A Woman of Courage

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘We’re busy, Desmond. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Well now, Sara, I’m inclined to think it can’t, no.’

  He plonked himself down in a chair on the other side of her desk, a fat man with a fat smile. His eyes were red-veined; his breath would have fuelled a distillery but his mind, as Sara well knew, was a steel trap.

  Sara sighed. ‘Give us a few minutes, Alan. OK?’

  ‘Sure, Sara.’

  The young accountant gathered his papers and fled. Sara stared at Desmond.

  ‘So what is so urgent?’

  ‘I’ve just come back from lunch. You know, Sara, you should try it sometime. Amazing what you hear.’

  ‘Why do I need to do that? You aim to tell me anyway.’

  Desmond laughed. ‘Well, that’s true. I was talking with Micky Monaghan. Good man to know, Sara. Nobody’s got their ear closer to the ground than Micky Monaghan. He told me something interesting.’

  Desmond’s ego required that Sara coax the information out of him.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘He’s picked up a rumour that Haskins Gould is planning a raid on Brand Corporation.’

  ‘A rumour?’

  ‘That’s all it was. There may be nothing to it but I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Have you told Vivienne?’

  His eyes met hers. ‘I get the impression she has enough on her plate without bothering her with what may be no more than idle gossip.’

  ‘If that is what it is.’

  ‘Be interesting to know if it’s true or not,’ Desmond said. ‘Any thoughts on how we might find out?’

  Clearer than words, Desmond’s action in coming to her showed he regarded Sara as the boss in waiting. Very well; she would act like the boss.

  ‘There may be nothing to it but I doubt we can just ignore it. I’ll turn over a few stones, see if I can find anything. And thank you for bringing this to me.’

  Desmond knew a brush off when he got one. He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Next thing we’ll be calling you towkay neo,’ he said.

  Sara gave him a cold look. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said.

  Desmond hauled himself out of his chair. ‘Ladies man like Haskins?’ he said. ‘Hell, Sara, make him the right sort of offer and he might even tell you himself.’

  With the door shut behind him, Sara sat and thought.

  I was sure you’d know what to do… Yeah, right. But saying it and doing it were two different things. On the other hand what else had he said? Make him the right sort of offer…

  I’d dance on the moon before I’d do that, she thought. It wouldn’t work anyway. But she remembered what Hilary had said to her once.

  You will come across situations where you can’t do what you know must be done. When that happens get someone else to do it for you. That way you’ll get the job done.

  She thought about that for a while. Should she discuss it with Vivienne? Vivienne, after all, was the CEO. No, she thought. Vivienne wouldn’t approve and there was no point troubling her conscience if there was no need, right?

  She’d picked up a few dodgy contacts during her time with Channel 12. Maybe now was the time to use them. She picked up the phone.

  ‘Lou Masters? Sara Brand. I need a favour.’

  Ten minutes later she was talking to a woman who said her name was Dolores Morrison.

  2

  They met for lunch four days later at an upscale restaurant, chosen by Dolores, in Sydney’s east. Sara had understood that lunch would be on her, as would the services she wanted Dolores to provide.

  Dolores said she was twenty-three. She had a university education, an angelic smile and a way with her that Sara saw would be useful in her line of work. Dolores Morrison was demure in both dress and appearance but that was misleading because she was an escort and no stranger, she claimed, to industrial espionage. Sara’s contact had said she was the best in her field and she needed to be, the fee she was asking.

  Sara didn’t quite blink but it was close. ‘I’m in the wrong line of work,’ she said.

  ‘You want the best you have to pay,’ Dolores said.

  ‘So it seems,’ Sara said. ‘Obviously our arrangement is confidential. No word of it must get out.’

  ‘A blabbermouth wouldn’t last five minutes in my business,’ Dolores said.

  ‘Very well.’ Sara looked thoughtfully at the young woman working her way through her sole Veronique and was heartened: no false fastidiousness with this one. It was possible she was being set up but doubted it; it wouldn’t be in Dolores’s interests to double-cross her clients. She decided to trust her.

