by Judy Nunn
‘Say hello to our visitor, Kit.’ Foong Lee pushed the door wide open and stepped aside.
The figure Kit saw silhouetted in the doorway was not that of the girl who’d alighted from the taxi. It was an older woman. Tall, regal of bearing, despite the fact that she was leaning her weight on a cane. She stepped out of the glare and into the cool of the restaurant, and for one brief second Kit wondered if it was the girl’s mother. She was very handsome and they shared the same colouring, creamy skin and chestnut hair.
Henrietta stood motionless. The photographs hadn’t prepared her at all. Neither had the sight of him through the plate-glass window. She put a hand to her face and tears sprang to her eyes. She was looking at Paul Trewinnard.
‘Oh, my darling,’ she whispered, she wasn’t sure to whom. Perhaps to Paul, perhaps to Kit; she was overwhelmed.
In the same instant, Kit recognised his mother. He, too, stood frozen, unable to move. How could this woman be his mother? His mother was dead.
They stared at each other across the room, both mother and son in a state of shock.
Henrietta was the first to recover. ‘Hello, Kit,’ she said. She didn’t know whether to hold out her arms, or to hobble her poor lame way over to him. What should she do? He was standing there as if he’d seen a ghost. Well of course he had. ‘It’s me.’ She nodded encouragingly, hopefully.
And then suddenly he was with her and his arms were around her and he was holding her so close, bending over her, his head tucked into her shoulder, and she could feel the dampness of his tears against her bare neck.
Henrietta’s cane clattered to the floor as she clung to her son.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Foong Lee whispered to Jessica.
She nodded. ‘And I think I’d better pay off the cab driver,’ she said.
They closed the door behind them as they left. Neither Henrietta nor Kit saw them go.
After several minutes, Henrietta found herself laughing. Whether through sheer relief or emotional exhaustion, she didn’t know. ‘Oh my darling, this is ridiculous,’ she said, ‘just look at us.’ They finally released each other, both with tears streaming down their cheeks. ‘We’re a mess.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ Kit grinned, wiping his face with the back of his hand. ‘Jesus Christ …’
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ she said automatically, then laughed. ‘Come on, help me sit down.’
There were so many questions, all of which Henrietta had expected, but she’d worried about how she would answer them. The worry was gone now; she would simply tell him the truth.
‘I’ll tell you everything that happened, Kit,’ she said. ‘Everything.’ And for the first time, Henrietta unguardedly told her story. She held nothing back.
‘Take my breath, Jackie. Too much pain. I beg you, take my breath.’
When Henrietta had offered her throat to Jackie’s knife, she had prayed for oblivion, and she’d felt it descend thankfully upon her as she’d listened to his chanting. She’d felt herself floating into another world. How kind of him, she’d thought as she floated away. How right. How just.
She’d awoken much later, it could have been minutes or hours, and the pain once again screamed through her. She seemed to be lying on some sort of litter, her whole body tied tightly to it. And she was in a cave, surrounded by black people, the storm raging outside. Jackie was there, kneeling by her side.
‘Sorry, missus,’ he’d whispered. ‘Couldn’ let you die.’
Why not, her mind had begged. But he’d started chanting again, and other voices joined in. Hands had touched her, voices had lulled her and, mercifully, she’d once again lost consciousness.
It was the last time she’d seen Jackie Yoorunga. But she’d seen the other people, Jackie’s friends of the Warai, as she’d floated in and out of consciousness, thankful each time the world clouded over, hoping that she would not reawaken to the pain.
She’d been aware at one stage of being carried on the litter. The agony had been excruciating and again she’d blacked out.
When she’d awoken it had been to a different sound from the harsh tongue of the black people. A strange sing-song language. And the faces surrounding her were different. They were Chinese faces.
There was more movement, more agony, more blissful oblivion. And finally she’d woken to find herself in a bed. Still she couldn’t move, and her limbs seemed strapped, but the pain was finally bearable. It was there but she was somehow disassociated from it, as if she had left her body. She didn’t know at that stage that they’d given her opium. And this time, when she’d awoken, it had been to a face she knew.
