Territory

by Judy Nunn

  Another glance from the youth to the woman. Once again his gaze quickly averted lest she herself should turn and perceive his unashamed adoration. Painstakingly, the tip of his tongue protruding from his lips, Pieter concentrated upon his task. ‘Quantity—one—Silver pendant with diamonds inset …’ he wrote, the nib of the pen scratching on the rough paper as he entered the description and the payment into the ledger, all the while longing to look up and once more feast his eyes on her. For nineteen-year-old Pieter had never seen so beautiful a woman. A woman of breeding, it was obvious. Tall, slender, her face framed by a heart-shaped bonnet, her thick auburn hair captured by the bonnet’s lace cowl. Even as Pieter entered the sum in the ledger, he could see, through the shadows of his sandy eyelashes, the aquiline profile, the proud tilt of her chin and the regal bearing of her shoulders as she gazed out of the window. Pieter daren’t look up. Any moment she might turn, and those magnificent, ice-blue eyes might scorn him, that fine, arched brow might furrow with disapproval, for he was far beneath her. He, the lowly youngest son of a diamond merchant, albeit a master craftsman, and she a fine lady. Why, she might read something untoward in his admiration. Something sinful. And Pieter would feel shamed.

  But Lucretia van den Mylen did not turn from the window. She stood in the second-floor showroom of the merchant’s house and continued to stare out over the Keizersgracht. What an elegant city Amsterdam was becoming, she thought. Even now, before the final stages of the Prinsengracht construction had been completed.

  The three major canals, the Herengracht, the Keizersgracht and the Prinsengracht, were an engineering feat of which all Amsterdammers were justifiably proud. They started at the harbour, where the walled city of Amsterdam sat snuggled within the immense womb of the Zuider Zee, and they arced around the township to meet the Amstel River. Tall slender houses, like the diamond merchant’s, had already sprung up beside the canals, wealthy merchants and traders willing to sacrifice breadth of frontage for fashionable canal views.

  It was an afternoon in late September, and Lucretia watched a young couple, huddled together to ward off the autumn chill, as they walked along the cobbled street beside the canal. Now and then they disappeared amongst the row of elm and linden trees which lined the street, but still she watched until they were out of sight around the bend. They made her think of Boudewijn and how she missed him, and how she longed to feel his arms around her. In one month’s time she would be on her way to him, she thought. Just one month. The voyage would take a whole further nine and God alone knew what perils lay ahead on the high seas, but each day would bring her closer to him, and to Lucretia that was all that mattered. Of course she would miss Amsterdam, she thought as she watched a small barge being punted along the canal, but …

  ‘Here she is, Vrouwe van den Mylen.’ The merchant’s voice startled her, lost in reverie as she had been. ‘A thing of great beauty.’ Gerrit Grij checked himself. Although he always referred to his favourite pieces in the female gender, lavish comments upon his own work were uncharacteristic of him, he did not wish to sound proud. ‘I hope she meets with your requirements,’ he added.

  He eased himself carefully from his chair, stifling a grimace at the pain of the arthritis in his hip, and held the open presentation case at arm’s length. Ceremoniously he lowered it to the table in front of him. Lucretia crossed to the table and looked down at the locket.

  A tiny but audible gasp of astonishment caught in her throat and her lips parted in a smile of sheer delight; the jeweller was right, the locket was a thing of great beauty. Circular, no more than an inch in diameter, it was made from solid silver, and engraved on its face was a rocky mountain. Not an etching, not an outline, but the very texture of the rock appeared to be carved into the heavy metal, as if it had been eroded by the elements themselves. And behind the mountain’s peak rose a mighty sun, a cluster of diamonds, perfectly cut and set into the silver to reflect the maximum light from every direction. The two were entwined: the sun caressed the mountain, and the mountain basked in the sun, its peak of a lighter hue than its base, as if it were reaching for the sun’s embrace.

  ‘It is glorious,’ Lucretia breathed softly as she lifted the locket from the case, ‘truly glorious.’

  She had spoken in depth with the jeweller about the design, and she had trusted in the quality of his work, for Gerrit Grij was far more than a merchant and a jeweller, he was a diamond cutter and an engraver whose craftsmanship was held in the highest esteem.

