by Peter Watt
‘I served in the 1917–18 war with the marines and we were saying in 1918 that the war would drag on another year. Hope we get a result before Christmas 1945,’ Bernie said. ‘The Armistice of 1918 came as a big surprise to us all on the Western Front.’
‘I think you should drive James home after breakfast, Bernie,’ Mary said, cutting across her husband’s war talk. ‘I’m sure his grandfather must be worried sick about him.’
‘Yeah, sure thing,’ Bernie said. ‘Better get him back across the right side of the tracks.’
James did not finish his ham and eggs but had another cup of coffee before he thanked Mary and Isabel for their kind hospitality. Bernie’s home was set against a row of blue-collar houses, far from the plush mansions of James’s life. Many of the windows over porches displayed the strip of stars indicating sons serving in combat. It was from such places that the men and non-commissioned officers were drawn. Officers generally came from the palatial homes and those with social backgrounds on James’s side of town.
Bernie had an old Ford truck and James piled in beside him.
‘You hear things, working in my bar,’ Bernie said. ‘I think you’ll be safer overseas. That goddamned son of a bitch, Sheriff Hausmann is crooked, but at least I was able to pay him off to allow Isabel to help me in the bar on busy nights. You can’t get any good help around here with this war on.’
James stared out the window at the people walking to work. ‘Have you ever heard any talk about my sister’s death?’ James asked, knowing that if anyone had picked up talk it would be someone like Bernie behind his bar.
‘I never had the pleasure of knowing Olivia,’ Bernie said. ‘I know she was your twin and served her country with the Red Cross Down Under in Australia. She must have been a fine young lady. But you must know that a good barman knows when to keep what he hears to himself, like a priest protecting the secrets of the confessional.’
‘Does Edgar Wilson ever drink in your bar?’ James asked.
‘Yeah. When he’s slumming to impress his buddies what a tough guy he is,’ Bernie said.
‘Was he in your bar the night my sister was killed?’ James persisted.
For a moment Bernie did not answer, as if struggling with something he would rather not divulge. ‘You know, if my son had not been killed serving his country, he had the ability to go to college and make something of his life. He won a sports scholarship to Harvard, but said he would rather use the GI bill to get his education.
‘Now we only have our daughter. She is exceptionally bright. I know she did not get her brains from me. Her mother is also extremely smart – except for ever falling for a palooka like me. Isabel turns eighteen next month and wants to go to college to study medicine and become a doctor. She could do it, but you know, it costs a lot of money for her to see that dream come true.
‘All I’ve ever known after my stint with the marines is my bar. We moved from Boston to get our son away from the Irish gangs in the city, but found that in New Hampshire the Irish were not really welcome. I talked with Mary and we hope I can sell the bar next year to raise the money for Isabel to attend college. Mary and me, we’ll live off my military pension. You might understand why I can’t say nuthin’ about what I hear in the bar. Certain folks around here could make it very hard for us.’
James knew a military pension was little better then living above the poverty line. He understood why the big Boston Catholic Irishman was reluctant to speak in this tight-knit predominantly Anglo Saxon protestant community. They were outsiders. But James was formulating a plan and smiled to himself as they swapped a few marine stories on the way to the Barrington residence.
Bernie pulled up in front of the mansion and James stepped from the Ford. ‘Thanks, Bernie,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t cause any trouble in your bar ever again.’
Bernie grinned. ‘Then I promise I won’t lay you out again, Captain Duffy.’
The truck drove away, leaving James standing before the columned porch of his grandfather’s mansion. What a comparison between where he had come from to where he was.
James strode towards the front door, his mind swirling. He convinced himself they were not really impulsive ideas. But his grandfather would hit the roof if he knew what his beloved grandson was planning.
THIRTEEN
How long had it been since Diane was first imprisoned inside the great stone walls of Changi prison? Three years – or forever? She kneeled in the prison vegetable patch, staring with ravenous eyes at the sparse crop, and wanted to eat them all. But she also knew her Japanese and Korean guards counted the growing vegetables, and to steal any brought swift and painful punishment to the prisoner responsible.
As each day went by the death of another civilian internee meant very little to those who had suffered the cruel captivity. They had long been hardened to death, and many just wondered when and how their own demise would come.
‘Something’s going on,’ Anne Bambury said. The Englishwoman had entered the prison back in 1942 in her early fifties and lost a considerable amount of weight. Like many others, she was gaunt and pale from bouts of malaria.
‘The Nips are acting queer. There are rumours they are taking a beating in the Pacific. I heard the news from the men’s camp.’
Diane looked at her friend and knew she looked as haggard as Anne did.
‘I also heard the Japs are planning to kill us all if our boys invade Singapore. I would not put it past the little yellow bastards. As it is, it looks like they’re trying to exterminate us by malnutrition and illness. It has been hard to keep the stiff upper lip,’ Anne sighed as she squatted beside Diane. ‘I keep dreaming a British soldier is going to walk through the gates holding a big steaming plate of Yorkshire pudding and a bottle of ale.’
Diane smiled weakly. They were all tormented by fantasies of plentiful food.
