by Peter Watt
Donald did not have to be ushered into the solicitor’s office as Sean limped out on his walking stick to greet the man who had been as close as a son to him.
‘Don, you old bastard. How the devil are you?’ Sean said, embracing his guest.
‘Who are you calling old, you old coot?’ Donald grinned, disengaging himself from the embrace.
‘How long has it been?’ Sean asked, stepping back to look at the man who ran a huge cattle property. ‘Six, seven years?’
‘Six years,’ Donald answered. ‘The last time I was down in the big smoke was when Jessie and I put Shannon in boarding school. I remember we had a bit of a session.’
‘Ah, yes, I vaguely remember you got into a spot of bother with Jessie over that. But she has obviously forgiven your transgression to allow you out again. Come into my office and I promise not to get you into any more trouble.’
Sean’s office was cluttered with piles of court briefs wrapped with pink tape, and Donald took a chair at the desk. The two men chattered on about family and reminisced about times past, until Sean turned serious.
‘Donald, it’s fortuitous that you’re here because I think you might be of help with something I have had in my possession the last six years or so. It has haunted me, and just on a hunch I feel you may be able to help.’
‘Anything I can do,’ Donald replied.
Sean rose from his chair and hobbled to a metal filing cabinet, withdrawing an innocuous-looking cushion. He handed it to Donald without comment and waited for his reaction.
Donald looked at the pillow. ‘This looks like one of the pillows we had at the family home. Yes, I remember my father had the special embroidery done in the corner.’ Donald turned it over. The bloody outline of the face stared back at him and a chill ran through his body like an icy knife. ‘God almighty!’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘It’s like looking at my father . . . How did you come by this?’
‘A long story,’ Sean said. ‘All I can tell you is that it came from a tea chest in Preston’s home up the coast. You could say that we borrowed it.’
Donald stared at the face and shuddered. Memories of the hard, stern man flooded him and he wanted the terrible apparition gone from his presence. Donald handed the pillow back to Sean, who replaced it in his metal cabinet.
‘When I first saw it I had a nagging feeling that it was of importance,’ Sean said, sitting down at his desk. ‘Over the years I would take it out, and the more I did, I felt it was tied to old Sir George’s death. In my opinion you have confirmed that what is imprinted on that pillow is the death mask of your father. From my experience, the only way it could have got there, is if someone used the pillow to smother a badly injured man.’
‘Sarah!’ Donald uttered in a hushed voice. ‘She was the only one in the house when my father fell down the stairs. That could only mean he was not dead and she finished him off by smothering him. Then she called the police to report the so-called tragic accident.’
‘Preston was the investigating officer, and he once worked for your father outside his role as a policeman,’ Sean said. ‘He then continued working for your sister after your father’s death. I would bet London to a brick that Preston was keeping the pillow to blackmail your sister.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ Donald groaned. ‘Murder seems to be a part of our family tradition – going all the way back to Glen View in the 1860s. We really are cursed.’
‘Not all the Macintosh descendants,’ Sean said gently. ‘Your marriage to Jessie was a reconciliation of the two families, and I think old Wallarie has talked to the ancestor spirits on your behalf. Look what you have: a wonderful woman and beautiful family to be proud of.’
‘Why do I have an uneasy feeling the spirits of those massacred so long ago on our property will never forgive those of Macintosh blood?’ Donald said. ‘Who else will Wallarie mark for a violent death?’
‘Listen to us,’ Sean said. ‘All that happened in the past and it’s well and truly forgotten today.’
‘Not by us,’ Donald countered. ‘You and I remember.’
‘We will be the last,’ Sean sighed. ‘Wallarie, and what happened to his people a century ago are just part of the unknown history of a bloody frontier. Nobody in our society wants to acknowledge what happened to the Aboriginals of the Queensland frontier. And as for your sister, what she did was just another case of patricide. Not the first and won’t be the last.’