  ‘Boudewijn is the sun to me, as I am the earth to him,’ she had said.

  Gerrit Grij had wondered briefly whether the request bore any astrological inference. As a devout Protestant he sincerely hoped not. But as an artisan the challenge excited him.

  ‘The sun and the earth,’ he had mused. ‘Yes, yes, the sun must be a cluster of diamonds. Perfect diamonds set to reflect its rays from all directions. And the earth—the earth must not be flat, not like Holland. There must be texture and depth. The earth must be a great mountain.’

  Lucretia had agreed. Now she marvelled at the result.

  Gerrit Grij was gratified by Lucretia van den Mylen’s reaction, the locket had been a labour of love, it was his finest piece and he was inordinately proud of it. The joy in Vrouwe van den Mylen’s magnificent eyes gave him far more pleasure than he would ever admit. ‘The chain is strong,’ he said, ‘each link is welded, you see?’ He reached out his hands and gave the chain a brisk tug.

  ‘Oh.’ Lucretia was startled by the brutality of his gesture.

  ‘You need have no fear of it breaking,’ he added. ‘Open it.’

  Gerrit’s stern face, brow furrowed from forty years in his trade, softened as he watched the slender fingers turn the locket and press the catch on the side. A woman of such beauty deserved a thing of such beauty. He supposed that was why he had given the piece his greatest care and attention. And she had spoken of her husband with such love.

  ‘I go to meet him in the East Indies,’ she had said. ‘And I wish for a memento of some sort to travel with me. As if we were together. As if, by the grace of God, Boudewijn were there to protect me.’ The light of love was so strong in her eyes that Gerrit put aside his laughable notion of any connection with the occult art of astrology. The motif was born purely of devotion.

  ‘The token must be in the form of a locket,’ he had said, ‘with the initials of you and your husband engraved on each side of the interior.’ He hadn’t added ‘with a chain long enough that the pendant may rest against your heart’, but he’d made the chain of such length anyway.

  Lucretia opened the locket. ‘L v.d. M’ was engraved in perfect copperplate on the left, and on the right, ‘B v.d. M’. ‘It is perfect,’ she said, and she pressed the open locket to her breast.

  The gesture touched Gerrit Grij more than he could say. ‘You are happy with the length of the chain?’ he enquired as Lucretia closed the locket. ‘Allow me.’ He undid the clasp and Lucretia turned, lifting her hair in its lace cowl, allowing him to secure it about her neck.

  Pieter was by now unashamedly staring. His father and the beautiful woman were both too intent upon the locket to notice him anyway. He could see the nape of her neck. White. Arched. Leaning forward as she was to assist his father. Arched, like a beautiful swan.

  ‘Yes, I am very happy with the length of the chain,’ Lucretia said. On her wide lace collar, the locket rested over her breastbone.

  ‘With a chain of this length,’ Gerrit explained, ‘you can wear the locket at all times. As an adornment on the outside of your garment or, if you fear for its safety, it can remain hidden.’

  ‘Extremely practical,’ Lucretia agreed, although she had a feeling the choice of the length of chain displayed the same understanding as did the design and craftsmanship of the locket itself. But she said nothing, once more bending her neck and lifting her hair as he unclasped the locket.

  A swan, Pieter thought. A glorious white swan.

  ‘And you will encounter times on y
our voyage when you will no doubt fear for its safety,’ Gerrit continued, replacing the locket in its case. And for your own safety, he thought. He admired the woman for embarking upon such an arduous trip. Another measure of her love, he determined, and he prayed for her safety. Any number of disasters could befall her. Pirates, shipwreck, not to mention starvation, deprivation, and illness; ships were not known for their comfort and the voyage to the East Indies could take a year. Shipboard life was no life for a woman of breeding, as Gerrit knew well.

  Lucretia read into the man’s words what he was truly saying. ‘I have little to fear,’ she assured him. ‘I shall be travelling aboard the finest ship ever to set sail from Amsterdam.’

  ‘I am glad to hear of it,’ Gerrit Grij said, handing her the case. ‘I wish you well, Vrouwe van den Mylen. God speed you safely to your husband.’ Then, to cover his display of sentiment, he barked at his young son, ‘Pieter, see Vrouwe van den Mylen safely downstairs.’ He gestured apologetically towards his walking stick.