‘I’m sure the Nips know they’re beaten and that makes them dangerous. If they know they’re going to go out, they will want to take as many of us as they can.’
‘You know the bastards caught out the residents of Hut 23 laughing and giggling, and they are now being punished for it?’ Diane said. ‘Young Sammy has been forbidden to see us because he was caught with a handful of rice he could not account for. What kind of animals punish children who are just trying to stay alive?’
Anne did not answer. Diane could see that the time they had spent behind the Changi walls was starting to break her down. While they might be close to being released, the terrible unspoken fear of their extermination at the hands of the Japanese and Koreans weighed heavily. It was like running a long race, only to trip a couple of yards from the finish line.
‘What will you do when the war is over?’ Anne asked, to distract them from their morbid thoughts of execution.
‘I don’t really know,’ Diane answered. ‘Like you, I was born in England, but my son is in Australia with my husband’s relatives. My first priority is to get to Australia and be with Patrick. I still have savings in the bank, but I don’t know what we’ll do. My airline no longer exists, and all I’ve ever known is flying. I’ll take Sam with me to meet his new brother. I hope to adopt Sam if no one turns up to claim him. What about you?’
‘I’m going to return to England, open a fish-and-chip shop, and eat everything I’m supposed to sell,’ Anne said, and both women began to giggle.
They quickly looked around to ensure the guards a few yards away did not see them laughing. Their captors were touchy about the Europeans laughing in these uncertain times, thinking the laughter was aimed at them, which was considered loss of face.
Anne helped Diane work the earth around the rows of vegetables. They worked under the tropical sun in a land where it was always the same monotonous hot temperature, broken only by wet and dry seasons.
As Diane grubbed at the earth she also experienced an unspoken fear. Should they survive, would Patri
ck remember her? It had been such a long time, and he had been so young when she last saw him. Suddenly she felt the familiar waves of the malarial fever wash over her. Diane slumped forward and Anne saw her friend lying face down amongst the rows of vegetables. She called to a couple of women nearby also tending the patch.
‘Give me a hand with Diane,’ she called. ‘We have to get her to the hospital.’
A Korean guard standing at the edge of the agricultural area saw the two women rise to go over to Anne.
‘You! Stop!’ he shouted, brandishing his bayonet-tipped rifle. ‘You take prisoner,’ he said to Anne as the other two were forced to remain in the vegetable patch.
Despite being weakened by malnutrition Anne was still able to heft Diane to her feet using all the strength she could muster, and half-drag, half-walk her to the place they called a hospital with its few beds and meagre medical supplies. Diane had to live, Anne prayed to whichever deity would listen.
*
Donald Macintosh was able to wrangle a leave pass from the hospital. He dressed in a civilian suit and hailed a taxi to take him to the Macintosh companies near Circular Quay.
He was greeted by the doorman downstairs. Donald could see the shock in his expression when he saw the disfigurement to his old boss’s face. The doorman quickly recovered and his welcome in return was genuine. He gestured for Donald to take the elevator to the top floor. The elevator operator also looked shocked at seeing Donald’s face but said nothing except to ask which floor. Donald did not know the young man.
‘Top floor,’ Donald said.
‘That is the Macintosh companies, sir,’ the boy said.
‘I know,’ Donald said.
‘You have an appointment to go there, Mr . . .’
‘Lieutenant Donald Macintosh. I think I’m still allowed to visit my family’s offices,’ Donald said. The elevator boy ducked his head in his embarrassment.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologised and took Donald to the top floor. He stepped out to see the corridor leading to many familiar offices. Donald passed a couple of employees he knew before the war, and who now hardly hid their expressions when they saw his disfigurement. But they greeted him warmly enough.
Donald reached his sister’s office reception, where a young man rose from his chair behind a desk. Donald did not recognise him.
‘Yes, sir, can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I’m here to see my sister,’ Donald answered.
‘Er, you must be Mr Donald Macintosh,’ the young man said uncomfortably. ‘I’ll see if she’s available to see you, sir.’
‘Never mind,’ Donald said walking past the desk, opening the door to Sarah’s office where she was alone, poring over a report.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ Donald said. ‘I thought I might drop by to see if my old office will be ready for my return.’
Sarah glanced up in surprise. ‘Donald, you should have phoned to say you were coming today,’ she said, hardly disguising her annoyance. ‘I’m very busy at the moment. I have a board meeting in ten minutes.’
‘Good,’ Donald said, taking a seat in a big leather chair. ‘I think I’ll also attend and reacquaint myself with the directors. After all, I still retain a seat on the board, even though you are the managing director.’
Sarah stared at her brother coldly. ‘I know you’re doing this to upset me.’
‘I doubt that anything could upset you, dear sister,’ Donald said with a small smile. ‘Maybe there are some things that make you angry but you have an ability to disguise your anger and get revenge.’
Sarah rose from her chair and brushed past Donald. He followed her along the corridor to the boardroom. Inside the members were already in the seats, smoking and chatting to each other. All talk stopped when Sarah entered. They rose politely to acknowledge her entrance and blinked with surprise at seeing Donald follow her.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Donald said, walking directly to an empty chair. A few who recognised Donald greeted him warmly with handshakes across the big, polished table. But half the board members were strangers. No doubt appointed by his sister in his absence. They stared at him curiously.