  ‘Does the name Haskins Gould mean anything to you?’

  Dolores smiled. ‘I like to keep up with the business scene,’ she said.

  ‘Very well. Then this is what I want you to do.’

  She spelt it out.

  Dolores listened intently while she worked her way through a large helping of strawberry pavlova, with cream. ‘You need to keep up your strength in my game,’ she said.

  Sara could well believe it. ‘You think you can do this for me?’

  ‘Haskins has a name for being a stud,’ Dolores said. ‘So that part should be easy. But whether I can get him to talk about his business interests is another matter.’

  ‘But that is the whole point.’

  ‘I know that. And I could easily say yes of course I can. But I don’t work like that. I mean, I can screw him half to death and ask him every question in the book but if he won’t tell he won’t. I can hardly torture him, can I?’

  ‘And if I offer you a bonus if you can get it out of him?’

  Dolores shook her head. ‘That’s part of the deal. Whatever he tells me I’ll pass on but if he won’t, he won’t.’

  Which Sara supposed was fair enough. ‘OK. We’ll give it a try.’

  ‘How do I meet him?’

  ‘The lord mayor’s giving a reception in three days’ time. I’ll get you an invite.’

  ‘Good. And it’s cash up front,’ Dolores said.

  ‘Half up front, half afterwards,’ Sara said.

  ‘No trust, no deal,’ Dolores said. ‘Cash up front. And before you ask, I don’t take credit cards.’ She gave Sara her angelic smile. ‘But lunch is on me.’

  3

  Watching from a distance amid the pomp and glitter of the reception, Sara thought that Dolores looked like a million dollars. Not surprising; the rates she charged, she was probably worth at least that. It was certainly an eye-catching outfit with more of Dolores on show than some might have thought appropriate, but Sara doubted Haskins would be too discouraged.

  She’d been scared Haskins would not be there but he was. They even saw each other briefly in the crush and he gave her his best crocodile smile, the one with the glint of teeth, which she returned in full measure. After that she lost sight of them but was confident Dolores would track her man down; confident too that Haskins would react the way she wanted. After that… It would all be in the laps of the gods and Dolores Morrison.

  The next day Dolores phoned. ‘We’ve made contact.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ll keep you posted. These things take time.’

  Now Sara was the one being given a brush off. Nothing she could do about it; she would just have to wait until Dolores got back to her. She walked into the bathroom that adjoined her office and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She spoke aloud.

  ‘Are you up to the job? Are you tough enough?’

  The reflection told her nothing but after a minute she nodded.

  Yes.

  Whatever she had to do she would do. And always, she knew, she would have Hilary to fall back on in case of need.

  INTO THE HONG

  1

  The car delivered Hilary and Craig straight to the resort. It was dark, the underwater lights of the swimming pool welcoming in the tropical night. They had eaten before they boarded the plane so didn’t go to the dining room but followed the port
er to their room. It was immaculately clean, the huge bed neatly turned down. There were paintings and Thai-style artefacts on the walls. A floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the small town of which nothing could now be seen but the flare of kerosene lanterns in the stalls that lined the main street and the faint shapes of people walking.

  ‘You want a drink?’ Craig asked.

  ‘No thanks. Me for a shower and bed.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said.

  ‘Might be handy if I wake up and feel lonely in the night.’

  ‘You think that’s likely?’

  ‘Tomorrow definitely. Tonight maybe not.’

  ‘Snivel,’ he said. ‘Sulk. No fun going on holiday with you.’

  Hilary patted his hand. ‘Poor baby. Tomorrow I’ll give you all the fun you want.’

  Before sleeping, with Craig already in bed and the room lights switched off, Hilary opened the bedroom’s sliding window and stepped on to the balcony. Lights burnt in the resort and down the hill. She heard the distant murmur of voices, a motor scooter drove down the road, but the faint sounds seemed to complement rather than disturb the silence.

