Storms Gather Between Us
Page 1
Storms Gather Between Us
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Copyright
For my siblings Tom, Sebastian, Eileen and Anne-Marie
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Matthew Arnold, from Dover Beach
Former coal mine owner executed for the murder of his son
John William Kidd, aged 57 years, was hanged at Willagong Prison this morning. Kidd was convicted of the murder of his eldest son Nathaniel Kidd, aged 29 years, an Anzac who served his country at Gallipoli.
Kidd refused the chance to say any last words before the execution was carried out at six thirty. A witness said Kidd appeared resigned to his fate.
Sentenced in May after a three-day trial, Kidd’s crime shocked the town of MacDonald Falls where the Kidd family lived and where John (known as Jack) Kidd was the owner of the Black Rock Colliery.
Sydney Mail, July 12, 1926
* * *
Body recovered from Glebe Harbour was murderer’s daughter
The body of a young woman pulled from Glebe Harbour three days ago was that of Mrs Henrietta Winterbourne, aged 22 years. Mrs Winterbourne was estranged from her husband, Michael Winterbourne, who is believed to have left Australia a year ago. The coroner recorded a verdict of suicide, possibly while of unsound mind. The victim was the daughter of John William Kidd of MacDonald Falls, NSW, who was executed at Willagong Prison last year for the murder of his eldest son, Nathaniel, 29. Police reported that efforts had been made to notify Mrs Winterbourne’s surviving brother, William Kidd, next of kin, but without success.
Sydney Mail, March 6, 1927
Chapter One
Zanzibar, Africa, October 1937
When the SS Christina slid into the dock, the sun was burning down and the cool ocean breezes were now behind them. Will Kidd loved to feel the sun on his skin – the heat was like food to him, nourishing, burning the life back into his body from where it had been drained away by the cold gloom of the transatlantic runs he’d been doing the previous year. The sun reminded him of home, Australia, where he knew he’d never return, no matter how much he wanted to.
He breathed deeply, drawing the warm air into his lungs, savouring the smell of the land after weeks at sea. Standing on the foredeck, Will watched the gulls circling the boat hungrily, ready to swoop and dive to the surface of the water to scoop up any scraps of food thrown from the ship or the dockside. Ahead, the land throbbed with heat and, under the distorting haze of the sun, the port was a vibrant splash of primary colours, as brown-skinned bearers carried sacks of grain and cotton, bales of bright-hued fabrics and baskets overflowing with tropical fruits and spices. Will could smell the rich aroma of those spices in the air, mingling with the tang of salt from the ocean and the sharpness of sweat from the procession of labouring men as they carried produce between ships and warehouses.
It took several hours to partially unload the Christina of the cargo designated for Zanzibar and replenish her hold, then Will and most of his shipmates were at liberty. This would be only a brief stopover – the ship would sail on the first tide next morning, not long after dawn, but until midnight they were free to enjoy the sights and sounds of Zanzibar, to explore its bazaars, drink their fill in its quayside bars, and sample the delights of its spicy cuisine.
The ground on the dockside underfoot was hot as a gridiron. Prostitutes were evident everywhere, calling out to the men as they swaggered by, knowing the sailors could have been weeks at sea without the comfort and pleasure of a woman’s body. Some men succumbed, peeling away from the group, happily led by the hand by smiling white-toothed women with skin like burnished ebony. Will never gave them a second glance. A seasoned sailor after ten years at sea, he knew the best-looking women didn’t need to go near the quay, didn’t need to hunt their own game, because it came to them.
With his crew-mate and friend, Paolo Tornabene, Will headed straight to a tall, narrow building in the heart of Stone Town. It was a bar, not a drinking dive, a meeting place not a brothel. Tonight it was doing a brisk trade when the two men arrived. Efficiently run by a Lebanese woman, it was always packed, known to serve the best food this side of the Indian Ocean. Men were being turned away at the door, but there was always a place for Will here at Rafqa’s.
The owner, Rafqa Papas, was a widow. She had moved to Zanzibar, as a newly-wed, nearly twenty years ago from Beirut with a husband who died soon after they arrived, leaving her childless and penniless, with only a run-down, ramshackle building. Rafqa had transformed it into this thriving bar, restaurant and guest house. These were the only facts known about her. Yet if Will were to be honest with himself, he also knew she was more than a little in love with him – but he chose not to let himself think about that.
Rafqa’s place was always buzzing, the food and drink accompanied by live jazz music – the singers handpicked by Rafqa as much for the beauty of their faces as the melody of their voices.
