by Judy Nunn
‘Who the hell’s birthday is it?’ Malcolm grumbled, but he made sure his father couldn’t hear, and Terence chose to ignore his elder son’s rebellious muttering.
‘Don’t worry, Malcolm,’ he said pleasantly but patronisingly, ‘after dinner Aggie and I’ll leave you kids together and have a coffee upstairs.’
Malcolm glared at Kit. It meant a loss of respect to be called a ‘kid’ by his father, and it was all Kit’s fault.
Terence had an ulterior motive in inviting Aggie. He was intent upon studying her reaction to Kit. So she’d bumped into him this morning in Smith Street. Very interesting. What had she thought? Had she seen a resemblance to Trewinnard?
Each time the boys had returned home, Terence had convinced himself that he could see more and more of the Englishman in his son, despite the fact that commonsense told him he was being paranoid. Kit looked like Henrietta, everyone who had known her told him so.
Terence’s memory of the younger Paul Trewinnard was clouded. He’d taken little notice of the man upon their first meetings, finding him of no interest, and the picture in the locket was now a blurred memory. The image of Trewinnard which remained with Terence was that of a skeletal old man. A cadaver making love to his wife, it revolted him. He’d studied the boy for signs of the Englishman, but all he could see was Henrietta. Her smile, her laugh, her commitment to a subject in which she was interested, Kit was so like her. But then the Englishman had been tall and lean, and so was Kit. Did they look alike? Could others see a similarity? Aggie was the one who would know, she’d been Trewinnard’s close friend.
It was not the threat of a murder charge which haunted Terence. With the investigations over, and the coroner’s findings on record, he felt safe. But he lived in fear that others might discover the son whom he’d raised as his own was that of another man. He could not, and would not, endure such humiliation.
The birthday party was a success. And Aggie was the star of the show, even Malcolm had to admit the fact. Pete Mowbray and Frank Steriakos, the respective friends of Kit and Malcolm, although surprised at the presence of their old school teacher, were obviously pleased to see her and quickly relaxed in her company.
‘It’s Aggie now,’ she insisted and they happily accepted, particularly Frank, who’d always referred to her as ‘Aggie One Foot’ anyway, the major contributing factor to Aggie’s popularity with her pupils having always been their fascination with her prosthetic foot. ‘She had it blown off by a bomb,’ the older ones were always quick to inform the newcomers and Aggie’s hero status had become legendary as the story had been passed from one generation of students to the next.
As the birthday dinner progressed, Aggie was the common link between the boys who, although they’d been close friends, had lost touch with each other over the years. It was Aggie who recalled every episode of their school days. They talked about the day Pete Mowbray had fallen from the tree and broken his elbow. He showed them how it still wouldn’t straighten properly. And they relived the triumphs which Malcolm and Frank had shared on the football field. The older boys drank beer, the younger ones were allowed a small glass which became two, and the roast beef and mounds of vegetables prepared by Fran, Terence’s middle-aged Filipino housekeeper whom he’d trained well in the Western ways, disappeared down rapacious teenage throats.
Pete was also home on holidays, he attended boarding school in Perth, but seventeen-year-old Frank had left school the previous year to work in his father’s fish shop. Terence approved of Pete Mowbray, whose father was a solicitor, but he’d have preferred to have entertained one of Malcolm’s school friends rather than Frank.
‘There’re no Territorians in my class, Dad,’ Malcolm had explained, ‘let alone anyone from Darwin.’
‘Any of your mates’d be welcome to stay, son,’ Terence had said, ‘there’s plenty of room.’
‘They’ve all gone home for the holidays.’ Malcolm wished his father would stop talking about his mates, he didn’t really have any to speak of. Not ones he could ask to come and stay at any rate. So when his father had insisted upon a birthday party, Malcolm had asked Frank Steriakos.
Terence didn’t really disapprove of Frank. His father, Les Steriakos, a Cypriot by birth, was successful and well liked, with a fish shop and a wholesale vegetable supply business. But, as the Galloways were destined to become a power in the community, it would have been preferable, Terence thought, for Malcolm to mingle with the offspring of families on a similar path. Perhaps the Paspaleys or the Manolises. Oh well, he thought, next year when the boy went to Duntroon he would be mixing with the sons of men of distinction.
