Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  On the other side of the world, Matthew Duffy stood on a newly constructed airstrip outside the former Ottoman city of Basra where the two great rivers of the Tigris and Euphrates met. Nearby, in the searing heat of the day, a couple of his flying service’s British fighter aircraft were waiting for a ground crew, due to arrive any minute.

  Behind Matthew was a vast shed of corrugated iron and timber housing the two civilian versions of the Vickers Vimy bomber he had purchased. He had painted on the nose of one the name Joanne and on the other, Kate – the two women in his life.

  Matthew was aware that a people called the Kurds living in the north of the country were in rebellion against the British occupation, and the Royal Air Force was flying bombing missions against their villages. There was talk that chemical weapons should be deployed against the rebels, and that idea was backed by Winston Churchill. Matthew was saddened by the continuing unrest as he wanted the war behind him, but in many places around the world, from Russia to the newly emerging Arab states, war still raged and many of the innocent were still dying. The complexities of political manoeuvring to secure resources ensured that the killing would go on, despite the Western world looking forward to a bright and prosperous new decade.

  Matthew’s appointed agent in Jerusalem, Saul Rosenblum, had advertised for a ground crew and interviewed the potential employees of the company Matthew had registered as Desert Airlines with the British civil service in Baghdad. Saul had grudgingly accepted Matthew’s request to act as his agent in Jerusalem; he had felt that he would be better off leading his people at their settlement but the generous pay had proved a compensation for the task. He had whittled the prospective employees down to five and they were expected very soon.

  When the lorry finally arrived at the airstrip, five new employees tumbled from the back to stretch their legs.

  Matthew strode over to the small cluster of people gazing around them at their new home. They had answered the advertisement published in English newspapers that promised adventure and good money.

  Matthew scanned their faces and stopped at the last one. ‘Bloody hell!’ he swore under his breath. The fifth member was a young woman, wearing overalls and a cap.

  ‘Welcome to Basra,’ Matthew said. ‘I am Matthew Duffy and, as you can guess, I am an Australian. Any of you Poms have any trouble with that?’

  They grinned and shook their heads. ‘Only if you don’t pay us,’ a voice said from the group, and they broke into laughter.

  ‘You will be paid if your work is up to the high standards I expect of you. I have housing organised for you and you can settle in after I take you for a look around the strip and its facilities. As you can see, the conditions are harsh but the money you make will compensate for that.’ Matthew’s eyes fell on the only female in the group and could see that she was strikingly beautiful. Her raven hair was cut short and her emerald eyes dominated a peaches and cream complexion. She noticed him staring at her and looked back defiantly, as if challenging him to question her right to be in his team.

  Matthew escorted the cluster to the vast shed and they inspected the two aircraft inside. A young Iraqi man stepped forward with a platter of fresh sandwiches and indicated a small table with a big teapot and china cups laid out. Matthew invited the group to take refreshments while he interviewed each one at a desk in the corner of the hangar.

  Each man came forward with his papers and Matthew was satisfied that Saul had chosen well. The last to be interviewed was the young woman and she placed her papers on the desk in front of Matthew.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Matthew said, flipping open her dossier.

  ‘I see that your name is Diane Hatfield and that you are eighteen years old.’ Diane nodded her head. ‘Why in hell did Saul accept you onto my team?’ Matthew said in a pained voice. ‘You are both very young – and a woman.’

  ‘I worked in the factory where we built the Rolls-Royce Eagle engines that your aeroplanes are equipped with,’ she said. ‘As my parents were killed in a Zeppelin bombing raid and my fiancé did not come back from the war, I had nothing to lose by applying for the position, Captain Duffy, and Mr Rosenblum seemed to think I was perfectly capable of carrying out the job.’

  Matthew relented. ‘My first instinct is to pay you off and send you back to England,’ he said. ‘But you remind me of someone I once knew who had the same adventurous spirit you seem to possess.’

  Diane turned her head to gaze at the two big aircraft in the hangar. ‘Was it Kate or Joanne?’ she asked.

