War Clouds Gather

by Peter Watt

  Natasha glanced at David in surprise. ‘You do not toast the revolution?’ she asked, staring intently at him.

  ‘I am not a communist,’ David replied, wiping a drop of soup from his chin with the back of his hand. ‘I signed up to fight fascists.’

  A slim young man approached the table and whispered in Natasha’s ear. She nodded and rose from the table to make her way through the noisy crowd to a small stage. David finished his soup and was about to take a sip from his wine when he noticed the crowd had hushed. Natasha raised her arms and began speaking in French, which David did not understand, although he did recognise his name being used. The crowds turned their heads to look at him.

  Horace leaned in towards David. ‘I think you’re the star attraction tonight,’

  ‘Please come up and tell your story, Comrade David, and I will interpret,’ Natasha called. David pushed back his chair and made his way to the small stage.

  ‘What am I supposed to say?’ he asked Natasha.

  ‘Just tell them of the horrors you saw in Dachau and your personal mistreatment,’ she replied.

  David stared at the crowd through the haze of tobacco smoke. He could hardly see their faces and was nervous at speaking in public. But he began, his words were echoed in French, and soon he was caught up in his memories and did not notice his audience. When he had finished he was aware that the crowd was on its feet, calling bravo and cheering him. Natasha began to sing the ‘Internationale’ and the song was picked up by the crowd as they rose to their feet. David blinked. He did not think that he was such a good public speaker but the reaction seemed to suggest otherwise.

  When the anthem of the workers was finished Natasha took David by the hand and led him back to the table. He experienced a sharp surge of desire for her as he felt the softness and warmth of her hand.

  They sat down and the table was assailed by well-wishers speaking predominantly in French but also a few other languages, including German.

  ‘You are a natural leader,’ Natasha said in David’s ear. ‘You have that rare quality about you that causes men and women to want to follow you.’

  David could see that Natasha was smiling openly for the first time since they had met earlier that day. But there was something else in her smile that encouraged him to hope that she might return his feelings of desire.

  That night when the three returned to the run-down apartment building, David’s hopes came true. Natasha led him to her room and pulled her dress over her head to reveal a well-curved body. No words were needed as she pulled him down onto her single bed and David experienced his first full sexual encounter with a woman.

  If he had any reservations about continuing with his enlistment they were all swept away in the arms of the beautiful Russian. Such was the depth of his passion that he would have gladly died for her.

  9

  The young woman walking beside the tall man is approaching her eighteenth birthday. She has a cherubic shaped face reflecting her French mother’s looks, and the olive complexion of her father’s Aboriginal ancestors.

  Jessica Duffy loves the man walking beside her. Tom Duffy has a strong face and body, even as he nears his fourth decade. His thick hair is now grey with a touch of white streaks but his eyes shine with the reflections of a sad life. A man still learning about the complexities of rearing a daughter – with the help of the good nuns at Jessica’s school in Brisbane where she boarded for most months of the year, returning to north Queensland in the holidays to stay with her taciturn father.

  Jessica graduated at the top of her class and was taken by Tom to visit Glen View Station for the first time in her life. She knew of the property in vague terms as a place her father worked as a young man when he returned from the war. There she met the manager, an old Scot, Hector MacManus, who greeted her warmly as if she were his long lost granddaughter. Jessica could see that the Scot and her father were close friends as the evening before they sat on the verandah of the station house with a bottle of Scotch between them, reminiscing about friends now gone from this world. Jessica had finally dozed off in a big bed to be woken the next morning by the clatter of cattle station life; rising under a hot summer sun that seared the vast expanse of brigalow scrub surrounding the sprawling homestead.

  After breakfast, Tom borrowed a sulky and after harnessing a horse took Jessica on a journey into the bush. When she asked her father where they were going he simply smiled mysteriously and said that she would find out soon enough.

  Eventually Tom brought the sulky to a halt and dismounted, helping his daughter down to the red earth.

  ‘We are here,’ he said.

  Placing her feet on the ground, Jessica looked around and could see a craggy hill dominating the landscape, rising through the tough and stunted bush.

  ‘But I can only take you to the summit and not to the cave up there,’ Tom added. ‘The cave is a place where only men are allowed to enter – not women.’

  Jessica frowned. ‘That is silly, Father,’ she said, causing Tom to smile at how much his beautiful daughter was turning into a self-willed young woman.

  ‘It is the law of the old people,’ Tom replied, removing a thick cigar from a silver holder, lighting it, cupping in his hands against the gentle zephyr of breeze drifting across the great inland plain. ‘Your people,’ he added.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Father?’ she asked, screwing her face up at him.

  ‘Your ancestors on my father’s side once roamed this land,’ Tom replied, gazing up at the summit of the hill. ‘I think that it is time you learned of your links to this land – and that hill,’ he said, pausing for a moment before continuing. ‘You did not know that you have Aboriginal blood in your veins.’

