Territory

by Judy Nunn

  She passed Admiralty House, appreciating, as she always did, its grace and style. Further evidence of Darwin’s elegance, she thought. Designed in the thirties by the innovative B.C.G. Burnett, Admiralty House had inspired the design of many homes which had come to typify Darwin architecture. Elevated on stilts, surrounded by wide, shuttered verandahs, with open-plan, wooden-floored interiors, ‘Burnett-style’ houses were not only practical given the climate of the tropics, but picturesque. They were proud houses, Aggie thought.

  She walked down Herbert Street, then turned and headed up Mitchell bound for Galloway Motors. It was mid-afternoon and, as she arrived, Aggie could see Terence’s minions scuttling about. On the opposite side of the street was Galloway and Sons Emporium, another hive of activity, and Aggie thought of Henrietta, as she always did when she stood in Mitchell Street surrounded by the Galloway empire.

  It had been over five years since Henrietta’s disappearance and rarely a day went by when Aggie didn’t think of her. The success of the Galloway businesses was a constant reminder of Henrietta’s tragic and untimely death. It didn’t seem right to Aggie that, after all the hardship and isolation Henrietta had suffered, she should be deprived of a life of ease which she’d so deserved. How proud she would have been of Terence’s success, Aggie thought, and of her sons’ achievements.

  She entered Galloway Motors and, as she wove her way through the shining vehicles on the showroom floor to the stairs at the rear, she wondered again why Terence wanted to see her and what it was that he didn’t wish to discuss on the phone. ‘I’d much rather see you in person, Aggie,’ he’d said. ‘That is, if you have the time.’ He’d sounded a little upset, she thought.

  ‘Aggie,’ Terence met her at the top of the stairs, a glass of whisky in his hand, ‘thank you so much for coming.’ He ushered her into his impressive office. ‘Scotch?’ The offer was perfunctory, he knew she’d refuse, but Terence was glad to see Aggie. There was no-one else with whom he felt he could share his strangely unsettling news. He got straight to the point.

  ‘I had a phone call from my solicitors in Adelaide,’ he said as they both sat. ‘It appears that Henrietta has now been officially declared dead.’

  He was trying to sound business-like, Aggie realised, but as he swigged back his Scotch she could sense his pain.

  Henrietta’s body had never been found. Extensive searches had been mounted, lengthy interviews conducted by police, despite the fact that there were no suspicious circumstances. Every measure possible had been taken to discover the whereabouts of her body, to no avail. The findings of the coronial inquest had been ‘presumed dead by unknown causes’. And now, five years after the inquest, the statutory time having elapsed, she had been officially declared dead, or so the solicitors had informed Terence.

  ‘Her estate has reverted to me,’ he told Aggie. ‘Just a modest bank account and a small property in Ireland,’ he said. He took another swig from his glass, and Aggie felt sorry for him. It was quite obvious that the official declaration of his wife’s death had reopened the wound of Terence’s grief.

  During the months following Henrietta’s disappearance, a strange relationship had evolved between Terence and Aggie. When the boys had come home to attend the small family memorial service held in honour of their mother, Aggie had not intruded upon their grief, sending flowers and condolences instead. But several days after Malcolm and Kit had returned to boarding school, Aggie had heard that Terence had moved into the Hotel Darwin, and she’d called upon him to offer her sympathies in person.

  ‘I thought, seeing you’re staying in town, I’d pay you a visit,’ she’d said a little awkwardly as they sat in the hotel lounge.

  ‘Yes, until the new house is ready,’ he’d replied, leaning forward in his armchair and staring down at his tightly clasped hands. ‘Just whilst they finish the new house, that’s all,’ he repeated, his fingers restlessly kneading his knuckles.

  He was obviously agitated, and Aggie was shocked by his appearance. His face was pale and unshaven, and he’d lost weight. She felt deeply sorry for him.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, Terence,’ she said gently, ‘anything at all.’ He shook his head and continued wringing his hands, his fingers and knuckles turning white. It was pitiful to watch such a strong man fighting to control his emotions. ‘Please let me help you,’ Aggie said and she placed her hand upon his forearm.