  ‘Both,’ Matthew replied with a smile. ‘So long as you prove your worth, you have a job. I will arrange separate housing for you in Basra. Welcome to Desert Airlines.’

  ‘You will not regret your decision, Captain Duffy,’ Diane said gratefully. ‘I can work as hard as any man in the team. One day I hope to fly too.’

  Matthew glanced at the young woman. The world had certainly changed with the end of the war. He had no doubt that this slip of a girl would end up flying one of his Vimys one day.

  Outside the hangar Matthew could hear the two British light bombers roaring into life for a bombing mission over the desert in search of rebel formations. The sound was a reminder that the war had not really ended and the future was far from certain. The memory of Joanne was always with him in the silence of the beautiful desert nights, and on the other side of the world were his son and daughter who he had not yet held in his arms. Matthew swore that when he was settled he would go to them, but for now he had a job to do in establishing his airline in a very troubled part of the world.

  In England it was a warm summer’s day and Tom Duffy was glad to be out of his expensive hotel room and down in Hyde Park, watching a brightly uniformed military band playing for the well-dressed strollers in the magnificent gardens. He had been in London for over three months now and he missed the vast open plains of Queensland. His money had brought him respect from those he dealt with and provided funds for a firm of private investigators to find Juliet.

  Day after day he had waited for their reports, until this morning Mr Greaves, the head of the firm, had rung to say they had made a breakthrough.

  Now Tom stood in his tailored suit and bowler hat watching the band perform, waiting impatiently for the private investigator to arrive. He had said on the telephone that it would be better that they make contact this way and his news was both good and bad.

  ‘Mr Duffy,’ a voice said behind him. Tom turned to see the smallish, balding man in his late fifties. ‘I have some news for you.’

  ‘You have found Juliet, Mr Greaves?’ Tom asked, holding his breath in his excitement.

  ‘Sadly, I have some bad news on that front, Mr Duffy,’ the investigator said. ‘We were able to trace your fiancée to a poorhouse where she died in childbirth earlier this year.’

  Tom paled and fought to remain on his feet. ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Is the baby alive?’

  ‘That is why I arranged to meet you here, Mr Duffy,’ Greaves said. ‘The institution is a cab drive away and I have arranged to have us taken there to meet your daughter.’

  Tom was too stunned to speak and tears welled in his eyes. Juliet was dead, but he had a daughter. It was too much to take in at once. With a gruff attempt to wipe the tears away, Tom let the investigator lead him from the park to the street where a taxicab was waiting. They drove in silence along busy streets until they were almost at the establishment Greaves had located.

  ‘I have had to pay a fair bit of money to get doors opened for you to meet your daughter,’ Greaves said quietly.

  ‘You will be reimbursed,’ Tom replied, and the cab came to a stop. Greaves paid the cabbie and asked him to wait.

  Greaves and Tom walked up a driveway to the front door of a double-storeyed brick building. From the outside it did not appear to be a place that could be called a poorhouse, but rather it was more like an aging English manor house.

  Greaves knocked and was met by a plump woman wearing an apron. He removed his hat and spoke
to the woman. ‘I am Mr Greaves and the gentleman with me is Mr Duffy. We have an appointment with Doctor Mills.’

  The woman looked them over and ushered them into the dimly lit foyer of the institution. Tom could hear his footsteps echo as they were led down a corridor to a room with a glass partition on the upper half of the door engraved with the word Doctor. She knocked and a voice bade them to enter.

  Tom stepped through to see a young man behind a desk wearing a white lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck. He stood when Tom and Greaves entered the room.

  ‘So you are Mr Tom Duffy,’ the doctor said, extending his hand to Tom. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you. I was able to make some enquiries about you and learned that you had a distinguished service record in France.’

  ‘I just did my job,’ Tom replied modestly.