‘Foong Lee,’ she’d whispered.
‘You are going to live, Henrietta.’
His voice was gentle, and seemed to come from somewhere far away, but, in the cloud of her brain, Henrietta felt a sudden fear. ‘Terence,’ she said. ‘Terence mustn’t know.’
‘Sssh,’ the gentle voice had assured her, ‘no-one will know. Rest now.’
The fear in Henrietta’s eyes had confirmed Foong Lee’s suspicions.
The Warai had taken Henrietta to Daly River, and they’d passed word to the Chinese coolies working on the peanut farms there. A white woman was hurt bad. It was no good business, the Warai had said, and they wanted no part of it. But they’d passed the word on all the same, and the word had soon found its way to the Chinese tai pan, Foong Lee.
Foong Lee had wondered why the Warai had become involved. It was white men’s business, after all, and bad business at that, as they’d told the coolies. Had it been sheer luck that news of the injured white woman had reached him? Or had someone specifically mentioned his name, with orders passed along the network to seek him out?
Foong Lee didn’t know that the Warai had been following the instructions of Jackie Yoorunga, but he’d been grateful that they’d seen fit to intervene. There was something decidedly sinister about the tragic accident which was purported to have happened at Bullalalla cattle station.
Henrietta Galloway had been reported missing, but Foong Lee’s discreet enquiries revealed that the search, instigated by her distraught husband, did not include the high escarpment area of the Warai. Foong Lee had found it very suspect. Terence Galloway had been out riding with his wife when the storm had struck—he would most certainly know which areas to search. So Foong Lee had kept his silence as he nursed Henrietta in the safe house to which he’d brought her. Until he knew the full story, he decided that it would be wiser not to alert Terence, but to allow him the belief that he had succeeded in his crime. Foong Lee was even sure of the man’s motive. Terence Galloway must have discovered the truth about Kit.
Foong Lee had always known that Kit was Paul Trewinnard’s son, Paul himself had told him. ‘Henrietta may well need a friend when I’m gone, Foong Lee,’ he’d said. ‘It’s right that you should know.’
To a man like Terence Galloway, the discovery that he’d raised another man’s son might well be enough to incite a murderous rage, Foong Lee realised. But how had he found out? Henrietta would most certainly not have told him.
Henrietta’s fearful reaction convinced Foong Lee of Terence Galloway’s guilt, and he determined that, when she was well enough, he would help her confront the authorities with the truth.
In the meantime, Henrietta was secretly tended by a Chinese doctor whose connections to the opium trade guaranteed his silence. Foong Lee had lied to Paul Trewinnard from the outset. The opium trade did exist in Darwin, a well-kept secret from all but a select number of Chinese. Foong Lee didn’t approve of it, but at moments like this, such a trade served its purpose.
However, when Henrietta had regained her strength enough to talk, and to discuss a plan of action, she was adamant, ‘‘No, Foong Lee, no-one must know that I’m alive. It is better for all concerned if I remain dead.’
She had not told him what had actually taken place, and he had not asked for details, but an unspoken understanding rested between them. When he had told her that the s
earch had been called off and she had been presumed dead, she’d breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God,’ she’d said. Now, as he suggested they inform the authorities of her existence, her fear had returned.
‘Kit’s life would be in danger,’ she said.
She was aware that Foong Lee knew the truth about her son—Paul had told her. ‘Foong Lee could be a valuable ally when I’m gone, Henrietta,’ he had said, ‘and you need never fear: he will take the secret to his grave.’
‘Help me, please,’ she begged. ‘As long as Terence is alive no-one must ever know of my existence.’
They agreed that she must leave Darwin.
It was many months before she was fit enough to travel, and, in the spring, Foong Lee accompanied her south. Even still, Henrietta was barely able to walk, and when she attempted to do so the pain was intolerable.
In Perth he introduced her to Chinese friends of his. The two middle-aged Ling brothers and their large extended family were market gardeners with a profitable business on the South Perth foreshore west of Coode Street. In deference to their old friend, Foong Lee, the Lings asked no probing questions about Henrietta Southern’s past, they simply welcomed her into their circle, and after several weeks, comfortable in the knowledge that Henrietta Galloway was safe, Foong Lee returned to his family.
