all right?’ Kit was saying. Malcolm nodded.
‘Are you in pain?’ How badly hurt was he, Kit wondered. He was in one piece, no limbs blown off, but his body was so limp. Internal injuries? Broken back? His face was stark white and, except for his eyes, he seemed utterly lifeless.
Malcolm stared at Kit. The initial relief at his brother’s safety was replaced with the shocking memory which the sight of Kit had restored. They’d been in the observation post. He’d been radioing for artillery support. He’d given the wrong coordinates. It all flooded back. The memory which his brain had so successfully blocked out engulfed him. I killed my own men!
Kit saw his brother’s eyes widen with horror. Was it death? Was he dying? Malcolm’s mouth was open as if he was gasping for air. Kit didn’t know what to do. Should he get him some water? No, that wasn’t the right thing to do if he had internal injuries.
‘I’m sorry, Malcolm.’ He stroked his brother’s forehead and cheeks, wiping away the dirt and the grime. He felt so useless he wanted to cry. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.’
The plea in Malcolm’s eyes was desperate. ‘Kit … Kit …’ he whispered and Kit leaned close to his brother’s mouth to catch the words.
‘What is it? What is it? Tell me what to do?’
‘Don’t tell Dad.’ It was the faintest breath upon Kit’s cheek, but the words were as clear to him as if Malcolm had yelled them. ‘Don’t tell Dad,’ Malcolm whispered again, for fear his brother might not have heard. Tell him I died a hero’s death, he wanted to say, but how could he? He’d killed his own men. Don’t tell Dad, his mind screamed, please, please, Kit, don’t tell Dad.
Kit nodded. ‘Sshh,’ he said, ‘sshh,’ stroking his brother’s forehead as Malcolm drifted into a semi-conscious state.
He sat there for a long time, hearing the arrival of the gunships. Two Hueys with their mini-guns. It’d be over soon, he thought. And it was.
Somebody called in the CASEVACs, he wasn’t sure who. But he was feeling very weak by then, he’d lost a fair bit of blood and he kept blacking out. He wanted to walk to the Huey, but they put him on a stretcher instead.
‘Jesus Christ,’ someone said, ‘that’s The Kid. He saved the whole fucking lot of us.’ But Kit didn’t hear.
As they put him on the stretcher, he gestured to Malcolm, and he heard the medic say, not unkindly but practically, ‘Too late mate, he’s gone.’
When Tom Sullivan told Paul Trewinnard about the portrait of his grandmother in which she was depicted wearing the locket, Paul was initially confused.
‘Your grandmother was a young woman posing with her new baby, you say?’
‘Yes,’ Tom excitedly responded, ‘and the baby was my Dad! They’d even dressed him in his christening robes.’
‘But how could your father possibly maintain that he bought the locket if your grandmother was pictured wearing it shortly after he was born?’
‘I don’t think Dad’s ever realised she was wearing the locket in the painting, I didn’t myself until my grandmother pointed it out to me. My father hasn’t even seen the portrait for the past two years, it’s been hanging in Grandma Em’s sitting room.’
Paul darted a glance at Foong Lee. Did they dare hope, his eyes said. Could they really be this lucky?
‘Can we get hold of the portrait without your father knowing?’ Paul asked. ‘If he gets wind of its significance you can bet your last penny it’ll disappear.’
‘Miriam,’ Tom said with a confident grin. In response to the mystified looks on both men’s faces, he added, ‘she’s one of my sisters-in-law, the only one sympathetic to my cause.’
Miriam Sullivan was more than sympathetic to Tom’s cause. A bitter woman, she detested her father-in-law only fractionally more than she detested her husband. She’d married for money and, supposedly, the position and power that went with it, but she was paying the price. Within the patriarchal family, Miriam was expected to know her place, like all Sullivan women should, and her place was to bear children and keep well in the background. Miriam didn’t like it one bit. She’d wished Tom well when he’d left for the goldfields. ‘Good luck to you, Tom,’ she’d said, ‘get as far away as you can.’ And now that the contentious issue of the locket had presented itself and the case was to go to court, she’d said, ‘Teach the greedy bastards a lesson, Tom. Win if you can,’ although she’d not thought it possible for a moment.