  The gesture seemed to push Terence over the edge. He buried his head in his hands. ‘I’m staying here because I can’t go back,’ he said, his voice strained and muffled. ‘I can’t go back to Bullalalla. I miss her. I see her everywhere. She haunts me.’ His voice finally broke as he lost control and sobbed. ‘I can’t go back there, I can never go back there.’

  At first Aggie was horrified at the sight of him sobbing. She was neither concerned nor embarrassed by the curious glances from the several other guests in the lounge, but the spectacle of Terence Galloway crying was shocking. Terence of all people! Then she realised that it was probably good for him, it was probably very healthy.

  She rose and, sitting on the broad arm of his lounge chair, she soothed him as she would a distraught child. ‘There, there, Terence,’ she said, putting her arm around his shoulders, ‘it’s all right, everything’s going to be all right.’

  Gradually, his sobs subsided, and he fumbled for his handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he blew his nose and self-consciously mopped away his tears. His outburst had shocked him even more than it had Aggie.

  Terence had not been lying. He did miss Henrietta. He missed her desperately. And she certainly haunted him. During the fortnight of investigations and searches following her disappearance, he’d been too busy to ponder upon what had taken place, he’d had to keep his wits about him every minute of every day. Then there’d been the inquest, and the boys’ return when he’d had to console them in their grief. That had been the ultimate test for Terence, to comfort both equally, to disguise his contempt for Paul Trewinnard’s son. The strain had at times been unbearable, there had been moments when he’d wanted to scream at the boy ‘get out of this house, you’re not my son’, but he’d had to embrace him instead, clumsily, awkwardly, as Kit grieved for the loss of his mother.

  The nights offered no relief, sleep seemed impossible. When Terence closed his eyes he saw Henrietta. She was not accusing him, there was no damnation in her eyes, she was simply there, lovely and tempting as ever, haunting him with her beauty. But he refused to regret her death. He had only to visualise the locket, to see the images of the two of them encased inside, to remind himself of her infidelity. And then he knew that she’d deserved to die. When a fitful sleep finally overcame him, the image of the locket would become that of Trewinnard making love to Henrietta, and Terence would awake newly anguished and enraged. And then, throughout the day, there was Trewinnard’s son, the brazen proof of his wife’s dishonour. Terence felt no guilt over Henrietta’s death, but he was a creature in torment.

  He had expected some relief when the boys returned to school, when he would no longer be in the presence of the son who was not his. But after Malcolm and Kit left, and he found himself alone in the house, Henrietta seemed to be everywhere. There was not even the distraction of Jackie’s and Nellie’s company.

  Following the official enquiries, Jackie had simply gone walkabout, and this time he’d taken Nellie with him. They hadn’t even said goodbye. Some thanks for a lifetime of employment, Terence had thought. Oh well, good riddance.

  Terence knew Jackie and Nellie had had misgivings about the death of their mistress, he’d known from the very outset, even before he’d left to meet up with the first search party. Of course they’d said nothing of their unease to the police, blacks never interfered in white men’s business, but it was probably for the best that they’d gone, he decided.

  But when he’d found himself alone in the silence of Bullalalla, he’d missed Jackie and Nellie. The very air of the deserted house seemed to whisper Henriet
ta’s name, or to echo her laughter. Shaken and unnerved, Terence had driven into town and booked into the Hotel Darwin.

  When, two days later, Aggie had contacted him, he had found the prospect of confronting Henrietta’s closest friend strangely alarming. Was he losing his nerve? Was he losing his very sanity? He’d not flinched throughout the police investigation, why should he find Aggie Marshall of all people a threat? Perhaps because she had known the younger Trewinnard. Perhaps because Aggie Marshall was the one person capable of putting two and two together. Henrietta herself had told him that Aggie didn’t know about Trewinnard, and Terence had believed her. But what if Aggie had guessed?

  The endless weeks of tension had taken their toll on Terence and, when he’d seen the concern in Aggie’s eyes and realised he was safe, it had been the easiest thing in the world to give in to his sense of loss. Suddenly he’d found himself sobbing. He missed Henrietta, he said, she haunted him, he could never go back to Bullalalla. It was all true.