Henrietta was determined to make a full recovery. In Darwin, as she’d teetered on the brink of existence, Foong Lee had sat by her bedside for endless days encouraging her will to live. ‘It is your passion for life which will heal you, Henrietta,’ he had so often said to her. Henrietta had proved him right. She had survived. And she then resolved to live as full and active a life as was humanly possible.
For many painful months she worked hard on her physical fitness until the orthopaedic surgeon to whom she’d been referred considered her healthy and strong enough to undergo the necessary operations. Her right leg would need to be rebroken and reset in two places, and her right hip would require surgery.
Hungry for a normal life, Henrietta agreed to the innovative hip replacement procedure which the surgeon was eager to practise. She’d be in anything that was offering, she vowed.
The healing process was slow, but with the Chinese family’s care and support, and through her own sheer determination, Henrietta recovered. The months became years and she set about building a life of her own. She bought a house and busied herself with the business investments which Foong Lee had made on her behalf, thankful for the fact that she had long ago set aside funds in preparation for the day when she would leave Terence Galloway. Little had she known then that that day would come so soon and in such a violent manner, she often thought with a sense of irony.
She determined not to be crushed by her losses, knowing that Terence would provide well for Kit and Malcolm, and that Foong Lee and Aggie would always look out for her precious sons. She had no choice but to believe these things. She must stifle her longing in order to protect Kit. So she made her new life full. She had a loving adoptive family in the Lings, she met new people and made new friends through the book clubs she joined, and eventually she even became a published author herself under the nom de plume Henry South.
‘I’m not sure if you’d approve of Henry South, darling,’ Henrietta said a little nervously in the pause which followed the completion of her story. She looked closely at Kit trying to gauge his reaction. He’d been attentive throughout, but he’d shown no emotion and now he was silent. She was suddenly unsure as to whether or not she’d been wise. Did he believe her about Terence? Did he understand the fear which had kept her away all these years? She was on tenterhooks as she waited for him to say something.
Kit not only understood, he had his own story to tell.
‘Terence Galloway was a madman,’ he said finally. ‘A complete and utter madman. He tried to kill me too.’
Kit had told no-one of the gunshot that night in the midst of Tracy’s fury; he too had kept his secret. Terence Galloway, one of Darwin’s most prominent citizens, attempting to kill his son? What was the point in telling such a story? No-one would have believed him. It was a relief to be able to speak of it now.
He told Henrietta everything, from Pearl’s visit, to his confrontation with Terence over the locket and the ensuing madness of the cyclone.
So Pearl had kept the locket for a whole six years, Henrietta thought. She wanted to ask Kit how he’d felt when he’d seen it, when he’d realised that Paul was his father, but she wasn’t sure how to voice the question. She didn’t need to.
‘It explained a lot of things to me,’ Kit said thoughtfully.
‘What did, darling?’
‘Paul being my father. It explained everything.’ How could he tell her of all the questions in his life which had been answered. But Henrietta was nodding, she knew. ‘I was glad when I found out,’ he said. ‘I loved Paul.’
‘So did I. Oh God, here I go again.’ She laughed, but she didn’t try to stem the tears. ‘And Paul loved you, Kit,’ she said. ‘He loved you and he was so proud of you.’
They sat holding hands, and they laughed happily and wept unashamedly as they talked about Paul Trewinnard.
Foong Lee and Jessica had spent a good hour walking through the demolished streets of Darwin. He’d taken her to the yung si, the ancient banyan tree at the southern end of the town and he’d told her all about the early days.
‘The yung si used to be part of Chinatown,’ he’d said. ‘As children we’d play in its branches. The yung si is a symbol of Darwin. It has lived through the bombs and it has lived through the cyclone and it will live on, just as Darwin will.’
They’d walked down to the harbour, then up the hill to the Esplanade and eventually he’d said, ‘I think we can go back now.’
When they returned to the restaurant, they discovered Henrietta and Kit huddled together at a table talking nineteen to the dozen.
‘We’re back,’ Foong Lee announced.