When they said goodbye, both men rose and shook hands with iron grips. It was a sad parting, and as Donald made his way down the steps onto the city street, he carried with him a sense of foreboding. Had the curse run its course – or were the vengeful spirits of the dead waiting to strike the blood of the Macintosh clan once again?
SIXTEEN
It was a dreaded Bouncing Betty mine, but it had not activated when Sergeant Patrick Duffy stepped on it. ‘Mine!’ he yelled. The sweat running down his face from under his bush hat was not all due to the extreme humidity. The anti-personnel mine normally blew into the air around chest height and exploded, showering anyone within a large radius with red-hot shrapnel.
Patrick knew that in Operation CLARET the unspoken order was that any casualties would have to be carried out of Indonesian territory. No helicopter could risk flying in for a medivac, and the chances of surviving a direct blast from a landmine were zero to nil.
‘You okay, sarge?’ a worried voice asked behind him. Patrick was leading the platoon as their commander had fallen badly ill with a dose of malaria.
‘I think I almost pissed my pants, Harry,’ Patrick replied, very gently taking his foot off the buried mine. It had been the click of the mine arming itself that had alerted Patrick to his precarious situation, but there had not been a follow-up explosion. When Bouncing Betty mines went off, it seemed like one explosion when in fact it was two, such was the speed of activation.
‘You ought to buy an Opera House lottery ticket when we get home,’ someone else said as Patrick walked away with shaky legs. He was pleased to see that his platoon had gone to ground when he had yelled, ‘Mine!’
‘Okay, no excuse to have a rest,’ Patrick growled gently, still experiencing the terror of his near-death experience but not allowing it to affect the men around him. The reconnoitre of Indonesian military movements in Malaysian territory would continue. As Patrick led his men he wondered whether, had he been killed, his death would have been reported as an accident back in friendly territory. His Uncle Sean may have been astute enough to know different, as he had once been a soldier himself and had lost his legs from shrapnel in the Great War. But this was a secret war and those at home hardly knew of its existence, as Australia and Indonesia were not officially in conflict. Even now peace talks were being carried out, but the patrolling continued as a pre-emptive measure to force the Indonesian army back into its own territory.
The platoon found itself facing a murky swamp followed by jungle that had to be cut with machetes, which made everyone feel nervous as the clearing caused noise. The Australian infantry were trained to move silently, using hand signals for just about everything. Leeches and scorpions abounded, and the screeching of monkeys was guaranteed to set off jangled nerves.
Patrick had the responsibility of navigating with maps that were not very accurate. Navigation distance was measured by counting each pace, and the compass kept them moving in the right direction as landmarks were few and far between. Patrick knew he should be looking for a good defensive position before night fell, and prayed that when he did, it would not be infested with fire ants. He had a great appreciation for the role of the junior officer who normally led a platoon and wondered whether his constant rejection of offers from his superiors to attend officer training at Portsea were right. He was doing the job of an officer and knew that he had the respect of the men in his platoon. Maybe he should think about a commission. Terituba had made a lot of friends amongst his fellow sold
iers and both he and Patrick saw less of each other now, although they remained as close as brothers. For now, though, his task was to keep a low profile, observe Indonesian troops along the border and get his men back into friendly territory without any casualties.
*
Solicitor Sean Duffy re-read Patrick’s latest letter, posted from the theatre of operations in Borneo. He folded the letter and carefully filed it with the many others he had received over the years, ever since David Macintosh had signed up for the last world war. The two boys he had virtually raised had placed themselves in harm’s way for what was beginning to feel like his whole lifetime.
He sat in his office and gazed at the pile of court briefs on his desk. Sean was almost seventy years old and had hoped to retire from his legal practice years earlier. He had secretly dreamed that either David or Patrick would study law and join him, but neither man had.