Tonight there was a mixed crowd at the tables, mostly men: crews from other ships, merchants and traders, British and German settlers in Zanzibar to do business, assorted consular officials of varying nationalities, the odd policeman and, this evening, a table of four Germans, two of them in naval uniform and sporting the sinister-looking swastika. Someone had once hinted to Will that Rafqa was a spy – possibly for more than one country. Will didn’t know if there was any truth in the rumour, and to be honest he didn’t care. A place like Zanzibar was probably full of spies and no one would be better placed to fill that function than Rafqa Papas, whose establishment was patronised by men of all nations and stations. Everyone who was anyone went to Rafqa’s.
Will walked into the bar with Paolo, navigating their way through the crush to the only vacant table. All he wanted was to drink. He’d probably eat some food, not out of hunger, but because Paolo would insist upon it – the young Italian had evidently appointed himself Will’s protector and conscience. All Will wanted – all he ever wanted – was to find oblivion, to drink as much as he could, then pass out, preferably in the arms of a woman, and tonight that woman would probably be Rafqa.
She saw him as soon as he came in, and threw him a wide grin, but carried on with whatever she was doing behind the bar. Will liked that about her – she never demanded anyt
hing, never allowed herself to appear needy, didn’t pepper him with questions. Instead, she just accepted what he offered when it was offered. He had no illusions that she lived like a nun between his visits – but whenever he was on the island she was there for him. As Zanzibar was a regular call for the Christina he had seen a lot of her.
Right now, though, he wanted to get drunk, to feel the bitter tang of the spirit in the back of his throat, the burning warmth as it spread through his veins, the feeling of numbness that soaked through his whole body as the liquor hit his bloodstream and deadened the pain. Oblivion. That was what he craved. To wipe out the thoughts that crowded his head when on dry land, clouded his judgement and screamed at him constantly that he was a failure and, at barely thirty, had squandered his life away.
Once they had eaten, Paolo left to return to the ship, after reminding Will to be back on board by midnight. ‘I tell you again, my friend, don’t be late. Il Capitano has said one hundred times that next time anyone late, they off his ship.’
Will just waved a hand, impatient for his friend to be gone and off his back. He lifted the bottle and refilled his glass. The table of Germans had been joined by Rafqa. He could hear her low laughter across the room. She was flirting with the four men. Suppressing a momentary spasm of jealousy, he moved his chair to face away from them and towards the band. After a few minutes, he glanced around and saw that Rafqa was now in conversation with one of the non-uniformed Germans. There was no laughter now – and whatever they were discussing appeared to exclude the other three. A few minutes later, out of the corner of his eye, Will saw the man go outside. Rafqa was leaning over the table laughing with the others, then she followed the first man, slipping through a side door, unnoticed by anyone but Will. What was she doing? He told himself it was none of his business. Ten minutes or so later, she was back at her usual station perched on a high stool at the bar.
It was after eleven when Rafqa finally wove her way between the tables to join him. By now, Will was enveloped in a warm shawl of fuzziness. Drink always helped to numb the pain and assuage some of the guilt that had plagued him since his father’s death.
She slipped into the seat opposite. Her perfume was light but heady and Will would have liked to bury his face between her breasts and breathe it in.
‘You drink too much, William,’ she said, sighing lightly and smiling. She stroked his hand briefly, but tenderly. ‘It makes you imagine things are better but it doesn’t change anything.’
Her voice always excited him. Warm treacle, slightly breathy, rich, resonant, wrapping him up. He looked up from his whisky to study her. She was a beautiful woman. Older than him – maybe even by as much as ten or fifteen years. Her dark brown eyes were silent promises and he felt a sudden wave of lust crash over him.
Rafqa leant forward and brushed away a lock of hair from his brow. ‘You look tired, William. Maybe too tired?’ Her voice was husky.
‘I’m not tired,’ he said. ‘Not any more. And never for you.’
She smiled, and for a moment he glimpsed the sadness behind the smile – the finest of frowns, the hint of forlorn hope in the two dark pools that were her eyes. Then the expression had vanished, replaced by the brisk efficiency that characterised her.
‘Everyone seems happy enough.’ She swept her arm expansively around the room. The bar was packed: more women here now, the band playing softer, more romantic tunes and a few couples moving slowly around the small dance floor. ‘I think they can get on with it now and I can leave them in Bebe’s capable hands.’
She looked towards the portly, silver-haired Arab behind the bar, then inclined her head in the direction of the table of Germans.
Will saw the uniformed men were getting to their feet and were leaving with four young women.
‘I thought I might have some trouble from them,’ she said. ‘But they’re full of schnapps and have just settled the bill. Now they’ve other things on their mind.’
Will too had other things on his mind and reached over the table for her hand. He pulled her to her feet and drew her towards him.
Rafqa pushed him away. ‘Not here. It doesn’t look right. I don’t want people getting the wrong idea about me. Give me five minutes, then come upstairs.’
She moved off, pausing on her way between the tables to say the odd word to a customer, then she was gone, through the curtained doorway at the back of the room.
Will drained his glass, studied his watch impatiently, then when the five minutes had passed, crossed the room and went through the beaded curtain.