During this, his last high school year, Malcolm had passed the initial series of selection tests for entry to Duntroon Military College with flying colours. He’d come through the aptitude test and the battery of psychological tests with an OIR rating of eight. Terence, initially annoyed that his son’s Officer Intelligence Rating was not the maximum ten, had telephoned a military acquaintance from his war service days who had explained that a rating between six and eight was considered most suitable officer material.
‘Ten ratings are seen as boffin material, Terry,’ Lieutenant Colonel Desmond Brigstock had told him. ‘They might make good rocket scientists, but they’re bloody awful officers. Your boy’s done well so far.’
‘Thanks, Des.’ Terence was glad he’d phoned Des Brigstock before castigating Malcolm as he’d initially intended.
The big test was yet to present itself. In two months’ time, Malcolm was to attend Keswick Barracks in Adelaide for a series of assessments and examinations, both practical and psychological, from which only a limited number of candidates would emerge successful.
Terence was supremely confident, and Malcolm was terrified of failure.
‘Malcolm’s off to Duntroon next year, Frank,’ Terence said as he refilled Aggie’s wine glass, ‘did he tell you?’
‘Yeah, he said he’s taking the tests.’ Young Frank Steriakos raised his beer glass. ‘Good luck, eh, Malcolm.’
‘Piece of cake, boy,’ Terence bellowed, ‘piece of cake. Speaking of which …’ He rose to his feet and applauded as Fran entered with a huge birthday cake sporting seventeen candles. Terence laughed heartily at his perfect timing. ‘Lights, Kit, lights.’
Kit jumped up and turned off the lights, the candles flickered in the half-darkness, and the others rose to their feet singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
Whilst the boys continued to shovel down sponge cake the way only growing boys could, Terence signalled Fran to bring the coffee and suggested to Aggie that they have it on the upstairs balcony.
‘Lovely,’ she said, although she would have preferred to stay in the boys’ company. She had been uncomfortably aware that Terence had been studying her, and she had the feeling that he wanted to discuss something. What? Surely not the terrible suspicion she entertained.
For the past few days, Aggie had convinced herself that the apparition of Paul Trewinnard she’d seen in the street had been a product of her own imaginings. The boy had merely grown tall since she’d last seen him, and if he’d acquired some of Paul’s mannerisms, then why not? He’d idolised the man during two of the most impressionable years of his young life, it was natural to emulate one’s hero. And tonight, as they’d sat laughing and reminiscing over the roast dinner, she’d seen nothing but Henrietta in the boy. It was true he bore no resemblance to Terence, but then Malcolm didn’t look the least like Henrietta.
Aggie found the difference between the two brothers fascinating. Malcolm had become a replica of his father. His body was now that of a man’s, strong and finely toned; like Terence he was an excellent sportsman. A handsome boy, with a strong, chiselled face, Malcolm’s eyes bore the defiance of his father’s. He too, Aggie guessed, would be prone to fits of anger, he’d been easily angered as a child, she remembered. But when Terence had mentioned Duntroon, she’d seen the sudden flicker of fear in Malcolm’s eyes, and the relief when he’d been saved by th
e arrival of the birthday cake. Poor child, Aggie thought, he still lives in fear of Terence’s disapproval.
Early in the evening she’d been vaguely conscious of Terence studying her reactions and, initially presuming that as proud father he was hoping his children met with her approval, she’d flashed him a smile now and then.
But when Fran had cleared away the plates, the huge roast dinner having been entirely demolished, the conversation and the mood in the room had taken a serious turn. Terence, who enjoyed any topic relating to military events, had commented upon the newspaper report that Australia was to send military advisers to South Vietnam.
‘A damn good thing too,’ he’d said, ‘wipe those dirty commos from the face of the earth. We quelled them in Malaya and we’ll bloody well put a stop to them in Indo-China.’
‘But Australia isn’t sending combat troops, Dad,’ Kit had said.
‘Eh?’ Terence had seemed prepared to deliver a tirade, and looked taken aback at Kit’s interruption.