David was now a high flyer in federal parliament, and Patrick a soldier fighting against the Indonesian army. David had made a point to stay over with Sean whenever his parliamentary work brought him to Sydney, and they had discussed the ramifications of the newly introduced National Service Act conscripting twenty-year-old males into the army. David had expressed his dismay that the act would be amended with a provision to allow conscripts to be sent on active service overseas. The Americans were appealing to the Australian government to send a task force to the new battlefields of South Vietnam. As a politician who had experienced the horrors of three wars, David was reluctant to support the amendment. It was fine for those of his colleagues who had never experienced war first-hand to endorse such an action, but David was still haunted by his memories from the hills of Spain to the craggy mountains of Korea, via the deserts of North Africa and the jungles of New Guinea.
Sean could only hope Patrick would leave the army after his enlistment was up. But the emerging war in Vietnam did not give him much hope, as there was something in their Irish blood that made them warriors.
‘Major Duffy.’ The voice of his young law clerk snapped him back to the present. ‘There is a policeman who wishes to see you. Detective Senior Constable Wren.’
‘Show him in, Peggy,’ Sean said, and Brendan Wren entered the room.
Sean stood, offering his hand. ‘Young Brendan,’ he said. ‘Good to see you after such a long time.’ Brendan Wren was not so young any more. A policeman of almost forty and already thinning hair betraying his years. He had a hard face but gentle eyes.
‘Mr Duffy, I have some bad news,’ he said, removing his hat.
For a moment Sean felt a chill of fear. Had Patrick been killed in action? Surely if he had, the army would have sent an officer to tell him.
‘What is it?’ Sean asked in a choked voice.
‘It’s Harry Griffiths,’ Brendan said, twisting the hat in his hands. ‘He has passed away. The boys found him after they had a call from a neighbour concerned that she had not seen him for a couple of days. He was found in his bed and, from what I could see, he died peacefully in his sleep. Probably a heart attack. I knew how close you two were, so after informing his family I came here to tell you.’
Sean slumped back into his chair, attempting to take in the news. Harry Griffiths and he had lost their youth in the trenches of the Western Front and had formed more than a business relationship. Harry was Sean’s dearest cobber.
‘Thank you, Brendan, for remembering me.’
‘Old Harry was a great mate of my dad when they served together on the beat. If there is anything I can do . . .’ Brendan extended his hand, and Sean accepted it. When the detective had departed, Sean sat back and stared at the wall, remembering the last escapade they had shared, raiding Preston’s beach house. That was years ago now, but the two men had regularly shared company and conversation over a beer at the pub around the corner.
Sean wiped his eyes, reached for his walking stick and hobbled to the receptionist desk. ‘Cancel the rest of my appointments, Peggy, and close the office. Have the day off and go to the flicks.’
Peggy was a pretty young woman in her early twenties who wondered why the Major sometimes called her Allison. Maybe he was getting vague in his old age. But she genuinely loved working for the Sydney solicitor who was kind and gentle.
‘Thank you, Major,’ she replied. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Sean smiled weakly. ‘I’ve just been given the news that a dear old mate of mine has now gone from our ranks.’
Soon Sean found himself sitting at the bar in the same place he and Harry had always frequented. The barmaid, a woman in her fifties who had known the two men well, already had a beer poured.
‘I heard the sad news about Harry this morning,’ she said, placing the glass before the solicitor.
‘Another one for Harry, Maggie,’ Sean said, reaching into his pocket for a two-shilling piece. Maggie did not question one of her best customers and fetched a second glass of beer, placing it beside Sean’s. Sean raised his glass to the empty stool beside him.
‘Harry, my old cobber, here’s to a life rich in memories.’ Sean tilted his glass and drank until it was empty. Maggie knew that before the afternoon was out she would be calling a taxi for the lonely man drinking beer after beer to his old friend.
*
The funeral was held at Rookwood Cemetery and Sean was pleased to see a large and interesting gathering of mourners. Amongst the many friends, Sean saw former retired police officers, boxers, soldiers from the old battalion, and more than one or two colourful characters from Sydney’s underworld.