‘For those on the board I’ve not met, I’m Donald Macintosh. Son of Sir George, brother to our esteemed managing director, and just back from the Pacific, where I had my face rearranged by a Jap mortar bomb on a hellhole called Tarakan.’
Donald’s last bitter comment caused a few to duck their heads in embarrassment. All had avoided military service, with the exception of two older men who had served in the last war.
‘As my brother has introduced himself to those who did not know him before his entrance today I think I should express my gratitude for his contribution to the war effort,’ Sarah said.
Donald knew she did not mean a word of her praise but smiled politely.
The meeting opened and procedure followed, with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting. Donald was bored but determined to give the impression of someone who was preparing to return to management.
‘We have the matter of Mr Duffy’s removal from Glen View,’ one of the newer members offered.
Donald was suddenly interested.
‘I’ve taken steps for Mr Duffy to leave Glen View,’ Sarah said. ‘I had a meeting with the court-appointed manager of Glen View to recruit some men who can assist him convince Mr Duffy that he should leave until the courts settle the matter for us.’
‘How are they going to “convince” Tom Duffy to leave?’ Donald asked, aware every board member was watching him keenly.
‘Mr Johnson is a former English policeman and has had experience dealing with such matters,’ Sarah answered.
Donald could see his question had unsettled his sister.
‘Gentlemen of the board,’ Donald said, staring down the table at the faces watching him. ‘I personally know Tom Duffy, and he’s a decorated hero of two wars. He purchased Glen View from us in a fair dinkum way, and I feel he has all rights to remain until the court case is settled. I doubt anyone on this earth would be able to convince him otherwise.’
‘Duffy purchased our land with ill-gotten gains,’ Sarah flared. ‘My late father always expressed his wish that the property never leave our possession, and I still respect that wish, even if you don’t, dear brother.’
Donald turned to his sister. ‘Maybe you should tell the board how the family first got hold of Glen View.’
‘With all due respect,’ a younger member of the board piped up, ‘from what I know of Glen View it is just one of many Macintosh cattle properties in Queensland. Is it really worth the expensive and time-consuming legal-wrangling the case will cause?’
Sarah turned on the board member who was stupid enough to question her. ‘You do not have an appreciation of family tradition, Mr Jenkins. I will educate you after the meeting in my office.’
Jenkins shrank back into his seat. He knew what the invitation really meant, and rued his question.
‘I would like it noted in the minutes of this meeting that I do not agree with my sister’s decision to pursue the matter against Mr Tom Duffy. If you’d excuse me I have to leave early.’
Donald rose from his chair and walked out of the meeting, leaving his sister flushed and angry. He knew there were things that he must do – and very quickly.
*
‘Donald, old son, how the devil are you?’ Sean Duffy said, stepping forward to shake Donald Macintosh’s hand in his legal office. ‘You look a lot better without all those bandages that were wrapped around your head when I last saw you in hospital. You were a bit out of it then.’
‘Fair to middling, Uncle Sean,’ Donald replied as Sean ushered him to a chair. Sean was not really his uncle but he had been more of a father to him than Sir George had ever been, and the title was an expression of Donald’s feelings for the Sydney solicitor.
‘Sorry
about your injuries,’ Sean said, taking a seat behind his desk. ‘You have now joined our club of maimed and crippled soldiers. I think this is an opportune time to head out for a cold beer.’
Donald smiled. Sean had not expressed any horror at seeing his disfigured face. The old soldier had probably seen worse in his years on the Western Front.
‘I wish I had the time to do that,’ Donald said. ‘But an urgent matter has arisen. I’ve just left a meeting at the company HQ chaired by my sister. The matter of removing Tom Duffy came up, and it seems my sister has hired a former Pommy copper to get rid of Tom.’
‘I know all about it,’ Sean said. ‘My informants have told me that, not only has Sarah hired a man called Edgar Johnson, but he was in Sydney to recruit some undesirable characters he once worked with in Ireland against the IRA. I know the men from my experiences in the courts. They are former Black and Tan members, and from what I know of them, I would consider them very dangerous.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Donald swore. ‘He’s going to attempt to kill Tom.’
‘That’s about it,’ Sean said. ‘The last I heard, Tom was holed up on the hill near Glen View station with a blackfella. I know Tom is very resilient, but he will be outnumbered – and probably outgunned – if Johnson recruited his old pals.’
‘Is there anything you can do to stop Johnson?’ Donald asked.
‘There is very little I can do, except represent Tom’s interests in court,’ Sean sighed. ‘All Tom has to do is remain on Glen View and stay alive to thwart Miss Macintosh.’
‘He needs help,’ Donald said.
‘How can I be of assistance?’ Sean asked, leaning forward.
‘I would need to contact Harry Griffiths,’ Donald said.
Sean reached for a pen and jotted down an address and a telephone number, passing it to Donald.
‘So, he still has his old gym,’ Donald said with a smile as he pocketed the paper.
‘Whatever you have in mind, Donald, be very careful,’ Sean said. ‘You and David are very special to me.’