‘They’re only sending instructors to help train the Vietnamese. South Vietnam hasn’t asked for troops.’
‘Well, they bloody well will, boy, you mark my words.’ Terence had been annoyed. ‘It’ll just be a matter of time before our boys are over there fighting those commo bastards.’
Ignoring the fact that Kit seemed keen to continue the discussion, Terence directed his attention to his elder son. ‘You’ll probably end up in the thick of it, Malcolm, when you leave Duntroon.’ That was when he’d turned to Frank. ‘Malcolm’s off to Duntroon next year, Frank, did he tell you?’
Aggie had concentrated on the glass of wine which Terence was pouring for her, but she’d found herself once again in a state of shock. As Kit had leaned forward intensely, eager for discussion, there had been an intelligence and enquiry in his unwavering grey eyes which she had seen before, many years ago and on many an occasion. Kit’s eyes were the eyes of Paul Trewinnard.
Then the birthday cake had arrived, and the mood had returned to one of levity.
Aggie had tried not to look at Kit as she ate her small portion of cake slowly, not enjoying one mouthful. Her mind was reeling. Was it truly possible that Kit was Paul’s son? And if he was, did Terence know? Was it perhaps why he had been studying her throughout the evening? The cake seemed to lodge in her throat, she was having difficulty swallowing, she wished she could go home. But suddenly Terence was signalling the housekeeper and suggesting they have their coffee upstairs, and Aggie heard herself say ‘lovely’.
‘Help yourself to the beer, boys,’ Terence said with largesse as he rose from the table, ‘no more for you younger ones.’
‘So how do you find my sons?’ Terence now leaned back in his armchair on the upper balcony, as affable and as charming as ever.
It was an innocent enough comment, but Aggie felt strangely as if she was being put to the test. She also felt shaken and nervous, but something told her she must not let it show.
‘They’re fine young men, Terence,’ she sipped her coffee. She was aware of the ceiling fan whirring and, beyond the fine mesh of the insect screen, she could see the navigational lights of a small vessel on its way up the harbour. She forced her eyes to meet his as she smiled. ‘You must be very proud of them.’
‘Oh I am, I am. But you haven’t seen them for so long, surely you must have noticed some changes?’
Again the smile of a proud parent. So why did she feel uneasy? She forced a laugh which sounded surprisingly relaxed. ‘Of course I do. My God, I can’t believe how tall young Kit’s grown.’
‘Yes he has, hasn’t he?’ Does she know, has she guessed, Terence wondered. If so, she was giving nothing away. ‘He’s a bright boy, very intelligent, an enquiring mind.’
‘He was always bright,’ Aggie agreed. ‘As a child, he was my favourite pupil.’ She decided that she would be on safer ground if she played the school teacher.
‘He’s going to go to university. An arts degree, he says. He wants to be a writer.’ In his role of fond father, Terence made the announcement with boastful pride. Actually he no longer cared whether Kit went to university or not, as far as he was concerned the boy could do whatever he liked.
‘Oh I’m so glad,’ Aggie’s response was genuine. ‘He always had a great love of literature. Just like Henrietta. He’s so like her in every way, Terence.’ Was she imagining it, or had her instinctive response hit a chord? ‘It must be a great comfort to you,’ she added. She sincerely meant it.
Terence breathed an inward sigh of relief. She didn’t know, she hadn’t guessed. ‘It is, Aggie. It is a very, very great comfort to me. Would you like another coffee?’
‘Please.’
As Terence poured more coffee from the jug which Fran had left them, Aggie felt herself relax, and they spent a further half hour discussing the boys. Particularly Malcolm who, in Terence’s opinion, would make a fine officer, and Aggie agreed, praying that the boy would pass his examinations.
When they went downstairs to phone for Aggie’s taxi, they discovered that Frank Steriakos was decidedly drunk and the mood of the party had become raucous. Both older boys had obviously been guzzling copious amounts of beer since the adults had left the table, but although Malcolm too was feeling the effects, he knew better than to allow it to show in front of his father.