An early spring storm was brewing off the coast and Sean was glad to have brought his umbrella. He nodded to a few familiar faces and made his way over to Harry’s son, Daniel, and they stood together beside the grave as the minister droned on about Harry being welcomed into heaven to join the hosts of the righteous.
Even Harry’s son flinched at that, and Sean leaned over to whisper in his ear, ‘Heaven for Harry is a bar stool in a cool pub, where the beer is always cold and free.’
Daniel grinned and turned to repeat Sean’s aside to a woman next to him who looked to be in her late middle age. Sean had never seen her before and was struck by her poise and elegance. She broke into a smile and nodded her agreement to Sean.
When the service was complete, Sean threw a handful of dirt on his old friend’s coffin as it was lowered into the ground. Once Daniel had left, most of the mourners drifted away, destined for the nearest pub to raise a glass or two of beer to the memory of their friend, leaving Sean and the woman standing alone by the yawning grave.
A breeze picked up, thunder rolled across the skies now black with the impending storm, and big fat droplets began to fall.
Sean could see that the woman had no umbrella and he immediately offered the use of his. She tried to protest but he insisted, and under the flimsy protection they walked to a shelter a short distance away to wait out the downpour.
‘Thank you,’ she said when Sean rolled up his umbrella. ‘I don’t think we have met.’
‘Sean Duffy. Were you a friend of Harry?’
‘I was a first cousin. I’m Rose Wallace. My memories of Harry are from when I was very young. He was my favourite cousin. Before he went off to the war he would play with me and give me piggyback rides. He was a great teaser and so full of fun. But he came back from the war a different man, and we lost contact. I was told by Daniel that his father had passed away and I just wanted to be here to tell him one last time how much he meant to a snotty-nosed little girl.’
‘He was my closest cobber,’ Sean said. ‘We had one or two good times together.’
‘Daniel told me about you two,’ Rose said with a glint of mirth in her eyes. ‘He said you were both a couple of larrikins. He said he could understand why his father might bend the law, but not a well-known and respected solicitor such as yourself.’
‘Oh well,
you only live one life, and my life behind a desk and in courts can be a bit boring. Harry was always around to liven things up for us both. Did your husband know Harry?’
‘My husband died just after the first war from the effects of mustard gas,’ Rose said. ‘It was a cruel death, and now I feel fortunate not to have had any children to see him die in such a horrible manner.’
‘I was lucky,’ Sean said, tapping his artificial legs with his cane. ‘I only lost my legs.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Rose said. ‘I didn’t realise. I saw you limping but just thought you had an injury.’
‘Years of walking on artificial legs has given me practice,’ Sean said. ‘Not that I was a famous sprinter before the Great War.’
‘Mr Duffy, it seems the rain has eased. Would you like to go for a cup of tea with me at the delightful coffee shop we passed on the way to the cemetery?’ Rose asked, touching his arm with a gloved hand. ‘My car and chauffeur are just outside the gate. I would love to hear the stories of your escapades with my cousin, and I must confess that I read a lot about you before I even knew you and Harry were friends. You seem to be well known to the newspapers and television.’
She took his arm and they made their way through the gentle drizzle that had followed the storm now rumbling away to the horizon. As Sean walked beside Rose, he wondered at the irony of life. He had come grieving to a funeral and was now walking away from Harry’s grave on the arm of a lady he had taken a strong liking to. It was obvious that the feeling was mutual, and suddenly Sean did not feel alone any more.
SEVENTEEN
Exhausted from fighting for the township of Kindu, Michael and Frankie were called to an O group by their commander. Intelligence from a resident escaping the Simbas at the mining town of Kalima reported forty-eight Belgian priests were being held captive and awaiting execution. Michael’s commander knew his men needed rest, but his trademark tactic had always been speed and surprise.