To his surprise the whisky had dulled neither his desire nor the ability to satisfy it. Had it done so, he was certain that the sight of Rafqa standing naked in a pool of moonlight, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her perfume filling the room, would have been sufficient to revive him.
Afterwards, exhausted from their efforts, Will lay on his back while Rafqa got up from the bed, draped a silk robe around herself and went to sit cross-legged on a rug by the window, where there was a large hookah. Will watched her, desire coursing through his body again, as she mixed some of the contents of a tobacco tin with that of a small wax-wrapped parcel, and placed everything in the bowl of the hookah. ‘Nothing but the best for you, William.’ She stirred a few drops of honey into the mixture, then covered it with mesh, placed charcoal on top and lit it. Putting the pipe in her mouth, she took a long, slow inhalation, then signalled Will to join her.
He breathed in the hashish, drawing it deep into his lungs, immediately feeling his nerves numbing, his heart pounding, pulse racing, thoughts fading away into a sublime nothingness, a mellow intensity of perception. Time slowed down. He looked at Rafqa. She was bathed in the moonlight again and her silk gown had slipped from one shoulder. Suddenly he felt an overwhelming tenderness for her. It was more than desire. In that moment he loved her. Would have laid down his life for her. His usual reticence gave way to a wish to tell this woman everything, to lay himself bare, pour out his heart, reveal the innermost workings of his soul.
* * *
Next morning, Will woke in a tangle of limbs. Unravelling himself from Rafqa he went to stand at the open window, which looked out over the roofs of the city. On some of the nearby buildings he could see women already up and doing their washing on the flat rooftops, in the half-light before the sun came up fully and made working more arduous.
His head was pounding, his mouth raw and his stomach queasy – the delayed penalty for the deadly combination of hashish and whisky. Glancing back at the bed, where Rafqa lay, naked, her long hair spreading across the pillow, he heard the soft snoring stop, and she opened her eyes and smiled at him. The smile conveyed much and, although he could remember little of what had passed between them the previous night, he felt a twinge of guilt. He knew he had shown her more tenderness and affection than their casual relationship warranted. The drugs did that sometimes – suppressed lust and replaced it with strong feelings of affection and tenderness that were closer to romantic love than Will intended. While the details were blurred he knew they had made love rather than having sex. He turned away and stared out of the window. He didn’t want her getting the wrong idea about his feelings for her.
Behind him she rolled off the low bed and moved across the room. He could hear rattling and realised she was making coffee. Rafqa made great coffee, so thick you could stand the spoon up in it, the sweetness of sugar softening the bitter strength of the arabica. Worth waiting for. Pulling on his trousers he looked at his watch. It was after five and getting light already. He needed to get a move on. But he didn’t want to forgo the coffee and knew there was no likelihood Captain Palmer would fulfil his threat to sail without him. He was already hours past the midnight deadline.
Rafqa handed him the cup. The liquid was boiling hot and he blew on the surface to cool it. She was wearing the silk wrap again and in the cold light of the dawn he could see the fine lines around her eyes. Still beautiful though. She moved towards him, reaching out with her
hand but Will pretended he hadn’t noticed and stepped backwards, trying not to acknowledge that she had flinched, trying to ignore the hurt in her big soulful eyes.
Desperate to lighten the tension between them and restore some normality, he said, ‘Who were those Germans last night?’
She shrugged. ‘Two from a ship that docked yesterday. Naval officers. I don’t know who the other two were.’
He looked up at her as he sipped his coffee. He knew she was lying. Rafqa knew everything that happened in Zanzibar. ‘I saw you talking to one of them. Didn’t look like you didn’t know him.’
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Jealous, William?’
‘I didn’t like the look of him. I don’t like to think of you hanging around with Nazis. I’m fond of you, Rafqa.’
Another dry laugh. ‘Business.’
‘You should keep away from the Germans. I don’t trust them.’
She brushed the hair away from his brow. ‘There will be a war, William. Maybe not this year or the next, but soon. You need to wake up and make some choices. Stop letting life just pass you by. Decide where your loyalties lie.’
‘Are you telling me yours lie with the Germans?’ He was incredulous.
‘How can you even ask me that? How could I ever support such a regime with its plan to people the world with the so-called master race.’ Her voice was angry, contemptuous. ‘My country was under the rule of the Ottomans and now has to suffer decisions being made for us by the French. I’ve seen so much hatred and fighting because of religious differences. I am a patriot and a believer in freedom. Do you have any idea what Hitler has been doing in Germany, in Austria and Czechoslovakia? Do you have any idea what he’s capable of?’
‘I’m not interested in politics.’
She snorted in derision. ‘Politics! You don’t know the meaning of the word. My freedom and yes, your freedom too, William, are at risk if Hitler isn’t stopped.’