  Some of the girls at her boarding school had whispered behind her back that she was part Aboriginal, but her two dear friends, the twins Charlotte and Sophia, had stood up to the gossip, saying that this was not true and that Jessica had inherited her complexion from Spanish ancestry. Jessica had come to believe that she was of Spanish blood. After all, Tom Duffy was a well-respected property owner from west of Townsville and his wealth had carried them through the worst of the economic depression that had seen many of Jessica’s class mates’ families go bankrupt. Her father’s statement shocked her.

  Tom glanced down at his daughter and could see the anguish in her expression at his revelation. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It is something to be proud of, Jessie,’ he said quietly. ‘Old Wallarie was the last full-blooded survivor of our people, and used to live in the cave on that hill. He was a great warrior in his time. I met him before I went away to the war, and when I returned he was still living on Glen View. But he is gone now and would want me to tell you who you really are. Like me, you are the child of two worlds, but while you live, so too does the blood of the Nerambura clan who used to live by the creek here in harmony with the land.’

  Jessica listened to his words, still in shock from learning of her roots in a culture that was spurned by Australia’s European occupiers. She reached for her father’s hand and felt his warm grip as the tears flowed down her cheeks. Her emotions swirled in confusion and fear. She had heard the term half-caste from some of her friends and it had been uttered with contempt.

  ‘I am a half-caste,’ she whispered, attempting to take in the enormity of this revelation.

  ‘No,’ Tom said gently. ‘You are the true child of this land, and if I can ever sway the Macintosh family to sell me Glen View we will take it back for Wallarie. Our blood is that of two proud peoples – the Irish who fought the English, and the Darambal people who resisted the whitefellas when they came to these lands with their flocks of sheep. Knowing who you are is as important as knowing where you are going in life. Up there,’ Tom continued, ‘do you see it?’ Jessica focused on a magnificent giant eagle gliding on the thermal wind tunnels rising from the hot, dry plains. ‘That is really Wallarie guarding his land,’ he said and Jessica smiled at her father’
s observation. He could be a bit silly sometimes, she thought. To believe that an eagle could also be a dead man was stupid. But she did not let go of her father’s hand as they returned to the sulky, looking over her shoulder with some apprehension at the great bird in the sky. He might just be right about the majestic eagle. She shuddered; it was as if it was watching her with an almost human interest, an experience that would haunt her for many years of her life.

  *

  George Macintosh was furious. There was little that could cause the businessman to lose his temper, but a substantial loss of money certainly could. It had been bad enough that his contacts in the German government had informed him of David’s escape from Dachau and their belief that through some miracle he was still alive. And now this!

  Donald stood in the centre of his library barely able to control his trembling while his father’s ire was concentrated on him. They had hardly been back in Sydney a week after arriving home from Europe when George was informed that the subsidiary company assigned to his son’s management had shown a massive loss.

  ‘I was away with you, Father,’ Donald said feebly. ‘I did not have the opportunity to oversee the accounts.’

  ‘You assured me that you had it all under control before we left, and I allowed you to transfer substantial funds for your enterprise,’ George said, pacing the library to walk over to the huge window overlooking the driveway. ‘The loss may not cause us any long-term damage, but your incompetence concerns me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father,’ Donald said meekly. ‘It will not happen again.’

  George gripped his hands behind his back and stared out the window. His son was proving to be a walking disaster where financial matters were concerned, and there were rumours of gambling debts and lavish parties that might explain the company’s losses. ‘Did you skim off any of the money to cover gambling debts?’ George asked, without looking at his son.

  ‘I, er . . .’ Donald stuttered. ‘I only borrowed a small amount, which I intend to repay.’

  ‘So, now that we know where the money went, I am partly reassured,’ George said, turning to face his son. ‘Gambling is a better reason than proving to be absolutely useless in managing any of the company businesses. You will promise me now that you will desist gambling from this moment onwards. Is that clear?’

  ‘I, ah . . . Perfectly clear,’ Donald replied unconvincingly. ‘But I do have some debts to pay.’

  George walked over to his desk and retrieved a chequebook from a drawer. He also picked up a fountain pen and handed both to his son. ‘Write out a cheque for the amount you owe and I will sign it,’ he said. ‘But it will be the last time.’

  Donald passed the cheque back. His father raised his eyebrows at the sum but still signed.

  ‘The only gamble you will face from here on in is that of the business world,’ George said, tearing the cheque out and passing it to his very relieved son. ‘From now on you will report your business decisions to me before you make them.’

  George stared at Donald and remembered how the boy had always been a problem at his exclusive private school. It had only been George’s influence and generous donations that had saved Donald from being expelled. The boy was not shaping up as the heir to the Macintosh empire. It even seemed at times that Donald had no real interest in the world of finance. Frowning, George shook his head. The boy had to shape up, and he would ensure that this happened, no matter what it took.

  *

  Donald left his father’s library with the cash cheque tucked in his pocket.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ Sarah asked, encountering her brother in the hallway.

  ‘I was,’ Donald admitted. ‘But not now.’ He brushed past her and hurried down the stairs. She knew it was race day at Randwick and she hoped he wasn’t going to anger their father by mounting up more gambling debts.

  Sarah made her way to the library and knocked on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ her father commanded, and she stepped inside to see him sitting at his desk. George glanced up at her. ‘I suppose you want an advance on your allowance,’ he sighed.

