Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  Sean Duffy and Harry Griffiths met in an inner-city hotel for a counter lunch. It was Sean’s shout to celebrate their victory in having Jack Firth brought to heel. The beer tasted especially good when they raised their glasses over their lunch of lamb stew and potatoes. However, they had hardly taken a mouthful of the cold beer when the man himself appeared behind them.

  ‘Think you two are smart,’ Jack snarled. ‘It had to be you, Duffy, who had that bloody file sent to the inspector general.’

  Both men turned away from the bar to see the cold fury in Jack’s eyes. ‘I wouldn’t consider doing anything rash, Firth, if I were you,’ Sean said. ‘After all, there’s nothing more ex than an ex-copper.’

  Jack flinched but did not lose his composure. Sean could see that he was in a very dangerous mood.

  ‘Push off, Firth,’ Harry growled, clenching his fists. ‘Now you know what it’s like to be out on the streets as a nobody.’

  Jack appeared to back off, a bitter smile crossing his face. ‘It’s not over, you know,’ he said. ‘I have a long memory, and I wouldn’t be too cocky if I were you two.’

  ‘If that’s a threat,’ Sean said, lifting his glass of beer, ‘put it in writing, and send it to my office.’

  Firth did not reply but turned on his heel and walked out of the hotel, leaving Sean and Harry to stare at his departing back.

  ‘The bastard might have been kicked out of the police, but I know Firth,’ Harry said. ‘He’s still as dangerous as he ever was.’

  ‘I agree,’ Sean answered. ‘I’ve heard he’s working full-time for George Macintosh now, which can’t bode well for us.’

  ‘While Firth is alive he will always be a danger to us both,’ Harry said menacingly.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Harry, but he’s not worth it,’ Sean cautioned. ‘We survived too much to throw away what’s left of our lives on rubbish like him.’

  ‘Just dreaming, boss,’ Harry sighed and the two men returned to their plate of stew and cold beers. But Firth’s veiled threat echoed in Sean’s mind. George Macintosh and Jack Firth together were a formidable and extremely dangerous duo.

  George informed his wife over dinner that he was booked to travel to Glen View with Jack Firth.

  ‘That man,’ Louise said, raising a spoon of leek soup to her lips. ‘Why would you wish to have him travel with you?’

  ‘He will act as my assistant,’ George replied.

  ‘I have heard rumours that Inspector Firth was known as a brutal man when he was in the police force. What use could he be to you if you are simply going to Glen View to review the management of the property?’

  George looked irritated by his wife’s persistent questions. ‘Just remember who puts the food on the table and pays for your extravagant lifestyle,’ he snapped. ‘You should learn not to question how I choose to run the family companies.’

  After finishing dinner in silence, Louise excused herself to go to her room. She was troubled by her husband’s employment of the disgraced police officer, but even more troubled by the fact that Jack Firth would be travelling to Queensland with George. Louise remembered the stories she had heard of a curse on the family incurred by a terrible massacre of the Aboriginal people who had once roamed the lands now known as Glen View. It was said that the curse reached out to take the lives of the Macintosh men, and it seemed the curse did not discriminate between those who were good and those who were evil.

  Louise lay on her bed. She could feel the sweat from the warm summer’s evening drip between her breasts. She was heavy with child now and found the endless heat trying. She tried to shake the premonition that Giselle’s young son’s life was in danger, but she could not.

  Tom sat on the front verandah of Glen View with his hat on his lap. Hector MacManus gazed at the blackened plains around the homestead.

  ‘So old Wallarie is a kinsman of yours?’ Hector said. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Nothing about that old magic man would surprise me.’

  Tom shrugged. He didn’t know whether Wallarie was a magic man, but strange things certainly seemed to happen around him.

  ‘Go to Townsville, Tom. There’ll still be a job here when you get back,’ Hector said. ‘It’ll take some time to get to Townsville to see Mrs Tracy. She’s a grand lady, and the property adjoining this one is owned by her. For years, she’s been at the Macintosh family to purchase Glen View – curse and all.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the curse,’ Tom said quietly. ‘There’s not a man on Glen View who doesn’t believe this property has some kind of cloud hanging over it.’

