by Peter Watt
‘Mrs Duffy.’ Jessica turned from her panoramic view of Sydney’s CBD to see her chief project manager standing behind her.
‘Yes, Mr Apps, you look worried,’ she said.
‘The quantity surveyors have brought something to my attention,’ he said quietly. ‘There has been a rather large blow-out in construction costs. You may have to consider taking on a partnership in this project.’
‘How much of an overrun in costs?’ Jessica asked.
The project manager gave the figure and Jessica was stunned. How could that have happened?
‘There is one other company I think could come in on the deal,’ he said. ‘The Macintosh Enterprises. They have parallel infrastructure to get the building up on time and within budget. From my knowledge, they are the only ones who have the capital we need. We will be ruined if we attempt to go it alone.’
Sarah Macintosh, Jessica mused. An alliance with the enemy. But there was a rumour circulating that when Michael’s enlistment was up he would be introduced into the management of Sarah’s companies. Jessica liked Michael and he was definitely not his mother’s son. He could be a peacemaker between the two well-known family enterprises.
‘We’ll keep this matter to ourselves for the moment,’ Jessica said. ‘I will take immediate steps to find a partner.’
The project manager looked relieved. He knew Jessica Duffy was a woman who was able to fix difficult situations. She had proven so in the past, and the businesses had flourished under her leadership.
He walked away and Jessica contemplated how she would set up a meeting with her arch rival and bitter enemy. The last time they had been face to face was when Jessica had married Sarah’s brother, Donald, just after the war. That had been almost a quarter of a century ago. Jessica knew Sarah would never step inside the Duffy enterprise offices, so their meeting would have to be on neutral ground.
*
The sun was rising over Sydney, emerging from the Tasman Sea to spread across the harbour and into the suburbs. Michael lay on his back. Mila’s arm was across his chest, and she was still sleeping. When they had finally drifted into sleep, Michael had entered the world of nightmares. Mila had gently stirred him from the hellish nocturnal world of phantom figures dying or trying to kill him. He had been whimpering and trembling, but with her soothing words he eventually fell asleep in her arms, and now the warm rays filtering through a tattered curtain in Mila’s flat brought him back from his nightmarish dreams.
‘What time is it?’ Mila asked sleepily as she woke.
‘Six-thirty,’ Michael replied, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘I have to get ready to catch my flight.’
Mila was now wide awake. Michael was talking about his civilian flight to the war in Vietnam. The wonderful time they had spent together was over, and she knew it might be a year before she was reunited with him. It had been a short but intense affair. Only a woman who loved a soldier knew that every second together was precious. She tried hard not to cry. In these last moments with Michael, she wanted everything to feel normal – as if he was doing little more than going to work in an office and would return that night.
She slid from the bed and padded naked across the floor to the small kitchen. Michael admired her body from the bed.
‘What are you doing?’ he called.
‘I’m making you breakfast,’ Mila answered, clattering a frypan onto the little gas stove. But that was as far as she could go before bursting into great sobs of distress. Michael slipped from the bed to go to her, placing his arms around her body.
‘Hey, I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said lamely. She turned and placed her head against his chest. Michael could feel her tears.
‘What if something happens to you?’ she said.
‘Simbas couldn’t kill me, nor will Charlie – or any of the other noggie friends he has.’ He tried to sound convincing, but he knew the North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong were a tough, brave and intelligent enemy who had been fighting all their lives, as opposed to the Congolese rebels who were little more than psychopathic killers.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ Mila said, clinging to him with all her strength. ‘You have done enough for the army. You have already done a tour, and there must be others who can go instead of you.’
‘The regiment is a bit short on men,’ Michael said. ‘They need me.’
‘So do I,’ Mila said defiantly. ‘This country doesn’t care about you. Fellow students call you baby killers and spit on you when you come home from the war. Surely your mother could talk to the right people to get you out.’
‘Even if my mother could pull strings, I would not leave until my enlistment is up,’ Michael said. ‘I can’t let my mates down. If I did, I would have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life.’
Mila’s tears flowed and Michael held her gently. ‘I will come home,’ he said. ‘But now I have to go. I’ll write every chance I get and hope you’ll do the same.’ He kissed her on the forehead and stepped away.
Outside on the street, Michael looked at the civilians going about their daily lives. He knew most of them did not give a damn about the sacrifices being made by young Australians so far away. He turned and looked back and saw Mila, dressed in a filmy dressing gown, watching him walk down the street. Michael waved but dared not look back again because, if he did, he knew he might seriously consider her proposition for him not to return to the war.
*
It was a perfect autumn day in Sydney, and Jessica had her driver drop her off at the little seafood restaurant in Watsons Bay where Sarah had agreed to meet her. She noticed that there was a Bentley already parked, and a driver stood beside the car smoking a cigarette.
Jessica had dressed for the occasion. She wore a tailored suit that spoke a no-nonsense approach to business. When she stepped inside the restaurant she saw Sarah sitting at a table for two by a window with a view. Other people sat and chatted over plates of oysters, crab and fish. Jessica walked across to Sarah – who did not stand to greet her – and sat down.