Terence grinned at his elder son, fully aware that the boy was drunk but successfully disguising the fact. Excellent, he thought. Old Jock had always said, and quite rightly too, Terence maintained, that the way a bloke handled his liquor sorted the men from the boys. Terence was pleased to note that Malcolm had already taken the lesson to heart.
‘Have another beer, son,’ he said, interested in testing the lad’s threshold of control, ‘you only turn seventeen once, eh?’
As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, Aggie looked up at them through the car window. Terence stood at the top of the steps with his sons, an arm around each of their shoulders, Malcolm’s body swaying a little unsteadily but his feet firmly planted on the verandah. The three of them waved to her and she waved back.
For the next several days Aggie couldn’t get the image of Paul Trewinnard’s eyes out of her mind. Had she imagined their likeness in Kit’s?
She lifted out her messy old cardboard box of photographs, she had a picture of Paul somewhere, she was sure. She found it easily enough, amongst a host of photographs she’d kept of Henrietta. It was a picture of the two of them together, Henrietta and Paul, and she’d taken it the year before he’d died. He hadn’t wanted her to, she remembered, but she’d nagged him into it. She studied the face closely, particularly the eyes, for signs of Kit, but she could see none. The face in the photograph was that of an old man, ravaged by illness, and she had no pictures of the younger Paul.
Had it just been her foolish imaginings, Aggie wondered. Her notion that Terence had been putting her to the test had most certainly been a product of her imaginings. He’d simply wanted to talk proudly of his sons, it was obvious, and Aggie felt ridiculous when she recalled her nervousness. She must forget the entire incident, she told herself. She must stop musing upon the subject of Kit Galloway’s parentage which, after all, was no business of hers. Even if, by some remote chance, Paul Trewinnard was the boy’s natural father, Henrietta had obviously kept the fact a secret from her husband. My God, Aggie thought, if it were true and if Terence ever found out …!
But much as she tried to erase the question from her mind, Aggie couldn’t. She was plagued by the need to know. It was far more than mere curiosity. Had Henrietta lived such a lie for all those years? If so, what torment she must have experienced. Had Paul known the truth? In the last years of his life, he and Henrietta had been very close, had it been because they shared a son? For no purpose other than her own peace of mind, Aggie determined to find out the answer. There was one person, and one person only, who might know the truth.
Foong Lee chatted amiably as he poured the heung ping into Aggie’s small china cup. It was five o�
�clock in the afternoon and they were sitting in his deserted restaurant in Cavenagh Street. It didn’t open for diners until 6.30, but Foong Lee was always there in the afternoons, taking deliveries and organising the specials for the evening menu. He enjoyed being a restaurateur, leaving the financial management of the store and his many other business interests in Albert’s capable hands these days.
He was pleased when Aggie called in. She used to call in more often, he remarked, as he poured the jasmine tea. He and Aggie saw each other often at their mutual charity concerns, of which there were many, but they’d socialised rarely of late.
‘I know, I’ve been altogether too busy this past month or so,’ Aggie said, ‘too many students and too many fights with councillors.’ She tapped the knuckles of her middle finger and forefinger on the table as he finished pouring her tea, and Foong Lee smiled his approval. He had long ago taught her the Chinese etiquette of table tapping. ‘It’s our way of saying thank you when someone serves us food or drink,’ he’d explained.
‘How courteous,’ she’d remarked.
‘Not really. It’s laziness more than anything. It replaces the kow-tow you see.’ He’d got down on his hands and knees, touched his forehead to the floor, then stood up and laughed. ‘We let our fingers do the bowing instead,’ he’d tapped his knuckles on the table, ‘it’s a lot kinder on the knees.’
Today Aggie made the gesture automatically, not reacting to his smile of approval, which she would normally have returned. She was distracted, Foong Lee thought, and he chatted on politely, waiting for her to get to the point of her visit, knowing that there was one. Aggie being Aggie, it didn’t take long.
‘Have you seen the Galloway boys since they came home for the holidays?’ she asked.
‘The Galloway boys,’ he looked mystified for a second, then, ‘Oh, you mean Terence Galloway’s sons, what’re their names? Kit and who’s the other one?’