  ‘It all goes back to when old Sir Donald Macintosh carried out a so-called dispersal – with the help of the Native Mounted Police. That must have been over a half-century ago. They slaughtered pretty well every man, woman and child they came across. Wallarie and a handful of survivors got away, and with the help of a whitefella, your namesake Tom Duffy, lived out in the scrub and exacted revenge on the Macintosh men employed in the massacre down at the creek. Every now and then the bones of the blackfellas turn up after a flood.’

  ‘Tom Duffy was my grandfather,’ Tom replied. ‘My father, Tim, named me after him.’

  Hector glanced at Tom. ‘It all makes sense,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I feel it in my bones that the curse hasn’t run its course yet. Maybe it’s my Gaelic blood that makes me superstitious about these things. On that subject, I have received notification that Mr George Macintosh will be arriving next week to inspect the management of Glen View. It’s possible I won’t be here when you return.’

  ‘He’d be a fool to fire you when there’s no better person to run this place,’ Tom said with genuine praise for the man he had come to respect and like.

  ‘He’s no fool from what I know of him, but he is a money-grubbing bastard who exiled his dead brother’s wife and son to this place so he could take possession their home in Sydney. I don’t know what he wants up here, but it can’t be good.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be back, Mr MacManus,’ Tom said. ‘I like it out here, and I like the work. Besides, there’s not much else a broke blackfella like myself can do for a living in this country. What I did for the country in the Great War doesn’t count for much now.’

  Tom rose and placed his hat on his head. His horse was saddled and Hector had generously provided him with supplies for the long journey across the semi-arid lands between Glen View and Townsville.

  ‘I was a soldier once,’ Hector said, rising from his chair and extending his hand. ‘I don’t care who you are. What counts is the heart a man has – and yours is a big heart, Tom Duffy.’

  Tom accepted the firm grip and then walked down the stairs to his horse tethered in the yard. He made final adjustments to the girth and leapt astride his mount. ‘See you when I see you, Mr MacManus,’ he called. Then he turned his horse’s head north-east to Townsville.

  ‘There’s a man coming up the driveway,’ said Kate Tracy’s young Aboriginal housemaid as she stared out the flyscreen door at the late afternoon shadows softening the hot day.

  Kate put down her sewing and rose from her chair. She could see a young man with a kitbag over his shoulder striding towards the house. Kate quickly put on her spectacles to get a better look.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed and flung open the door, brushing past her housemaid with her arms outstretched.

  ‘Hello, Mother,’ Matthew said, dropping his kitbag and embracing her, lifting her from the ground and swirling her about. ‘Sorry I didn’t write that I was coming. You know I’ve never been much for corresponding.’

  Kate did not answer because she was crying with joy. It had been four years since she’d last seen her son, and every day that passed had been agony, not knowing the fate of her one and only son. She did not know where to start with the many questions she had for him, but when he put her down she gripped his hand as if never intending to let it go.

  ‘Oh, Matthew,’ she said and led him toward the house where the young maid was watching with curi
osity.

  ‘Mary,’ Kate called. ‘Put on the kettle and bring out the biscuit tin.’ The girl disappeared into the house as Kate and Matthew walked up the stairs. Kate led her son to the cane chairs he was so familiar with and sat him down. She was still at a loss for words and stroked his hair instead.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Matthew said and Kate could see the colourful ribands on his uniform jacket awarded for his courage and service to his country. ‘And I’m afraid I’ll have to leave again soon.’

  ‘But you’ve just returned home, and there is so much that we have to catch up on,’ his mother protested. ‘Why do you have to leave?’

  ‘To return to Mesopotamia,’ he replied gently. ‘I can see an opportunity to establish an aircraft business to supply the oil men who will be arriving there.’

  ‘What of my grandchildren?’ Kate asked hopefully and Matthew shook his head.

