by Judy Nunn
‘Can I keep them?’ Kit asked, ‘Just the Darwin ones?’
Henrietta jumped in quickly, aware that Terence was annoyed at Kit’s interruption. ‘He’s only seven,’ she said, it was a gentle reminder that the boy didn’t have to become an adult for another three years.
Terence shrugged, he felt an intense irritation towards his younger son. He often did. There were moments when Terence disliked Kit. The boy showed no respect for his authority. ‘He can do what he likes,’ he said dismissively to Henrietta. ‘Malcolm,’ he rose from the table, ‘there’s still time for some rifle practice. I’ll see you down by the tack room.’ He left abruptly, Malcolm jumping to his feet to follow.
‘I’ll look after them for you, Malcolm,’ Kit promised.
‘What?’
‘The Darwin collection. They’ll still be yours, I’ll look after them.’
‘You can have them, I don’t want them, they’re for sissies.’ Malcolm ran off to join his father.
‘That was nice of you, Kit.’ The little boy looked so hurt, Henrietta wanted to cuddle him, but she didn’t. She knew he was trying very hard to be grown up. ‘We’ll look after them together.’
‘Okay,’ he agreed, and they took the box upstairs where Kit hid it under his bed.
Henrietta thought of Paul that night. She often thought of Paul, Kit was such a reminder. Just like his father, the boy was gentle, but strong.
Paul Trewinnard had disappeared from her life. Aggie thought that perhaps he was dead. ‘Why else would he stop writing?’ she had asked when Henrietta expressed shock at such a brutal assumption.
‘Perhaps he’s met someone,’ Henrietta had replied, ‘perhaps he’s married now, perhaps he has a child and a whole new life.’ She hoped that he had.
‘That wouldn’t stop him writing to us,’ Aggie had scoffed, ‘we’re his best friends.’ For years Paul had dropped the pretence of polite enquiries after Henrietta, his letters were always addressed to the two of them. ‘Dearest Aggie and Henrietta,’ he would write and then he would chat on about his assignments and travels. Paul’s letters had been witty, amusing and often outrageous, and the women had taken great pleasure in reading them aloud to each other and chuckling at the latest irreverence.
The letters had always been posted to Aggie. Aggie had assumed Paul was avoiding direct contact with Henrietta in order to spare the woman any unpleasant reaction from her over-possessive husband, and she approved of the decision. God only knew what Terence’s response would be to his wife’s receiving regular correspondence from another man. In Aggie’s opinion Terence Galloway was a megalomaniac who would brook no outside influence upon any member of his family. She was appalled with the way in which he was turning his elder son into a carbon copy of himself. She never commented on the fact to Henrietta, however, as usual avoiding any discussion of Terence.
Then, abruptly, Paul’s letters stopped arriving, and Aggie’s own letters to Paul were returned ‘address unknown’. When she’d tried to reach him through the family firm, she’d discovered they had no home address for him whatsoever. They never had. Just a post box number at St Martin’s in the Fields GPO in Trafalgar Square. She’d received no response from there either, and for the past two years Aggie had given up trying to trace Paul Trewinnard, convinced that he was dead.
On Kit’s first day at school, Aggie had been there to welcome him. She discovered very quickly, and to her relief, that the boy was not yet brainwashed by his father the way his brother had been. He was a friendly child and got on well with the others, displaying none of his brother’s aggression, and yet Aggie sensed a quiet strength beneath the surface. He would need it, she thought, to survive a father like Terence Galloway. Thank goodness the boy had Henrietta’s spirit.
Kit loved school. He enjoyed the company of other children and made friends quickly. When Henrietta picked the boys up each afternoon Kit would chatter on endlessly about his mates whilst Malcolm would look away through the open window of the ute and pretend disinterest.
‘I don’t know why you hang around with that mob,’ he occasionally sneered, ‘they’re a bunch of sissies.’
‘No they’re not,’ Kit hotly denied. ‘What about the day Pete Mowbray fell out of the tree and busted his elbow.’ Kit had boasted about the incident often, it had deeply impressed him. ‘He didn’t cry or anything, he just said “I think it’s busted”, Pete’s really brave.’