  Her birthday was a week away; she felt strong, younger than her years. She drew the warm air into her lungs, aware of what she had seen ten thousand times yet never seen: the peaceful reaches of the night. The stars bore her up amid their blazing fires and a gush of heat, rising from her belly to her head, extended to embrace the peacefully murmuring town, a woman’s laugh, the incomprehensible vastness of stars and space. At that moment Hilary knew she was one with all things, no more than a particle yet significant because she was part of the whole and without her all creation would be diminished.

  Unexpected tears came to cleanse her spirit and Hilary Brand was filled with gratitude for her life: all that had passed, all that was still to come. The night overwhelmed her in an embrace of unbearable tenderness. Eyes blurred, face wet, she was conscious of something that was close to worship. Overhead was a glittering tent of stars.

  2

  The next morning was Christmas Eve. They went first to the beach. Off shore were many islands, jungle clad, their limestone cliffs rising vertically out of the waves. There was a slight heat haze; in the shimmering mist the islands looked like galleons under sail. A single-masted white yacht was anchored two hundred metres offshore with a rubber dinghy secured to its stern. As they watched two men climbed into the dinghy and headed for the shore.

  Further along the beach fishermen, bare chests and legs, were hauling their net. The net formed a semi-circle in the thigh-deep water. Two hundred metres down the beach another group of men had brought one end of the net ashore; where Hilary and Craig were standing a second group was now doing the same. There was excited shouting as the net was drawn closer to the sand. Hilary could see a growing agitation of the water. A fish leapt, brushing the top of the net, and with a flick of its tail escaped back into the sea while the net closed tighter on the fish still trapped within its diminishing circle. Finally the net reached the sand. Excited shouts from the fishermen as they ran back down the beach where the catch was leaping and splashing in the shallows. Within seconds the men were throwing the fish to a chattering group of women, who began packing them into open boxes. A young woman with a small girl at her side stood with a smiling face, begging a fish from one of the youngest of the fishermen. Eventually he pulled out a nice-sized one and tossed it to her. Her smile broadened delightedly. She shouted something in a harsh voice and snatched it up, hurrying away with her prize with the child scurrying after her.

  Hilary and Craig listened to the ribald laughter and mocking words of the other fishermen.

  ‘Want to try the same trick?’ Craig said.

  ‘Oh sure. That girl looked about eighteen.’

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ But, absurdly, was delighted.

  After the beach they explored the town. The two men from the yacht had drawn their dinghy up the beach and were now walking ahead of them up the main street. It was early yet already the stall owners were rigging awnings in preparation for the day. They stopped at one of them and drank strong black coffee before climbing back up the hill to the resort.

  Later they rented bicycles and rode out into the country. They passed paddy fields and palm trees with the heat-hazed sea an occasional blue blink through the vegetation, and Hilary was reminded of the day when Craig had first driven her to Rumah Kelapa. She gave him a brilliant smile as they free-wheeled down a hill into a tiny village clustered amid a plantation of rubber trees.

  ‘What a wonderful world we live in!’

  They dismounted and walked through the village. Everywhere were smiles and hands held palm to palm in greeting. Without words smiles had to suffice and did, and Hilary had a good feeling about the villagers and their presence among them. A building flew the Thai flag and they heard the sound of children’s voices.

  ‘Must be the school,’ Craig said.

  The villagers offered them coconuts and the red-skinned fruit that in Malaysia were called rambutans. They gave them a handful of baht, not knowing whether they were paying too much or too little, then mounted their bicycles and rode on through the countryside.

  Later they cycled back to town. They ate prawns and spring rolls at a stall and returned to the resort.

  ‘Tomorrow is Christmas Day,’ said Hilary.

  She was lying in the bath, glass of champagne in her hand, while Craig sat and admired her. Later still, with her full co-operation, he made love to her again and she thought she would never grow weary of his attentions or of the man who made them.