  Pieter opened the door and led the way down the narrow staircase.

  ‘Pieter is it?’ Lucretia said as they arrived at the little front shop which opened on to the cobbled street. She had been fully aware of the youth’s surreptitious glances. She had not found them offensive, accustomed as she was to the admiration of men. Indeed, she had realised that the boy was painfully shy.

  Pieter nodded. She had spoken to him! Directly to him!

  ‘Perhaps one day if you work very hard you may become a great craftsman like your father.’ She smiled encouragingly.

  She had smiled at him! He found his voice. ‘I hope to,’ he said. ‘And I do work hard. Very hard.’ He glanced nervously upstairs as if his father might hear him. ‘Father is a stern taskmaster.’

  ‘It is apparent in his work,’ Lucretia said. ‘He is a great artist. And great artists are meticulous. They must be. And you must be too, Pieter, if you wish to become a master craftsman like your father.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pieter said, ‘I know, that is what he tells me.’ She was talking to him! Actually talking to him! He wanted to keep her there in the shop, so that he could look at her and talk to her some more. But she had opened the front door. The shopbell tinkled. He must make conversation!

  ‘What ship do you sail on?’ he asked.

  ‘The Batavia,’ she said, and her smile was radiant. ‘The Batavia. Her maiden voyage. Goodbye, Pieter.’ The shopbell tinkled as the door closed behind her.

  ‘They’ve bombed Darwin!’ Flight Lieutenant Terence Galloway stared at the opened newspaper on the table before him. Page five. Only a small article, no picture. ‘Japanese Attack Australia’, it said, ‘Air Raid on Darwin’, and a short column followed. ‘Just look at that!’ He pushed the newspaper across the table to Robbie seated opposite. ‘They’ve bloody bombed Darwin!’

  It was Monday morning in the officers’ mess at the RAF Fighter Command Base, Biggin Hill, Kent, approximately fifteen miles south-east of London.

  Robbie Roper swallowed the last of his toast, shoved his cleanly mopped-up breakfast plate to one side and examined the article. ‘Doesn’t say much,’ he commented, picking up his mug of tea and taking a swig. ‘Last Thursday, that’s four days ago, and just a mention like this.’ He gave a laconic shrug. ‘Probably means bugger all. A Jap reconnaissance flight, I reckon, and the locals have overreacted.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a recce at all,’ Terence disagreed. ‘The Japs have been flying recces over Darwin for months, Dad tells me.’

  The homestead of Bullalalla cattle station, where Terence had been born and raised, was only sixty miles from Darwin, and his father, an ex-military man, kept Terence regularly posted with the news. Indeed Jock Galloway’s recent predictions had been of an imminent attack.

  ‘Better check it out with Harry then.’ Robbie took another swig of his tea, slurping as he did, and annoying Terence further. A lot of things about Robbie annoyed Terence, most of all his indifference. Some saw his lackadaisical attitude as a sign of strength, and Terence reluctantly agreed that to newly trained pilots about to face combat Robbie’s nonchalance was probably a comfort. But to Terence, the man’s lack of passion was both uncaring and soulless, and his reaction to the newspaper article typified his apathy. He was an Australian for God’s sake, didn’t he care that his country might be under attack?

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ Terence replied and he all but snatched the paper from Robbie’s hand as he rose abruptly to his feet. ‘I’ll get Harry to check it out right now.’

  Robbie watched as Terence crossed to the far end of the mess where Harold Crighton-Smith was sitting with his cronies. It was quite obvious that he’d somehow annoyed Terence, but Robbie couldn’t for the life of him think what he’d done wrong. It was often like that. As the only remaining Aussie pilots on the base one would suppose they’d have more in common, particularly having been through so much together, but they were chalk and cheese, all right.

  Terence and Robbie, like many Australian airmen, had been seconded to London during the Battle of Britain. They had been amongst the lucky survivors, seeing many about them die, and when the battle was finally over they’d been offered positions as Spitfire pilot instructors at the Royal Flying College in Cranwell not far from Biggin Hill. Robbie had jumped at the opportunity; he would willingly live out the war as an instructor, at thirty he was getting too old for battle. It surprised him, however, when Terence accepted the offer. He’d have expected Terence to insist upon a posting to the Middle East. In his mid-twenties, intrepid and reckless to the point of foolishness at times—in Robbie’s opinion, anyway—Terence Galloway had a lust for battle.