‘He’s not brave,’ Malcolm scoffed, ‘he’s dumb, they all are, that mob.’
When the conversation took such a turn, Henrietta would change the subject, encouraging Malcolm to talk about his own day at school, but by then the damage had been done and he’d shrug sulkily and continue to stare out the window. She realised that, deep down, he resented the ease with which Kit made friends. It worried her to see the boys argue, they had never argued in the past. But when they got home to Bullalalla the tension disappeared and the brothers remained the true friends they’d always been.
Malcolm would offer to help Kit with his homework, it was his way of apologising for having scorned Kit’s mates. He didn’t know why he always made fun of Kit’s mates. Hell, he thought they were only little kids. He just wished that Kit wouldn’t gab on about them all the time.
When Malcolm had something of his own to boast, he always waited until he could announce it in the presence of his father.
‘I kicked the football further than Dennis Portman at goal practice this arvo,’ he announced at the dinner table.
‘Oh?’ Terence looked up from his roast beef.
‘Dennis Portman’s the longest kick in the team.’ He had his father’s full attention now. ‘And he’s a year older than me.’
‘Good on you,’ Terence congratulated him. ‘Well done, son.’ And he returned to his roast beef.
Malcolm glowed with pride, but he knew better than to chatter on any further about the episode, if he did he’d be accused of boasting.
Henrietta never asked Malcolm why he hadn’t told her about his exploits in the car on the drive home. She knew it was important to the boy that his achievements be kept expressly for his father. But the only stories Malcolm brought home from school were those involving competition in which he’d performed favourably. There were no simple tales of comradeship. And if he’d experienced defeat, no-one would ever know. Kit was exactly the opposite.
‘I came last in the three-legged race,’ he said the night after Aggie’s fundraising fete at the school. ‘Pete Mowbray was mad at me ’cos I kept falling over, he hates to lose.’
Malcolm looked at his brother in amazement, wondering how he could admit to defeat in the presence of their father. Terence didn’t deign to comment.
It was a stifling November afternoon and Henrietta had just pulled up in the ute to wait for the boys outside school. She was early, as she usually was, it would be ten or fifteen minutes before Kit charged through the gates of the small wooden fence, Malcolm sauntering out a good five minutes later, wishing the others couldn’t see his mother waiting for him.
Malcolm desperately wanted to ride his horse to school. Some of the kids who lived on the outskirts of town did, he’d said to his father, and there were stables nearby. But Terence had instantly dismissed the idea.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, boy, it’d take you hours,’ he’d said, so twelve-year-old Malcolm had to suffer being collected by his mother as if he were one of the little kids.
Henrietta climbed out of the car. The plastic-covered seats of the Holden had been hot and uncomfortable and she could feel the dampness of her cotton dress clinging to her back and the trickle of sweat between her breasts. She felt claustrophobic when the air was thick and sticky like this, as if the elements were trying to stifle her. It was always the same in the wet, she’d never really adjusted to it. She wished the storm would break soon to relieve the oppressive humidity.
As she stood in the shade of the stringybark tree, fanning herself with the brim of her straw hat, she noticed a nearby car w
ith its driver-side door open, someone else was waiting to collect a child. She wondered if it was one of the parents she knew, but she didn’t recognise the car, a two-tone blue Holden sedan.
Then the man in the driver’s seat got out, and Henrietta froze at the sight of the familiar figure. Tall, lanky, a Panama hat, and a beige linen sports jacket. No matter how hot, when others were in shirtsleeves, Paul had always worn a jacket.
‘Hello, Henrietta,’ he said as he started towards her.
‘Paul.’
Two other cars were pulling up outside the school, Henrietta recognised the vehicles and the mothers driving them, but she didn’t hesitate. Her hat fell from her hand and dropped to the ground as she walked into his arms.
‘Paul, thank God.’
It was Paul who first freed himself from their embrace, not wishing to compromise her reputation.
‘Aggie thought you were dead.’ Henrietta held on to his hands, she didn’t want to relinquish the physical contact.
‘I know, she told me when I phoned her. “Welcome back from the grave”, were her exact words. Rather apt under the circumstances.’