  ‘I am afraid I made a deal with their grandfather,’ Matthew answered and went on to explain the terms of the contract that James Barrington and he had signed in Palestine. ‘But, when they are older, we may see to making other arrangements,’ he said. ‘I am sure that the formidable Kate Tracy will find a way to use her power and influence – and substantial fortune – to do that.’

  Kate frowned. Oh, but she would move heaven and earth to see her only grandchildren, and already the germ of an idea was forming in her mind.

  The tea arrived on a silver platter and Kate poured her son a cup. ‘Wallarie told me that I would be a grandmother before it happened,’ Kate said, pouring her own cup. ‘He came to me one night.’

  ‘Wallarie,’ Matthew frowned. ‘I thought he was still at Glen View.’

  ‘Ah, he came to me in a way you would scoff at, because you have become a man of engineering and science,’ Kate smiled. ‘But I knew.’

  The two sat talking until the sun went down behind the eucalypt trees and the white cockatoos began swirling noisily in the cloudless sky as they looked for a tree to roost in for the night. Matthew told his mother of Joanne and her death. She cried for his pain and they reminisced about friends lost to the war, such as Randolph Gates, the American who had worked for Kate on the property adjacent to Glen View. The war had taken so much, but at least it had returned Kate’s son to her.

  Over a dinner of corned beef and cabbage Matthew talked to his mother about his plans for a flying service on the other side of the world, and when the dinner was over and they had retired to the front verandah to finish the evening with the best whisky Kate had in her liquor cabinet, she agreed to become a silent partner and use her considerable wealth to capitalise Matthew’s dream. Matthew pulled out a packet of Cuban cigars and lit one. The night was warm with no breeze as they chatted. Suddenly Matthew rose to his feet and stared into the night beyond the house.

  ‘What is it, dear?’ Kate asked.

  ‘We have a visitor,’ Matthew replied.

  It was a man astride a horse; he was illuminated by the verandah’s lantern-light.

  ‘My God!’ Kate gasped. ‘It’s Tom Duffy!’

  Matthew turned to his mother with a questioning expression, but she was already picking her way down the stairs to greet Tom, now on foot and leading his horse. She gathered him to her in a warm embrace. Tom tethered his horse and was led up the stairs to meet his cousin.

  ‘Matthew, this is Tom, your cousin on my brother’s side,’ she said and the two men shook hands.

  ‘My mother’s told me about you,’ Matthew said warmly. ‘She said you served in France and Belgium.’

  ‘I see from your uniform that you saw a bit of the war too,’ Tom said.

  Matthew waved off the compliment. ‘I was over in Palestine flying with the AFC,’ he said. ‘Our war was not as bad as yours though.’

  Kate poured a tumbler of whisky for her long-lost nephew and sat him down on one of the chairs. As former fighting men will, Tom and Matthew fell into a conversation about their experiences, and Kate sat listening patiently, realising that what was happening was necessary for both men. The night drew on and Kate left her son and nephew to continue until the bottle was empty and they stumbled off to bed.

  Over a hearty breakfast Matthew and Tom sipped at their tea bleary-eyed with the toll the whisky had taken on them. Kate buttered toast and spread on Rosella jam.

  ‘You mentioned last night that Wallarie sent you here,’ she said to Tom.

  ‘He said that you would know about the stars that grow under the ground,’ Tom replied, his head aching.

  Kate frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but that is something I don’t know about . . . stars that grow under the ground? Whatever does he mean? You sent me an envelope from France last year with instructions that I was to open it if you did not return.’ Kate scraped back her chair and went to a sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a small but thick brown envelope. ‘It has remained sealed and I can now return it to you unopened.’

  Tom took the envelope, recognising his own handwriting, and stared at it for a moment. ‘I don’t remember sending this,’ he said. ‘I lost my memory after being wounded last year.’ Both Matthew and his mother expressed their concern as Tom stared at what was his own handwriting.

