A Woman of Courage

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘You missed out, doll! But fortune favours the brave, ain’t that right? And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Then Monday 19 October, and Chicken Little was proved right when across the world, first in Hong Kong, then in Europe and the States, the sky fell in. By the end of October the Australian market was down over forty per cent.

  3

  In early November Hilary was alive financially, even flourishing. All the same, the shock was huge.

  She sat in her twentieth floor office at the antique desk that she’d bought in London two years earlier. It had cost a fortune. And what was it? A trinket; a statement of what she had become. A property mogul. It meant nothing. She was what she had always been: a woman, with the blood and guts of a woman. Only that. The rest… Trappings.

  She had escaped the October bloodbath unscathed yet knew how close she had come to losing everything.

  ‘Dumb luck,’ she told the silent air. ‘That’s all it was.’

  Again she remembered how in the moment of her birth she had come so close to death. Luck then; luck now.

  It didn’t seem enough. She thought it was time to reinvent herself. The market would be down the gurgler for months now, possibly for years. It would give her an opportunity to draw in fresh air, see new places, hear new songs. She would come back refreshed, stronger and more determined than ever. But where should she go?

  She paced to and fro around the office, stopped in front of the painting facing her desk: a jungle scene by Blackman with bamboos and ferns and mystery, a rippling stream running through it and fading at last into the distance. It had entranced her from the first.

  That was what she would do. She would go to Asia. She would discover the mystery of temples deep in the forest, follow jungle paths and hidden waterways, embrace renewal in the artefacts of the past.

  4

  Of course it was not as easy as that.

  She still had a business; she could not simply abandon it. Also she was in the throes of negotiating to take over a magnificent property on Sydney Harbour from its bankrupt owner. Her mother had died six months earlier so she no longer needed to visit her at the home where she had spent her last years but she had finally decided to move the corporate headquarters from Perth to the commercial hub of the east coast.

  She was satisfied that her deputy would be more than capable of running the show in her absence – she would keep in regular touch and would always be available to fly back if needed – but in the last few days she had become aware of a significant problem that would have to be sorted before she could think of going anywhere.

  There were also the girls. Jennifer was nineteen, Sara three years younger. Neither was living at home: Jennifer was at secretarial college in Victoria, Sara at boarding school in Bunbury. It was important that she should discuss her plans with them both.

  She had hoped Jennifer would go to university but she wasn’t academically inclined and secretarial college had seemed the best alternative. She had chosen Melbourne because a friend was going there and they would be company for each other. Hilary had wondered how Jennifer would make out – she had never shown the toughness of character to be truly independent – yet she had survived well. Now she showed no concern that her mother might be disappearing off the radar for several months.

  ‘Or maybe longer,’ Hilary said.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘If I knew the answer I’d tell you.’

  Which seemed to satisfy Jennifer. Certainly she asked no further questions. They had always been something of an enigma to each other.

  When she talked to Sara in Bunbury she found her younger child a lot more inquisitive.

  Mother and daughter sat at a window table in a Victoria Street café and looked out at the arcaded shops and overhanging trees on the other side of the road. Traffic passed to and fro as they ate individual fruit pies and drank: coffee for Hilary, a banana smoothie for Sara.

  ‘The pies are good,’ Hilary said.

  ‘They’re home made.’

  ‘And taste like it.’

  ‘Looks like I’ll be in the hockey team next year,’ Sara said.

  ‘That’s nice. How are the studies?’

  ‘Good.’

  Sara did not elaborate but Hilary knew she was telling the truth; she made it her business to keep an eye on her children’s academic progress. Coming from an educationally underprivileged background that would always be a matter of great importance to her and the school head had told her Sara was one of their brightest pupils.

  ‘Any thoughts what you want to do when you leave school?’

  ‘I’d like to get involved in the media. Television.’

  ‘I missed out on Channel 12,’ Hilary said.

  Sara slurped her drink; the window rattled as a large truck powered past. ‘Are you disappointed?’

  ‘I was at the time. But the way things worked out I was lucky. It meant we were able to ride out the storm.’

  ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘It still is. We haven’t seen the end of it, not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Is that why you’re going away?’

  ‘Partly.’

  Sara thought for a while before answering. ‘Are you hoping to find out things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About yourself?’

  ‘Mainly, yes.’ Sara’s adult awareness never ceased to amaze her. ‘I suppose you could say about life generally.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Southeast Asia. Apart from that I don’t know at this stage.’

  ‘Going walkabout?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘However long it takes. Six months. Maybe longer.’

  ‘But you’ll keep in touch?’

  ‘Every week.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’

  ‘What’s keeping you?’

  ‘There’s a problem at work.’

  ‘Serious problem?’

  ‘Unfortunately yes. But I’ll sort it out.’

  ‘I wish I had your self-confidence,’ Sara said.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ her mother said.