  It was ego which had dictated the decision, Robbie had decided. Terence’s ego would have demanded he accept the position of chief flying instructor at an establishment like the Royal Flying College, it was the consummate endorsement of his skill. A skill which Robbie would be the first to acknowledge. Terence Galloway was the finest pilot he’d known, and Robbie himself was no slouch. Now, however, well over a year after the Battle of Britain, Robbie could sense the frustration in his countryman. Terence had flown on a number of operations but it wasn’t enough, Robbie could tell that he longed to be back in the thick of it.

  Robbie couldn’t understand why. Bloody awful business, war, he’d decided, and he couldn’t fathom Terence’s desire to do battle. But then there was a lot he couldn’t fathom about Terence. In Robbie Roper’s opinion, Terence Galloway was a strange bastard.

  Harold Crighton-Smith was the base’s intelligence officer and an obliging chap, particularly when it came to Terence Galloway whom he very much admired. Terence possessed all the criteria necessary for hero status. Tall, handsome, dashing, daring, he was everything Harold had always longed to be.

  Terence knew full well that Harold had a ‘crush’ on him. There was no evidence of homosexuality in the man’s behaviour, but Terence was scathing of him nevertheless, considering him soft and weak, despite the fact that Harold was extremely efficient and very good at his job. ‘Typical Pommie public school boy,’ he’d said to Robbie on numerous occasions. Terence did not suffer what he considered to be any form of weakness kindly. But he was not averse to using Harold when he felt it was necessary.

  Harold knew nothing of the attack upon Darwin, he said, but he would get on to the War Office and have information for them by lunchtime.

  As always, Harold was true to his word. He met Terence and Robbie in the mess shortly before one o’clock.

  ‘The Japs made two raids,’ he said in his precise, clipped tones. ‘Twenty-three aircraft were destroyed and the RAAF base virtually demolished.’ Terence and Robbie exchanged a look of incredulity. ‘Five merchant ships and three warships were sunk,’ Harold continued, ‘and thirteen other vessels damaged or beached.’ He reeled the list off without referring to any notes; he rarely made notes. ‘It was a massive raid evidently. Reports, as yet unsubstantiated but rumoured to be true, are saying that the Japs dropped more
bombs on Darwin last Thursday than they did on Pearl Harbor.’

  Shocked from his normal complacency, Robbie looked at Terence aghast, but Terence continued to stare at Harold who, in turn, continued to reel off the inconceivable facts.

  ‘They’re not releasing the death toll as yet.’ Harold spoke dispassionately as he always did when dealing in statistics, particularly the horrifying ones. ‘But casualties are likely to be considerable, a lot of the town was destroyed.’

  It was only then that Terence looked at Robbie and, when he did, each read the fear in the other’s eyes. For the first time in its history their country was experiencing warfare upon its own soil. Both men were deeply shocked.

  But several days later Harold’s contact at the War Office divulged the most horrifying news of all.

  ‘Been looking for you everywhere, old man, thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.’ Harold caught up with Terence in the carpark, Terence having just returned from a trip into nearby Bromley.

  ‘They’re not publishing the facts in Australia,’ Harold told him, ‘not to the general populace anyway. The Government’s decided to keep the public in ignorance. For fear of panic or whatever.’ There was a flicker of criticism in Harold’s normally bland eyes. ‘Heaven only knows why, surely the Australians have a right to the truth, the people are strengthened when they can share their losses. I tell you, the English wouldn’t stand for it, being kept in the dark.’ Then, quickly back to business. ‘The official toll at this stage is at least 238 dead, including women and children, and between 300 and 400 wounded. But that’s a conservative estimate,’ he added, ‘the numbers are probably far greater.’

  My God, Terence thought as he stared at Harold in horror. Oh my God. The war has landed in Australia.

  ‘Five pounds!’

  There was a moment’s silence. Most present were thinking ‘that’s a week’s wages’, while they peered behind them to see whose voice it was that had shouted from the back of the crowded Masonic hall.