Henrietta suddenly noticed how tired and worn he looked. There were dark shadows under his eyes and, always a lean man, he was thinner than ever.
‘You’ve been ill,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ He gently extricated his hands from hers. ‘I think you’re expected to say hello,’ he murmured. The two women had climbed out of their cars and were standing by the acacia trees near the gates; both were looking in their direction.
‘Hello,’ Henrietta called with a friendly wave, and the women waved back. Then once more she grasped his hands.
‘Is this wise?’ he smiled.
‘What’s wrong in holding hands with your very best friend?’ she asked. ‘Besides, it’ll stop them coming over, let them talk if they want to.’ She looked into the familiar grey eyes she’d so often seen in her sleeping and waking moments over the past decade. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘In a little while,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, when you’ve collected the boys we could go for a drive to Mindil Beach?’ he asked hopefully. ‘While the boys are playing we could talk.’
‘Of course.’ She wondered briefly how he’d known she would be here collecting the boys, then she realised. Aggie, naturally.
‘Do you think you should pick up the hat?’ he suggested. The two women were still watching, and another car was pulling up. Henrietta swiftly scooped her hat up from the ground.
‘Mum!’ It was Kit, belting towards them. ‘I won!’ The Christmas essay competition results had been announced in class today, he explained, breathless with excitement, ignoring the man standing beside his mother.
Paul stared at the boy. He was seeing himself as a child.
‘And I won!’ Kit exclaimed.
‘I’m so proud of you, darling.’ Henrietta knelt and hugged her son. ‘I’d like you to meet a very dear friend of mine,’ she said as she stood. ‘His name is Paul Trewinnard. Paul, this is my son Kit.’
‘How do you do, Kit,’ Paul offered his hand, not daring to look at Henrietta. Why hadn’t she told him?
‘Hello,’ Kit shook the man’s hand. ‘I got a prize,’ he said to his mother, ‘look.’ He took a bookmark from the pocket of his shorts. ‘Read what it says.’
‘“Christopher Galloway,”’ she quoted. The bookmark was gilt-edged with gold stars on it and she recognised Aggie’s handiwork. ‘“Winner of the Christmas Essay Competition.” That’s wonderful, Kit, I’m proud of you.’
‘It got a bit crumpled,’ he said.
‘We can iron it. And then we might frame it, what do you think?’
‘Okay.’ He grinned happily.
Malcolm was walking through the school gates in the company of several other boys, but Henrietta knew better than to call out to him. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mum, it’s embarrassing,’ he’d told her. He said goodbye to his mates and sauntered over to meet his mother and brother.
‘Malcolm, this is my friend Paul Trewinnard,’ Henrietta said.
‘We’ve met before, Malcolm,’ Paul shook the boy’s hand. ‘But you’d have been too young to remember.’
‘We thought we’d go to Mindil Beach before we drive home,’ Henrietta told the boys, ‘would you like that?’
‘Yeah!’ Kit punched the air in his enthusiasm.
‘All right,’ Malcolm nodded, careful not to show too much enthusiasm, but Henrietta could tell he was keen on the idea.
As they drove to the beach, Paul following in his car, Kit chattered on about the essay prize and, for once, Malcolm didn’t stare out the window pretending disinterest, he was nice to his little brother.
‘Good on you, Kit,’ he said, imitating his father. ‘Well done.’ Malcolm actually felt a bit sorry for Kit. Winning an essay prize wouldn’t impress Dad much, he thought.
As the boys talked, Henrietta’s mind was elsewhere. She’d been overwhelmed at the sight of Paul. And when he’d shaken his son’s hand and she’d looked at the two of them, she’d wondered if he’d guessed at the truth. If he had, then he’d given nothing away. And if he hadn’t, she would never tell him.
All four of them took off their shoes and sandals and walked along the beach by the water’s edge where the sand was cooler.
‘You might find some good stones up there, Malcolm,’ Paul pointed towards the headland. Malcolm looked at him distrustfully. ‘You used to like collecting stones when you were a little boy.’
‘I don’t anymore,’ Malcolm replied.
‘I do,’ Kit jumped in quickly. Mr Trewinnard seemed like a nice bloke, he’d asked them to call him Paul, and Malcolm had sounded rude. ‘I like collecting stones.’