‘Oh.’ Henrietta looked up as if she was seeing them for the first time.
‘I didn’t know you’d gone.’ Kit blinked away the remnants of his tears as he rose from the table. He couldn’t remember having cried this much since he was a kid, and a very little one at that. ‘Ah, Foong Lee’s mysterious visitor.’ He proffered his hand to the girl he’d seen alighting from the taxi. ‘Hello, I’m Kit Galloway.’
‘Jessica Williams.’ She looked into the same warm smile she’d seen in the photographs and Jessica felt she knew him as she shook his hand.
‘So you’re part of the whole conspiracy, Jessica,’ Kit said. The girl was obviously some form of secretarial companion to his mother. ‘I must say I’m very grateful to you and Foong Lee for planning this reunion.’
Jessica was about to correct him, but Henrietta answered for her. ‘Jessica is certainly responsible for my being here, Kit,’ she said, ‘but we met only yesterday.’ Kit looked puzzled. How strange, he thought. How could the girl be responsible? Where did she fit in? ‘Jessica’s actually come to Darwin to see you, my darling.’
Kit turned to the girl. What on earth was she doing here, he wondered.
‘It’s true, Kit,’ Jessica said. ‘You have something I’ve been searching for for years.’
1975
The bell on the shop door of the Huize Grij tinkled. Behind the counter, Wouter Eikelboom turned to greet the young couple who stepped in from the paved street.
‘Goede morgen,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ the young man replied. Then he smiled apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, but do you speak English?’
‘Of course,’ Wouter nodded. He spoke seven languages, most of them fluently, and his English was impeccable.
The young man shared a relieved grin with his companion.
‘Welcome to the House of Grij,’ Wouter said. His customary formal greeting was reserved and delivered with an unintended edge of superiority.
Kit felt gangly and out of place as he and Jessica crossed to the dapper, balding man in the pinstri
pe suit and vest who stood behind the counter. The room was tiny, the ceiling low. I’m too big for this room, he thought.
‘How do you do,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m Jessica Williams.’ She smiled warmly at the man, hoping to break through his reserve, ‘and this is Kit Galloway.’
Wouter’s eyes glanced at the girl’s left hand, no wedding ring. ‘How do you do, Miss Williams’—he always liked to address people correctly—‘Mr Galloway,’ he nodded. ‘I am Wouter Eikelboom, how may I help you?’
The man seemed incapable of smiling, Jessica thought. His face was a mask of inscrutability. ‘We have an antique piece and we need to authenticate its origins,’ she said, getting down to business. ‘We believe it may have been designed by the House of Grij.’
‘I am most willing to be of service if I am able.’
Kit took the case from his pocket, opened it and put it on the counter. From its silk-lined interior, Wouter lifted out the locket. His hands were small and lily-white, Jessica noticed, his fingers delicate, his nails perfectly manicured.
‘An exquisite piece,’ he said. He looked up at them and, to their astonishment, his face suddenly contorted. He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of surprise, set a jeweller’s magnifying eyepiece into the socket of his eye then frowned ferociously, wedging the eyepiece firmly in position. Then, facial gymnastics over, he bent to examine the locket.
Jessica and Kit exchanged a glance, their eyes dancing with amusement; they both wanted to burst out laughing. Kit gave a bit of a snort, which he turned into a cough as Jessica nudged him.
‘Seventeenth-century,’ Wouter said.
‘That’s what we thought,’ Jessica quickly answered, not trusting in Kit’s ability to reply—she had a feeling he was about to get a fit of the giggles. He’d returned her nudge with a nod at the dome of the little man’s head where long, thin strands of grey hair were painstakingly pasted across his bald pate from one ear to the other.
Wouter turned the locket over. ‘Ah,’ he said as he studied the two tiny g’s of the engraver’s mark, ‘what a find, most exciting,’ although his voice betrayed not an element of excitement. He didn’t open the locket. He laid it back on the counter and looked up at them, his face an angry scowl. Then he raised his eyebrows in a reversal of his previous facial contortion, took the eyepiece from his socket, and his face shrank back to its impassive mask. Jessica kicked Kit’s foot.