  ‘No, Father,’ Sarah replied. ‘I just wish to speak with you.’

  George always felt a little uncomfortable in his daughter’s presence – she reminded him so much of her mother. His estranged wife, Louise, no longer lived in the house, but had years ago moved to an expensive apartment at Rose Bay, financed by her late father’s substantial fortune. ‘What, may I ask, do we have to speak about?’

  Sarah sat down in a comfortable leather chair adjacent to her father’s desk. ‘When I finish school I wish to become a partner in the family business.’

  George was taken aback by his daughter’s request. He stared at her closely, as if seeing her for the first time. Despite his bias against women, he was proud of her school record at one of Sydney’s most prestigious ladies colleges, where she excelled in her studies and sport. ‘That is not possible,’ George replied gently. ‘Your late grandfather’s will does not cater for female offspring. The will stipulates that your brother, myself and David Macintosh will have equal shares.’

  ‘Who is this David Macintosh?’ Sarah asked. ‘All Mother tells us is that our cousin lives in New Guinea and is around Donald’s age.’

  ‘My late brother’s son appears to have no interest in the family companies,’ George lied. ‘The little that I know of him is that he is a lazy type with little ambition. He is very much like his father.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘So, if this cousin of ours is not a person to be involved in the family business, why should I not take his place when I leave school?’

  ‘Unfortunately, there is a solicitor, Sean Duffy, who would block any move I made to include you as a partner in the companies. However, do not be concerned for your future,’ George went on. ‘One day you will meet the right young man from a good family and assume your natural role as wife and mother.’

  ‘I wish to be a part of the family enterprise,’ Sarah persisted. ‘Not some breeding cow.’

  ‘Young lady!’ George exclaimed. ‘I do not like your language. You have to accept that this is a man’s world, and your role is to support the man who becomes your husband.’

  Sarah stood up and glared at her father. ‘You know that Donald is useless in the business but you keep supporting him,’ she said and stomped out of the room, leaving George a little taken aback. He shook his head. No woman was capable of understanding the subtleties of business, and with time Sarah would come to accept her role in life.

  There was a knock at the door and the valet poked his head around the corner. ‘Mr Dwyer is here, Sir George,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell him that you are in?’

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I am expecting him.’

  Dwyer entered the room, clutching his briefcase and smiling. Dwyer was in his early sixties, bald and with spectacles. His sedentary life had given him a very wide girth and he was puffing from his walk up the stairs.

  ‘How are you, Sir George?’ he greeted.

  ‘Good,’ George replied, gesturing to a chair. ‘You had better sit down before you have a heart attack.’

  Dwyer took a seat, laying his briefcase across his lap and producing a wad of papers from it. ‘We have further correspondence from Mr Tom Duffy in Queensland regarding the matter of purchasing Glen View Station,’ Dwyer said, adjusting his spectacles to peer at the papers.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ George smiled grimly. ‘It seems that the man is persistent. How many years has he submitted the request . . . ten, fifteen years?’

  ‘His offer is more than generous, Sir George,’ Dwyer said. ‘We took some big losses in the ’29 crash. I know that the property has sentimental value to the family, but it is barely making a profit. Would it not be wise to accept his generous offer?’

  George glanced at the wall displaying the mounted collection of Aboriginal artefacts: long, wooden barbed spears and an array of war clubs and narrow wooden shields. ‘I have heard from Glen View that the last of the black vermin, Wa
llarie, is gone,’ George said and had a fleeting memory of his contact with the old Aboriginal warrior years earlier which had been the cause of many nightmares since.

  ‘From what you have been able to ascertain, this Tom Duffy fellow is actually a blood relative of Wallarie, and I have no intention of ever selling to that bloodline. My dear departed grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, was under the deluded impression that there is a curse on the family originating from Glen View. I am not a superstitious man but I have to acknowledge our family has experienced a lot more suffering than most. Out of a sense of justice I do not believe that any trace of that black blood should ever again inhabit Glen View.’

  ‘Very good, Sir George,’ Dwyer said. ‘I will draft the usual letter of non-acceptance to Mr Duffy.’

  ‘Good,’ George said. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ Dwyer replied and stood to leave the room.

  When he was gone George thought about this man who had persisted in offering to buy Glen View. His investigators had learned that Tom Duffy was of Aboriginal blood, and had enlisted in the Great War under the guise of being of Indian blood. During the war he had been decorated for many acts of courage. He had a daughter, Jessica, to a French schoolmistress. She would be around seventeen years of age, by now. George knew which elite Catholic girls’ school Jessica attended, and that she was both very pretty and very intelligent.

  But it was Tom Duffy who intrigued him. The man had come back from the war to a fortune. How in hell had a blackfella made so much money? George stood to pace his library floor. He was worried because, although he really was not a superstitious man, something lingered in the deepest part of his psyche about the power of the old Darambal warrior, Wallarie. George had seen and experienced things he could not explain rationally. For some reason, he felt that the spirit of Wallarie – the last full-blooded member of the peaceful Aboriginal clan George’s great-grandfather, Sir Donald Macintosh, had slaughtered – might still be in this Tom Duffy and his daughter.