  ‘A DCM and bar as well as an MM – that is more than just doing your job, Mr Duffy,’ he said. ‘Mr Greaves contacted me last week and explained your situation. I suspect that you have learned of the fate of Miss Joubert. I would like to express my sympathy for your loss.’ Tom nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘I was the medical officer who delivered your daughter, Jessica,’ the doctor said. ‘Miss Joubert insisted that I promise that your daughter have her real father’s name registered on her birth certificate. I kept that promise, although I was not sure if you had survived the war. But here you are.’

  ‘Can I see my daughter?’ Tom asked.

  ‘The matron has gone to fetch her,’ the doctor replied, and just then the door opened and the matron walked in holding a small bundle in her arms. She passed the baby to Tom.

  Tom looked down into the bundle and was met with a smile from the baby, who was wide awake and gazing at up him. She reached up a little hand to touch him on the nose.

  Tears rolled down Tom’s cheeks and splashed onto Jessica’s face. She frowned in surprise before squawking her disapproval at being made wet by this stranger holding her.

  ‘Jessie, my love,’ Tom said softly. ‘Your mother is alive in you.’

  For Tom Duffy, the former tough soldier whose physical courage had borne him through some of the worst battles the Australian army had experienced, the little creature in his arms instantly became his whole world.

  James Barrington Snr received a telephone call that he was needed urgently at his office at his bank. The caller was one of his senior managers and he said that he did not wish to elaborate over the phone the reason that required his urgent attention.

  Barrington had his chauffeur drive him to his bank through leafy avenues and past splendid mansions to rival his own. His manager had sounded nervous, which was not like the man. Barrington wondered what was going on.

  He arrived at the bank and pushed past his staff to go straight to his office. When he flung open the door he was met by the sight of a well-dressed woman in her seventies sitting calmly at his desk, a teacup balanced in her hand. Barrington’s manager was standing by a window looking uncertain.

  James Barrington removed his hat and placed it on the hat stand.

  ‘Who is this woman and why is she sitting at my desk?’ he demanded.

  ‘This is Mrs Kate Tracy from Australia,’ the manager said quietly. ‘And she is now the owner of your bank.’

  Stunned, Barrington stared at Kate, who smiled back at him as she placed the cup and saucer on the great polished desk. Kate rose and walked across the room to him. He could see that she had once been a beautiful young woman, and time had not aged the beauty of her face with wrinkles and blotches.

  ‘Mr Barrington, it is a pleasure to meet with you,’ Kate said, extending her gloved hand.

  Without thinking, Barrington accepted the hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Tracy, but I do not know you.’

  ‘Well, you know me now, and I must apologise for the circumstances under which we have met,’ she said, smiling and withdrawing her hand. ‘As your manager has just informed you, I have bought your bank and you will soon receive the papers to confirm the purchase. I must apologise that I have done so without your knowledge. It seems that your shareholders were open to my rather generous offer. After all, that is the way of American business, is it not?’

  Reeling in confusion, James Barrington was trying to take in everything that was happening. ‘I will fight your takeover,’ he warned. ‘I have spent a lifetime building on my father’s achievements in banking.’

  ‘That may not be necessary,’ Kate replied, ignoring his threat. ‘I have purchased banks before and find that they are always a risk. You and I have something very precious

  in common, Mr Barrington, and I wish to speak with you in private about it.’

  Barrington turned to his manager and with a movement of his head dismissed the man from the room. Then he turned to Kate. ‘I cannot comprehend why an Australian would wish to buy an American bank, Mrs Tracy. You are out of your depth over here.’

  ‘Well, I could start by telling you that my dearly departed husband and father of my only son was an American citizen,’ Kate replied, removing one of her gloves. ‘So you might say that I have purchased your bank for sentimental reasons.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Barrington scoffed.

  ‘As I said, I find the banking system risky and would give back control of your bank to you, shifting my purchase to that of a major shareholder. I am sure you would not object to the injection of money from the purchase,’ Kate said, returning to the desk to sip from her cup of tea.