‘Miriam will help us,’ Tom said.
And Miriam did. The portrait had been removed from Emily’s sitting room and stored in the basement of the family home, awaiting general sale along with many of her possessions which Matthew had considered of little individual value to the family. A resourceful woman, and one bent on revenge, Miriam had little trouble smuggling it out and delivering it to Tom.
Tom now propped it up against the wall on Foong Lee’s desk and the three men stood back to admire it.
‘Well, well, well,’ Paul said. So this was Emily Sullivan, he thought. A pretty woman with a feisty glint in her eye, and the locket as clear as daylight around her slim young neck. The shape and dimensions were exact and, on close inspection, one could see the shapes of the mountain and the sun. The artist had obviously found the locket intriguing.
‘We’ve got him,’ Paul muttered to Foong Lee. ‘We’ve got the bastard. Oh I’m sorry, Tom,’ he hastily added.
‘No you’re not, and neither am I. You’re quite right, we’ve got the bastard.’
Paul insisted that they talk about their options. ‘We could show Sullivan the painting,’ he said. ‘We could settle out of court.’ He looked at Foong Lee. ‘No, I didn’t think you’d want to do that.’
‘It’s up to Tom,’ Foong Lee insisted.
‘It’s my reputation too,’ Tom said. And the die was cast.
‘Well if that’s what you call being a “little rusty” …’ Foong Lee muttered to Paul as they sat in court. The doctor’s opinion regarding Emily Sullivan’s frail mental condition had been severely undermined in the face of evidence supplied by a number of witnesses whom Paul had called forward, all citizens of fine standing who had known Emily well.
After losing the battle as to Emily Sullivan’s sanity, the prosecuting attorney concentrated on the legal ownership of the locket. Every evidence was produced attesting that Emily Sullivan had personally owned not one item amongst her many possessions, they had all been purchased for her by her son. The fact that there was no documentation for the purchase of the locket was incidental, there was no documentation for many of the gifts.
When the defence was called upon to present its evidence, Paul did not immediately produce the portrait. He held a minor card up his sleeve to further undermine Matthew Sullivan’s credibility before producing his ace.
Jim ‘Bully’ Bullmore was a colourful witness. A gold miner by trade, Bully, as a small boy, had known old Benjamin Sullivan.
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‘He showed that locket to my dad,’ Bully said. ‘I remember it plain as the nose on my face. Said he got it from a Larrakia princess. Dad said it was a load of bullshit.’
Everyone laughed, except the prosecuting attorney who cast an anxious look at Matthew Sullivan. This was unexpected. Matthew gave him a confident nod which said Bully’s story was sheer fabrication and, after a break in proceedings and a conference with his client, the attorney went on to successfully discredit the witness. Jim ‘Bully’ Bullmore was a layabout and a drunk, well known to many.
There was to be no argument about fabrication, however, when the portrait was finally presented. The artist’s signature and the year he’d painted his subject were clearly marked in the corner, it was noted, and the locket depicted hanging around the neck of young Emily Sullivan was the very same locket which had been tendered to the court.
As Matthew stared at the painting, utterly flabbergasted, he cursed his son and his mother and the dirty little Chink and the smartarse Pommie lawyer, but there was nothing he could do. He had perjured himself in a court of law and he backed down at the rate of knots. He’d obviously been mistaken, he admitted to the judge, he’d bought so many items for his mother over the years that he’d assumed the locket had been one of them.
‘A costly assumption, Mr Sullivan,’ the judge dryly remarked.