  Terence was shocked by his breakdown, and a little embarrassed as he mopped himself up and Aggie patted him on the back, saying ‘there, there’. But when he’d pulled himself together and apologised for making such a scene, he decided the embarrassment was well worth it. In Aggie’s eyes were the deepest sympathy and compassion.

  ‘I’ll always be here to help you, Terence, if you ever need to call on me. Henrietta was my dearest friend, you know that.’

  Terence himself wasn’t sure whether his outburst had been one of grief or relief, but he felt utterly exhausted, and grateful at the same time.

  ‘Thank you, Aggie,’ he said, ignoring the glances of others in the lounge. Who would have thought Aggie Marshall might become his greatest ally? It was really most convenient.

  Since then, Aggie had made it a regular habit to call upon Terence at the hotel and he always seemed grateful to see her. Mostly they talked about Henrietta, and Aggie never stayed long, she was just checking to make sure he was all right.

  The boys came home for the Christmas holidays and Aggie stopped visiting, convinced that she would be intruding if she did. It would be a sad Christmas for them, she thought.

  Several months later, when Terence moved into the new house on the point at Larrakeyah, he rang Aggie.

  ‘You’re the first person invited over for the guided tour,’ he said. She was very flattered.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Terence.’ They clinked glasses, he’d opened a bottle of Dom Perignon especially. ‘To toast the house,’ he said. ‘It’s truly beautiful,’ Aggie said and meant it. It was one of the most beautiful houses she’d ever seen. But then Burnett-style houses were her favourite.

  Surrounded by vibrant purple-flowering bougainvillea, it stood two storeys high on its stilts, with broad wooden steps leading up to the first verandah, the shutters of which could be lifted completely to expose the wide balconies. Fine mesh screens could be dropped to keep out the insects and still retain the view. The furnishings were large but not cumbersome, in keeping with the spacious rooms, and the view across the waters of Darwin Harbour was breathtaking.

  ‘The boys’ll be home for the May holidays soon,’ Terence said, ‘I can’t wait for them to see it.’

  If only Henrietta was alive to see it, Aggie thought, but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘Henrietta would have loved it, wouldn’t she?’ Terence knew exactly what Aggie was thinking.

  ‘Yes,’ Aggie said, ‘she would.’ She didn’t stay long, she never did. Despite her profound sympathy for the man, she was never particularly comfortable in Terence’s company. But she would never forget the agony of his grief that she had witnessed in the lounge at the Hotel Darwin, and her friendship was always on offer. She owed it to Henrietta.

  Terence sometimes wondered why he kept playing the game, Aggie bored him now, but he couldn’t afford the risk of alienating her. Keep her on side or she might start thinking, he’d decided, and he remained always charming and sensitive in her presence.

  A fortnight after Terence had shown her the house, Aggie was walking down Smith Street when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. It was lunchtime and Smith Street was busy but, through the idling window shoppers and those more intent upon going about their business, she had seen a familiar figure. The breath caught in her throat and she stood frozen to the spot. The ambling gait, the lanky frame, the hair falling over the brow which, even as she watched, was raked back in a characteristic gesture. It was Paul Trewinnard.

  The shock lasted for only an instant. She quickly realised that the figure was that of a youth. A gangly boy yet to grow into his frame. It was Kit Galloway. He hadn’t seen her. He turned to browse in a shop window.

  Aggie paused for a moment, taking a breath to recover, then she walked towards him, wondering what exactly she’d say. Wondering indeed whether he might fail to recognise her, it had been over two years since they’d seen each other, after all. He’d been a boy of twelve then, now it seemed overnight he’d become a young man.

  She was nearly abreast of him, and about to say something, when he turned from the window.

  ‘Miss Marshall,’ he said with a broad grin of delight.

  To Aggie his face suddenly became that of the twelve-year-old she had known so well. Of course he was bound to have recognised her, Aggie thought rather foolishly, middle-aged women didn’t change over two years.