  5

  The problem was serious indeed because Haskins Gould had been cheating her. Systematically, over several years, he had been siphoning off development funds to play the stock market in his own name – and he’d made millions from it, at least on paper: millions that weren’t his. Hilary would never have found out had the market not crashed. But it had and Haskins had been caught, unable to repay what he still insisted had only been a loan. Now she and Brand Corporation were out two and a half million.

  ‘A loan, for God’s sake!’ Haskins tried to look fierce, missed by a mile. ‘No need to get your knickers in a knot. I’ll pay it back.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Hilary. She waited a beat. ‘When?’

  He spread his arms like a drowning man. ‘Soon as I can.’

  ‘And how, exactly?’

  Haskins hated to be pinned down. ‘Listen, Hilary, it’s the market. You know that. As soon as things pick up again –’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whadda you mean?’

  ‘I mean I am not prepared to wait.’

  ‘Don’t come hard-nosed on me,’ he said. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I expect you to find the money and pay back what you’ve misappropriated.’

  ‘Misappropriated? What the hell d’you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean stolen. As in theft.’

  Hilary’s glare would have flayed the skin from a man less brazen faced than Haskins Gould. The money mattered but what really hurt was her loss of faith in a man she had thought she could trust. Yet at another level of her mind she knew she was not surprised; Haskins had always sailed close to the edge. Knowing that, Hilary was furious: not that Haskins had tried to do her down but that she had been trusting enough to let him. She would nev
er forgive either of them for that. She remembered what the sub-contractor had said when they’d been building the Busselton Mall. Cuts more corners than a grand prix driver. How right he had been.

  ‘I mean I want my money and I want it now.’

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘Then find it. I’ll give you six weeks.’

  ‘Do me a favour! How am I supposed to find two and a half million in six weeks?’

  ‘You’ve got assets. That mansion in Point Piper. Sell it.’

  ‘The market like it is? I’ll be lucky to get half what I paid for it!’

  ‘That’s not my problem.’

  Haskins was incoherent, huge hands flailing, spit flying. ‘That’s right. Kick a man when he’s down. What kind of bitch are you, anyway?’

  ‘A bitch who wants her money back.’

  He would have killed her if he could. His shoulders hunched. ‘You sure know how to make an enemy, Hilary.’

  He had frightened many in his time but Hilary was not so easily scared. ‘You did that, Haskins, when you broke our trust.’

  ‘That right? Then I’ll tell you something else. You’ll get your money. But I’ll be back. And I shall make it my business to bring you down, Hilary. You can take that to the bank!’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ she said. Contempt larded her voice.

  She never knew how he managed it but somehow he came up with the money with two days to spare.

  ‘All present and correct, right? Storm in a teacup, right?’

  ‘I have never been fond of tea,’ Hilary said.

  1988–89

  HOUSE AMID THE COCONUTS

  1

  In July 1988, after seven months wandering the byways of Southeast Asia, Hilary met Craig Laurie in a tearoom on the summit of the three-thousand-foot peak called Penang Hill.

  She had arrived on Penang Island the previous afternoon after a hot and frustrating trip from Trang in Southern Thailand. The coach had been crowded, the air-conditioning had broken down and by the time they finally crossed the bridge to Penang Island Hilary had felt as limp as a badly wrung-out dishcloth and was thoroughly fed up with herself. A woman nearing fifty on a pilgrimage to nowhere: where was the sense in that?

  Now, a day later, she was squashed into another crowded space and asking herself the same question. She had been talked into making the half-hour train journey up the mountain by an English tourist whom she had met the previous evening, and was now bitterly regretting her decision. The train was packed. Jammed with twenty other people into a space the size of a lavatory Hilary had mislaid her companion somewhere in the mob. Hot bodies crushed her on every side and Hilary spent the journey staring at the back of a man’s sweaty neck and praying the ordeal would soon be over.

  By the time the train reached the summit she was in the mood to cut throats. She found Ruby Dyer, the English tourist who had battened on to her the previous afternoon. Thankfully she sucked fresh air into her lungs as she walked out of the station, only to find herself trapped in the midst of another crowd staring and exclaiming at the view of the city and coastline far below.

  ‘Look at that, Hilary! Come and look!’

  Ruby was enthusiasm on steroids but what Hilary wanted was not a view but a refuge, somewhere to sit in the shade, drink coffee and luxuriate in the cooler air of the hilltop.

  ‘Let’s keep moving,’ she said.

  And she did so, leaving an overweight Ruby struggling to catch up.

  Miracle of miracles, Hilary found what she wanted in a colonial-style bungalow in its own grounds, approached up a steep gravel path. Beyond a hedge and old-fashioned wooden gate an expanse of shaded lawn was bordered by flowering shrubs and a table, to which a deferential waiter brought scones and jam, with real cream in a silver bowl and coffee for Hilary, a pot of tea for her companion. It spoke of a more gracious age and Hilary’s clenched nerves began to relax.