‘Off you go then,’ Henrietta said with a look of rebuke at her elder son.
‘I’ll help you find some,’ Malcolm said by way of apology; he hadn’t meant to be rude.
‘Don’t go too far,’ Henrietta called after them as they ran off up the beach, ‘the storm’s going to break any moment.’ But the boys weren’t listening as they quickened their pace, it had turned into a race to the headland.
‘They’re nice boys,’ Paul said. ‘They seem like good friends.’
‘They are,’ she smiled.
The two of them sat on the sand and watched the boys galloping up the beach like healthy young colts. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Henrietta?’ he asked.
So he’d guessed, she supposed it was inevitable. ‘It would have made life too difficult,’ she said after a moment or so, ‘for all of us. But I’m glad you know now.’
‘So am I.’ She couldn’t possibly know how glad, he thought. Of course he understood why she hadn’t told him at the time, her life would have been intolerable. But the knowledge that he and Henrietta had a son, albeit a son he could not claim as his own, filled Paul with indescribable happiness.
They held hands like young lovers, and looked out at the black clouds gathering over the sea. The light was sombre, more like dusk than day and, despite the impending storm, Henrietta thought that she had never before felt such a sense of peace.
‘I’d like to get to know him if I may,’ Paul said, ‘just as a friend of course.’
‘So you’re staying in Darwin?’ Her response was so joyful that Paul looked away. He was careful in his reply, he must not encourage any hope, she must not become dependent upon his friendship.
‘For a while at least.’
He seemed wary, she thought, circumspect, even afraid. Why? Did he think she wanted to resume a torrid affair? ‘Don’t worry, my love,’ she kept her tone light and humorous, ‘I’m not going to ravish you, I promise.’
‘Just as well,’ he said with a touch of irony, ‘that part of me doesn’t really work anymore, in fact not much of me does.’
Henrietta’s smile faded. Suddenly she noticed how old he looked. He was fifty-seven years of age but he could have been a man in his late sixties.
‘Tell me about it,’ she sa
id.
‘Not much to tell, really, they did what they could.’ He didn’t want to talk about the cancer, the endless operations and treatments. ‘And now they don’t think there’s any point in going further. For which I’m extremely grateful,’ he added with one of his wry grins, ‘I’m lucky to be here, and seeing you makes it all worthwhile.’
Henrietta looked down at his hand, their fingers entwined, remembering how, all those years ago, that hand had been her lifeline. And now he was dying.
‘How long do they say?’ she whispered.
‘Oh Henrietta, my darling girl.’ She looked so sick with concern, he hadn’t wanted it to be that way. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘It could be a year, it could be two,’ he said as their lips parted and he stroked her hair, ‘I didn’t want to make you unhappy, I just wanted to see you.’
He grinned to lighten the moment, and the boyishness of his smile lit up his haggard face. ‘And now there’s Kit as well. If I can see you both, just now and then, between the two of you, who knows, you might keep me hanging around for years.’
Henrietta returned his smile, forcing back the tears which threatened, knowing it was not what he wanted. ‘Between the two of us we’ll try,’ she said.
A bolt of lightning streaked across the horizon illuminating the world in the split second of its brilliance. They jumped to their feet.
‘Malcolm! Kit!’ she called. And in the distance the boys started running towards them.
The thunder roared, more lightning cracked, and then the rain started, a torrential downpour. The tropical storm had hit in seconds, as it always did in the Territory, and by the time the boys had joined them, all four were drenched.
‘Let’s get wet!’ Henrietta yelled above the thunder, although it was impossible for them to get any wetter. And she stood with her arms outstretched, her eyes closed, and her face upturned to the deluge. The boys imitated her, they weren’t normally encouraged to stand out in the rain and it was a good game as far as they were concerned.
Paul looked at the three of them. Oh God he was glad he’d come home. For this was his home, he realised. Darwin and the drama of her seasons, how he’d missed it, Europe had nothing to compare. He took off his Panama hat, closed his eyes and bent his head back to the sky. The four of them stood like that for a full minute or so, unafraid of nature’s wrath which roared about them, their faces turned to the rain.