Matthew Sullivan was ordered to pay damages to his son, Tom, and to Mr Foong Lee. He was further ordered to meet all legal expenses for both parties and, to top it all off, he was severely reprimanded for wasting the court’s time. Matthew Sullivan had been made a laughing stock.
‘I owe you my life, Paul.’
‘Hardly,’ Paul grinned. They were sitting in the courtyard at the back of the shop and Foong Lee had accepted a glass of Scotch to toast their success.
But Foong Lee did not return Paul’s grin. ‘My honour is my life,’ he said, ‘and as you have saved my honour, therefore you have saved my life.’
Paul had not intended to trivialise the situation. ‘I am simply returning the favour, Foong Lee,’ he said in all seriousness.
The two men had never once referred to the threat of Paul’s opium addiction, but Foong Lee now bowed his head briefly, appreciating the acknowledgement. A life for a life. It was good. For one man to owe such a debt to another could become a terrible burden.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I wish you to accept a gift.’
‘It’s not necessary.’
But Foong Lee wasn’t listening. He took a small parcel of beige kid cloth from his pocket and put it on the table.
‘I wish you to have it,’ he said as he unwrapped the locket. He handed it to Paul, who held it up to the light, the diamonds sparkling in the sun.
‘It is the most glorious thing, isn’t it?’ Paul said.
‘It is,’ Foong Lee agreed.
Paul pressed the clasp and opened the locket to reveal the initials inside. ‘You know of course I can’t possibly accept it.’
‘You would insult me if you didn’t.’
‘It’s a symbol of love …’ Paul said. Foong Lee nodded agreement. ‘… and it should be hanging around the neck of a woman.’ Foong Lee nodded again, and Paul laughed out loud. ‘So who the hell would I give it to?’ he said, handing it back.
Foong Lee accepted the locket, but he would not be deterred. ‘It is yours nonetheless.’ And before Paul could interrupt, he added, ‘I shall look after it for you until the time presents itself.’
‘As you wish,’ Paul said, politely inclining his head and parroting one of Foong Lee’s favourite phrases. ‘Now for God’s sake, man, will you get drunk with me just this once!’
Kit Galloway was awarded the Military Medal. His father accompanied him to the Queen’s Birthday Awards announcement at Admiralty House in Sydney.
‘On 16 January 1969, in the province of Phuoc Toy, South Vietnam, Private Christopher Galloway did, whilst under heavy enemy fire, ensure the security of his battalion’s position and aid the repulse of a concerted enemy attack. For his actions he is awarded the Military Medal for bravery in the field.’
Terence stood at attention as Kit’s citation was read out by the Governor-General, Sir Paul Hasluck.
Upon their return to Darwin, Kit’s photograph was featured on the front page of the Northern Territory News, and Terence accepted endless congratulations as the father of a hero, nodding when people said ‘you must be so proud’.
But Kit’s Military Medal rankled Terence, as did the fact that the boy was seen as a hero in the eyes of others. He considered Kit a pretender. A man with no true military calling. A conscript who, by sheer force of circumstance, had been recognised for bravery.
The truth was, Terence hated Kit because he’d returned. The wrong man had come home, and Terence would never forgive Kit for that.
Terence Galloway was heartbroken at the loss of his elder son. His only son, he now decided. For the past several years he’d lulled himself into an acceptance of Kit. He’d spoken of him with genuine pride, particularly to Aggie, for whom he had a begrudging respect. He was pleased that, in Aggie’s eyes, Kit was such a fine student.
It angered him now to think that he’d felt any pride in Kit’s achievements. It was disloyal. Traitorous. Kit was alive and Malcolm was dead. It was inconceivable that Paul Trewinnard’s son should survive when Malcolm Galloway, the one and only true heir to Terence’s empire, had ceased to exist. There were times when Terence could barely disguise his loathing for the boy others thought was his son.