  3

  Saturday 25 December. She phoned the girls and she and Craig exchanged gifts before going to breakfast: a bolt of silk for her, Zeiss self-focusing binoculars for him.

  After breakfast they went for a stroll through the town but it was hot, the humidity climbing, and it wasn’t long before they headed back up the hill to the resort, where they spent a peaceful day overlooking the pool from the terrace of their room with only a plate of chicken sandwiches for lunch.

  The evening was a dressy affair. They had come prepared and at seven o’clock they went down to the decorated dining room, Hilary in an azure and silver gown from Armani and Craig in a sharkskin jacket he told her he had never worn since buying it five years before.

  ‘It still fits you,’ she said.

  The resort had done its guests proud with champagne and candlelight and Christmas crackers and a lavish seafood buffet.

  ‘Thank God it’s seafood,’ Craig said. ‘This is hardly the climate for roast turkey and Christmas pudding.’

  Hilary wouldn’t have minded a traditional dinner but supposed he was right: even though the dining room was air-conditioned you still had to live with your stomach afterwards.

  There was dancing with a three-piece band but they did not make a night of it; they had to be up early to meet the boatman who would be taking them to what they had been told was the most spectacular of the hongs, and to fit in with the tides they had to leave the resort no later than seven in the morning.

  ‘Why so early?’ Craig asked. ‘This is supposed to be a holiday, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Because you can only get through the entrance for two hours either side of low water.’

  ‘So we won’t have long there?’

  ‘Four hours should be plenty.’

  They went to bed and slept the sleep of the just and well fed.

  When they awoke it was Boxing Day. 26 December 2004.

  4

  They met the fisherman at the mouth of the narrow creek that emptied into the sea at the northern end of the beach where they had walked the previous day.

  ‘There she is,’ Hilary said.

  The fishing boat had a sharply cambered prow and rode high in the water.

  ‘It looks like a shark,’ Craig said. ‘Which I suppose isn’t a bad thing. But how are we supposed to get aboard?’

  There was o
nly one way. Neatly uniformed children were passing on their way to school as Hilary and Craig waded thigh-deep through the waters of the creek to get to the boat and haul themselves up and over the side.

  ‘I am an old man,’ Craig said, water streaming off him as he sat on the thwarts of the open cockpit. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to this sort of thing any more.’

  ‘You poor old soul,’ Hilary said. ‘And you so active in other ways.’

  ‘I fear I may be ruined for life.’ But he was smiling as he spoke.

  ‘You’d better not be,’ Hilary said. ‘I have plans for you.’

  ‘I feel better already,’ Craig said.

  One of the crew hauled in the anchor and the boat turned its bows towards the sea. The sun came warm and strong and the land began to slide back past them.

  It was a quarter past eight.

  Hilary pointed. ‘I see the fishermen are hauling their net again. That young woman is there again too. Probably she lives on the fish they give her.’

  ‘I wonder what she has to give them in return,’ Craig said.

  ‘She probably doesn’t have anything else to offer,’ Hilary said.

  There was a European family on the beach, the mother in a large sunhat, a child who was probably their daughter running ahead of them towards the water. Further along the beach other families were spreading towels, some children already in the sea. A ball was thrown; they heard shrieks of laughter; a dog ran cavorting along the sand.

  The white yacht was still there and they passed close to its stern. The morning was windless, the air sultry, and Hilary observed a German ensign hanging limply from its staff, a Thai flag no bigger than a handkerchief mounted on the mast’s starboard cross tree.

  The two men they had seen yesterday were in the yacht’s cockpit and now waved at them. Hilary waved back then realised they were trying to attract their attention. She spoke to the fisherman who slowed the motor. Only ten metres separated the two craft.

  She shouted across at the two men. ‘Can we help you?’

  The taller of the two men called back. ‘We were told this part of the ocean is called the Ring of Fire. We thought it must mean there would be volcanoes but we have seen none. We therefore ask ourselves why does it have this name?’