  ‘That would be acceptable,’ Barrington conceded, knowing he had little choice if he was to retain his principal bank. He had plans to extend and the extra capital would finance that move. ‘You said that we had something in common.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kate replied. ‘Our grandchildren.’ Barrington thought that he had heard wrong and gaped at Kate in shock. ‘Oh, I forgot to mention that my only son is Captain Matthew Duffy, who I believe you met late last year under tragic circumstances. I know the difference in surname is confusing but my son took on my maiden name when he enlisted many years ago against my wishes in the South African campaign against the Boers. He chose to retain my maiden name in honour of the men he served alongside and who died in the fighting.’

  ‘Goddamn!’ Barrington exclaimed.

  ‘All I ask is that I am able to see my grandchildren while I am here and I will draw up papers to switch the purchase to a stakehold in your bank,’ Kate said serenely, placing the cup of tea on the desk. ‘And this desk will be your desk again,’ she said, stroking the highly polished surface.

  Barrington stood at the centre of the room, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Mrs Tracy, you have a deal,’ he said, extending his hand once again. After all, his bank was his identity and he would have killed to have it back. He was smiling and Kate could see an expression of begrudging respect for her ruthless mission of blackmailing him. She accepted the gesture and returned his smile.

  ‘I feel that you and I should be able to get along in the future, Mr Barrington,’ she said.

  ‘I underestimated your son last year,’ Barrington said. ‘If I had met you earlier, I would not have made the same mistake.’

  ‘Well, I think it is time for us both to retire to your home,’ Kate said. ‘Your decision has made a grandmother a very happy woman, Mr Barrington.’

  ‘I have always said that those of Irish blood are cunning and not to be trusted,’ he said. ‘I will ensure that I am more careful in the future.’

  Within the day Kate Tracy held in her arms her reason for being on this earth. For she held in her arms the future of her blood line.

  AUTHOR NOTES

  During the 1950s I grew up on a soldier settler farm at a place called Warrawidgee, west of Griffith in New South Wales. At the end of a working day the settler families would gather at a crossroads where a former yank, Danny, ran a sly grog shop. As kids we would mingle with the adults: the ladies in the back of the shop swapping stories, the veterans shouting beers and talking of farming woes and, sometim
es, their war experiences. I vividly remember seeing the scars of war on the men drinking, and observing the lingering effects of what they called shell-shock. They were veterans of the Boer War, the Great War and more recently World War II and Korea. The Korean veterans were the youngsters. I listened to the men swap stories of action they had seen from the veldt of Africa to the hills of Korea, and only now do I truly appreciate that I was hearing history. Now, those men are just about all gone and even our World War II veterans are becoming scarce. Soon they, too, will be a memory.

  This book has been written with the thought that we must never forget the sacrifice generations of men and women have made to give us what we take for granted today. I am grateful to Professor Michael Roe’s lectures in Australian history at the University of Tasmania in the late 1970s, and it is to him that I owe a lot for research methods and inspiration to write this saga.

  The terrible influenza epidemic of 1919 has almost been forgotten. It has been said that if it had lasted another month or so, Western civilisation might have been set back a hundred years. Australia was able to quarantine the epidemic through far-sighted medical procedures, but the death toll was still horrendous. It could be said to be nature’s extension of the Great War as the conditions in the trenches weakened men and the disease was carried by them home to kill those they had fought to protect. It was a time when two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse rode the earth.

  In my research for this novel I was fortunate to have a former commanding officer of my old army reserve unit, the First Nineteenth Battalion of the Royal New South Wales Regiment, release his brilliant account of the battalion’s day-to-day life on the Western Front. Peter McGuinness is the author of Boldly and Faithfully: The Journal and in my many years of research rarely have I found a source so detailed of those terrible days. As such, most of the experiences of Sergeant Tom Duffy and his comrades are based on the actual events of the battalion’s experiences on the Western Front. This magnificent book is a day-to-day account from the battalion’s actual diary and brings readers closest to the conditions of what it was like for our digger ancestors. It is a collector’s item and may be purchased by contacting Bob Pink through email at bob.pink@optusnet.com.au. Limited editions are available from the publication of this historical record.