Kit knew that his father was grieving. He even knew that, had his father been given a choice as to which of his sons should survive, he would have chosen Malcolm. Malcolm had always been his father’s favourite. Kit was prepared to accept that, he’d lived all of his life in his brother’s shadow. But he too had loved Malcolm. Couldn’t he and his father grieve together? Couldn’t they comfort each other? But his father seemed inconsolable, isolated in his grief. Kit did everything he could to soften the blow of his brother’s death.
‘I was with him, Dad,’ he said shortly after his return as they sat on the verandah in the early twilight. His arm was still heavily bandaged, but the prognosis was good. ‘You’ll have an impressive scar,’ the army doctor had said, ‘but no permanent damage.’
‘I was right beside him …’
Terence Galloway gazed silently through the light mesh screen at the harbour.
‘… and he didn’t feel any pain.’
Terence gave a brief nod, appreciative of the knowledge that Malcolm had not suffered, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at Kit.
Kit longed to embrace his father. He couldn’t remember a time when they’d ever embraced. Not really embraced. Perhaps once, after the death of his mother, but it had been so clumsy, he recalled, so awkward.
‘He died bravely.’
Of course he did, Terence thought, he was a Galloway. It had been a magnificent sunset, and the final glow of the sun still glinted pink on the ripples of the water.
Malcolm’s words returned to Kit. ‘Don’t tell Dad.’ He could see the plea in his brother’s eyes. ‘Don’t tell Dad.’ Of course he would never tell their father. Their father would not be able to stand the truth. And so Kit lied. He lied not only for Malcolm, but also for his father. ‘He was a hero, Dad.’
So why didn’t he get a bloody citation, Terence thought. Even a posthumous award might have been of some comfort. Malcolm Galloway was listed as a casualty, a mere statistic, whilst Kit Galloway was cited for bravery. The thought of it galled Terence beyond measure.
His father remained silent, staring out at the water, and Kit longed to break through his pain, to offer him some form of comfort. ‘You would have been really proud of him.’
‘I am,’ Terence said, focussing on a yacht under full sail heading up river for home. He dared not look at the bastard. He might kill him if he did.
‘I feel guilty, Aggie.’
Six months later, following their tri
p to Sydney and the award presentation, there was still no change in his father, and Kit was deeply disturbed. The only person he could turn to was Aggie Marshall. ‘I feel guilty because I came home and Malcolm didn’t. I know that’s what Dad’s thinking, he’s wishing it had been the other way around.’
‘Oh Kit, that’s not true.’
‘Sometimes I catch him looking at me and I can see it in his eyes.’
He was agitated, she could tell. He’d refused a cup of tea and he didn’t want to sit down, he just paced about by the bay windows occasionally peering out over the Esplanade at nothing in particular.
‘He hates me.’
Aggie was concerned. ‘You’re wrong, my dear. He’s proud of you, as we all are.’ Kit shook his head, but she continued. ‘Your father is in pain, Kit. He’s grieving, and he’s closing you out along with the rest of the world.’
Kit turned to her, and she could see that he was hanging on to her every word, desperate for reassurance of his father’s love. Dear God, she thought, he’s only twenty-one. Despite all he’s been through, he’s little more than a boy.
Aggie wanted to sound wise, although, in truth, she had no idea why Terence would alienate his son. Certainly Malcolm had been his favourite, it had been evident for years. They’d been so alike, Terence had always seen himself in his elder son. But Malcolm was dead, and Kit had come home. Terence could have lost both his boys, Aggie thought, he should be thankful that his younger son had returned.
‘It’s a pity,’ she said in her matter-of-fact way, trying to reach the boy through plain commonsense. ‘It’s a very great pity that your father’s not including you in his grief. It’d be easier for you both if you could share your loss.’ Kit’s grey eyes were focussed on her with such intensity, anxious for answers she didn’t have. ‘But grief takes many forms, and he’s holding his inside, you just have to give him time.’ It seemed such a lame reassurance, she thought, and he looked so young and so vulnerable.