  Ruby, hot and flustered, departed in search of a Ladies while Hilary leant back in her chair, breathing the delights of solitude for the first time since her companion had homed in on her by the hotel swimming pool the previous afternoon, entangling her in the relationship with which she was presently afflicted.

  During her Asian walkabout Hilary had turned her back on fancy hotels but yesterday had thought this one would do as a base while she looked for a small cottage out in the country where she could feel close to the earth. It was a relationship she had lost in recent years; only now was she beginning to rediscover how important to her it was.

  A European man in his fifties came out of the bungalow, walked down the steps from the entrance and strolled across the close-clipped lawn towards her. He was tall and lean, with dark hair cut short and good shoulders, and was wearing a dark blue shirt and cream cotton trousers. He looked all together and purposeful and Hilary thought he might be interesting.

  ‘G’day.’

  Another Australian? Better still. She smiled up at him. ‘G’day.’

  ‘On holiday?’

  ‘Sort of. And you?’

  ‘You could say I’m on holiday all the time.’ He grinned. ‘I live here.’

  That was interesting, too. He was surely too young to be retired. An artist of some kind? An international criminal?

  ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’m waiting for a friend,’ Hilary said. It was only fair to warn him.

  He smiled but remained standing. ‘I saw her. I was sitting on the veranda when the two of you arrived. She looked a little flustered.’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Batu Ferringhi. The Maharani.’

  ‘Where all good tourists go when they die,’ he said.

  ‘And maybe some not-so-good ones, too.’

  He laughed. ‘We live in hope,’ he said. ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Hilary.’

  She was cautious about revealing her surname, especially with Australians. Hilary Brand had become famous – some would have said notorious – as one of the few tycoons who had walked away unscathed from the market crash that the previous October had left the battlefields of the financial world littered with the dead and dying. Skase, Bond, Rivkin, Connell, Holmes à Court and a dozen others were gone or seriously wounded. All had been much more famous than she but Hilary Brand had always been a private person who preferred to leave the headlines to others.

  ‘Craig Laurie,’ he said.

  Ruby had emerged from the bungalow and was making her way across the grass towards them.

  ‘I see your friend is coming,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  A smile of the well shaped mouth, a flick of the hand and he was gone. Hilary watched him go out the gate and disappear.

  ‘Who was that?’ Ruby said.

  ‘Some bloke passing the time of day,’ Hilary said.

  A pity he hadn’t stayed. She had rather liked the look of him.

  2

  The next morning he turned up at the hotel.

  The sun was barely clear of the horizon but Hilary was an early riser and had already been for a walk along the beach. Now she was breakfasting on the terrace and wondering what joys Ruby had dreamt up for today. A trip to Tanjong Bunga, perhaps. Take in the shops. Exclaim over brocaded cloth in an Indian store. Pick up a cheap memento or two to take home. Even the thought irritated her. The day before she had gone along with Ruby’s plans but enough was enough. Now it was time to reclaim her life.

  She would hire a car, explore the back blocks, see something of the country. Forget Ruby. There would be hills out there, patches of emerald paddy and coconut groves, tiny kampongs away from the coastal strip. That was what she wanted. You could keep the shops.

  She paused in the act of buttering a croissant and there Craig Laurie was, as tall and trim as she remembered, his outline silhouetted against the morning sky.

  Startled but pleased, she smiled up at him. ‘I didn’t know you were staying here.’

  ‘I’m not. I came to look for you.�
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  A nerve jumped in Hilary’s stomach. She finished buttering the croissant, added a dab of strawberry jam and took a bite. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘To ask if you’d like to spend the day with me.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better sit down,’ Hilary said.

  He did so. She saw that his eyes were the same dark blue as his short-sleeved shirt. Saw, too, that his sun-browned arms were strong, the flesh firm and well muscled. Again that dangerous nerve flipped in her stomach.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She raised her hand and the waiter came at once. She continued to eat her croissant, watching Craig thoughtfully. The smell of gardenias from the garden was very strong.

  ‘Does this invitation include my friend?’

  ‘Just you.’

  ‘And how would we spend the day?’

  ‘I thought a drive through the country. Get away from the mob for a while.’

  ‘Why do you suppose I might want to get away from the mob?’

  ‘You were at Brown’s Restaurant on Penang Hill,’ he pointed out. ‘You wouldn’t have been there if you liked crowds.’

  It was an enticing prospect. And with this man…

  That nerve was on overtime now.

  ‘There is a waterfall in the hills,’ he said. ‘It has a pool at the bottom. By tropical standards the water’s cool. Bring bathers; we could swim. Afterwards we could have lunch. I know a restaurant with an outside terrace. The owner will cook up something special for us if you can handle Chinese food.’

  Hilary could handle Chinese food very well. And his suggestions fitted perfectly with her inclinations. And yet…

  She didn’t know this man. Caution was clearly called for; then she pictured the waterfall high in the hills, the water that by tropical standards was cool. She thought of Ruby brimming with bright ideas how they might spend the day. She thought, to hell with caution.