  ‘Kit,’ she replied, moved beyond measure by the warmth of his smile, which immediately reminded her of Henrietta. ‘Kit Galloway.’ She offered him her hand and they shook firmly, like men. ‘And it’s Aggie now, I’m not your school teacher anymore.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kit said a little self-consciously, it didn’t seem quite right to call his old teacher by her first name. ‘Aggie it is.’ He was genuinely pleased to see her. Miss Marshall had always been his favourite primary school teacher. She, along with Paul Trewinnard, had nurtured his love of literature; he owed her a lot. ‘Gee, it’s so good to see you.’

  ‘You too. I hardly recognised you, you’ve grown so tall.’

  ‘Yes I know,’ Kit was used to the comment. ‘They tell me I’m “at that age”.’

  Aggie wanted to say something about Henrietta, but she wasn’t sure how to begin so, in her customary fashion, she blurted it out. ‘I’m sorry about your mother.’

  Kit’s smile faded. ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘We all miss her.’ It had been seven months now and, although he’d accepted the shock of her death, he missed his mother as sorely as if it had been yesterday.

  The boy looked so sad. Damn, Aggie thought, why had she blurted it out like that. She tried to change the subject without being tactless.

  ‘Henrietta would have been very proud of you,’ she said. ‘Your dad tells me you’re doing really well at school.’

  But Kit didn’t seem to need a change of subject. ‘He said you’ve been a real good friend to him, Miss Marshall, since Mum …’ Kit never quite knew how to say it. He accepted that his mother was dead, but he could never say the words. Perhaps it would have been different if there’d been a proper funeral with a coffin and everything.

  ‘Aggie,’ she gently reminded him.

  ‘Yeah, Aggie,’ he responded automatically, ‘Dad needs friends, he misses Mum a lot.’

  Aggie gave a sympathetic nod, then decided that a complete change of topic was called for. ‘Do you and Malcolm like the new house? It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Kit shook off his mood. ‘We both reckon it’s great. Hey, it’s Malcolm’s birthday on Friday, I’m trying to buy him a present, I don’t know what the heck I’m going to get. Anyway we’re having a bit of a party, why don’t you come around? I bet Dad’d love to see you.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll pop in and say hello over the weekend,’ Aggie promised, and she said her goodbyes, leaving him to his gift shopping.

  That night the phone rang. It was Terence. ‘Kit told me he bumped into you,’ he said. ‘The boys’d love you to come around for dinner on Friday, it’s Malcolm’s seve
nteenth birthday.’

  ‘Oh no, really, Terence.’ Aggie was a little embarrassed that Kit had put his father in such a spot. ‘I couldn’t possibly intrude, teenage boys don’t want their old school teacher at a birthday party.’

  But he was insistent. ‘Oh yes they do. There’s only a couple of other boys coming, two old mates from their primary school days. I don’t know who the hell they are but you’d be bound to know them.’

  ‘That’d only make it worse,’ she laughed.

  ‘Rubbish.’ Terence refused to take no for an answer. ‘Kit’s mad keen for you to come, and so am I. It was remiss of me not to ask you in the first place. Don’t leave me with the kids, Aggie,’ he begged, ‘I need some adult company, please say you’ll come.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she replied, flattered.

  When Kit had brought up the subject of inviting Aggie Marshall, Terence had sided with his younger son.

  ‘What the hell do you want to ask Miss Marshall for?’ Malcolm had scoffed.

  ‘She was Mum’s best friend,’ Kit retaliated.

  ‘She’s still a school teacher, for God’s sake, Pete and Frank’ll think you’re mad.’

  ‘No they won’t, Pete always liked her,’ Kit retorted, ‘he reckoned she was a good sport. And we’re supposed to call her Aggie now.’

  Malcolm cursed himself for having automatically referred to his old teacher as Miss Marshall, it seemed infantile. ‘Well, I don’t want Aggie here, she won’t fit in.’

  ‘Yes she will,’ Terence interrupted. ‘She’ll fit in very well. It’s an excellent idea, Kit, I should have thought of it myself.’ In response to Malcolm’s scowl, Terence continued, with a warning edge to his voice, ‘I told you Aggie’s been a very good friend to me since your mother died.’