  Tom slipped open the envelope to reveal a bank passbook in his name. There was a letter with the passbook and some fancy-looking folded certificates drawn on a Swiss bank. Tom glanced at the letter and went directly to the signature before reading the contents. It had been written by a Captain Jack Kelly and the name brought memories tumbling back, of lying out in no-man’s-land and sniping unsuspecting German soldiers. Tom had a vague recollection of the officer who directed him in his one man operations.

  ‘Jack,’ he murmured and Kate and Matthew watched him with curiosity.

  ‘A letter from an old cobber?’ Matthew asked, now bravely attempting to consume the fried egg and bacon on his plate.

  Tom glanced up at Matthew. ‘He was a company commander I had and he became a friend – despite the fact he was an officer. He worked up in New Guinea gold pros–’ Tom’s voice trailed away. That was the link! He flipped open the bankbook and stared at the balance of his untouched account. ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Not some kind of bad news, is it?’ Kate asked, and Tom simply passed her the book.

  ‘Goddamn!’ Kate said, echoing one of her American husband’s favourite curses. ‘You’re rich beyond imagining.’

  Matthew forgot about his breakfast and rose to stand behind his mother and look over her shoulder at the balance. ‘Cobber, there’s enough money there to buy half the properties around Townsville.’

  ‘The stars that grow under the ground were diamonds,’ Tom said quietly. ‘I came across them when I was with our unit advancing on a French village. Captain Jack Kelly helped me convert them to cash through sources he had in the gem business. If I did not return the money was meant to buy Glen View from the Macintosh family and help out the mission station. It would have ensured Wallarie would always have his land – our land. Aunt Kate, you were meant to make the purchase and the property would have gone into the Duffy name.’

  Stunned, both Kate and her son stared at Tom.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘I’m going to ask you, Aunt Kate, to manage the money for me,’ Tom replied. ‘It seems that I have some kind of certificates for shares. I’m not good at managing money and I trust those of my own blood. I have something urgent to attend to in England, and when I return I’ll try to buy Glen View from the Macintosh family.’

  ‘I’ll ensure that your money is invested with the best returns,’ Kate said, touching Tom on the hand affectionately. ‘But you have enough money there never to have to work again, and I can tell you from my own experience that purchasing Glen View will not be easy. I have tried in the past, offering a good price, but the Macintosh family will not sell. Besides, you have enough money to buy any other property; two or three if you like. As for travelling to England – you can certainly do that – an
d travel first class,’ Kate laughed. ‘When you find her I hope to be at your wedding.’

  ‘I will be able to afford to have an old cobber from the battalion act as my best man,’ Tom said, forcing back tears. ‘Paddy Bourke and I saw out the war together and he is down in Sydney.’

  It was like a dream, Tom thought. It was the means to right so many wrongs in his life and that of those he cared for. He guessed that his old friend Paddy would have struggled when he returned home with his large family to care for, and times were tough for returned soldiers.

  Kate and Tom stood in the bank with its stuffy staff and smell of polished wood. Tom was dressed in his stockman’s clothes, and he and Kate were waiting to see the bank manager. As this was not Kate’s normal bank, she was not recognised by the staff. When Kate had requested to speak with the bank manager she had been treated in a very off-handed manner by the clerk behind the counter. He had made it plain that bank managers were beyond the requests of mere customers, and had only agreed to speak with the manager in his office when Tom had glowered at him ferociously.

  ‘A long time ago when I was a young woman in Cooktown during the gold rush,’ Kate said quietly so that only Tom could hear, ‘I had a similar experience with a bank manager who thought I was not worth the effort of seeing, so I bought his bank from under him and had him fired.’

  Tom burst into laughter, causing the staff behind the counter to glance at him nervously.

  Finally, the bank manager came out of his office. He was a small rotund man wearing a three-piece suit with a fob watch at his waist.

  ‘Yes, madam, what can I do for you?’ he asked in a condescending tone, eyeing Tom suspiciously.

  ‘I am Mrs Kate Tracy and this is my nephew, Mr Tom Duffy,’ she said. ‘I believe my nephew has an account with your bank.’