‘Jessica.’
‘Sarah.’
The greetings were cool but polite.
‘It has been a long time,’ Sarah said, reaching for a cigarette to place in her long ebony holder.
‘The wedding, back in ’46,’ Jessica said. ‘I was fortunate to have caught up with your son recently. He is a wonderful young man.’
Both women appraised each other over the table. Jessica could see that Sarah had not lost her beauty, and she hoped that people were right when they said she too had shaped up well for the passing years.
‘You have no doubt received the correspondence about our tower project?’ Jessica asked, glancing at the menu.
‘I took the liberty of ordering a chardonnay,’ Sarah said, not answering the question.
The chilled wine was delivered, glasses poured and food orders taken.
‘Well, what do we toast?’ Sarah asked. ‘The profits your project will bring to the Macintosh and Duffy families?’
‘No,’ Jessica said, raising her wineglass. ‘We drink to the safe return of our sons from the war.’ Jessica could see that the toast hit a nerve with Sarah. It was Jessica’s subtle way of reminding her foe that they were mothers and shared a common bond in sons facing death on a daily basis.
‘Yes, to the safe return of our sons,’ Sarah agreed, and raised her glass.
‘The figures you quoted are very large,’ Sarah said, settling down to the subject she loved most in the world. ‘But the Macintosh companies are prepared to cover it.’
Jessica looked surprised. Sarah had agreed so quickly. Jessica had thought this would be a long drawn-out meeting, and she would need to work hard to persuade Sarah to enter into the project.
‘So, are you saying that we will enter into a partnership on the project?’ Jessica said.
�
�We will need to thrash out a few more details, but yes, we can support you on a fifty-fifty basis.’
Only for a moment did Jessica consider the matter. This was an arrangement that would bring big profits to both sides.
‘I can have the contracts drawn up and you can go over them with your financial advisors,’ Sarah said.
The meals arrived and both women picked at their delicious trays of seafood.
‘I know matters have been strained – to say the least –between you and I,’ Sarah said. ‘But the past is history, and we should consider more amicable relations in the future.’
Jessica was taken by surprise by Sarah’s statement. ‘Did you arrange to have my father murdered?’ she asked bluntly and could see the shock on Sarah’s face.
‘I had nothing to do with your father’s death,’ Sarah replied indignantly. ‘What happened on Glen View was out of my hands. I rue the day I ever hired that horrible man to legally remove your father from the property.’
‘It was not legal, and my father died fighting for his land,’ Jessica said. ‘But if you swear on the name of your family that you had nothing to do with my father’s death, I will accept your word. I know how much you value the Macintosh name.’
‘I swear on my family name that I was as shocked at your father’s death as anyone.’
Jessica stared into Sarah’s eyes. She appeared to be telling the truth, but Jessica did not trust her completely. ‘I can only accept your word,’ she said. ‘You are right when you said we must put the past behind us. The past is little more than a ghost. It is the future that we must look to.’
Sarah raised her glass. ‘I think we can now propose a toast to the future prosperity of both family enterprises,’ she said, and Jessica agreed.
‘Now I must apologise, but I have pressing matters back at the office,’ Sarah said, indicating to the waiter to bring the bill for the meal. She paid him and departed the restaurant.
Jessica sat alone at the table, trying to sort through her mixed feelings about the meeting. It had been one of those moments in her life she was not sure should have happened. But this was a big enterprise requiring millions of dollars, and the project needed assistance if it was to go ahead.
*
Sarah Macintosh went to her office, sat down at her desk and gazed out at the city skyline. She smiled. Out there was a great piece of vacant land intended for development. But the land would be the burial ground of the Duffy financial empire. How easy it had been to lull the woman into a trap. From the moment the proposal outlining the building of the great office block had crossed her desk, Sarah had schemed to turn the temporary partnership into a means to bring Jessica Duffy to her knees. She would bankrupt Jessica and watch her come crawling, begging for mercy.
Many years had passed, but revenge against her enemies was never far from Sarah’s mind. When David had married that other woman, Sarah had waited to destroy him for his perceived betrayal. It had been she who had leaked the matter of their son to Markham, and now she would have her revenge against Jessica Duffy for being part of the family that took Glen View away from its rightful owners: the Macintosh family.
‘Miss Macintosh, can I get you a cup of tea?’ her secretary asked, peering around the door.
‘Oh no,’ Sarah smiled. ‘I would like you to bring me the best bottle of champagne from the boardroom liquor cabinet and cancel my appointments for the day. I will be having a private celebration for the rise and rise of the Macintosh empire.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Facing up to Gail’s father-in-law at his home was more daunting than the possibility of having to stand up in court and answer the charges of assault. But John Glanville had been David’s mentor and very good friend from the beginning. The old man sat with his feet up on a stool and a beer in his hand.
‘You can probably guess that I have had phone calls from the party,’ John said.
‘They want me to resign,’ David said.
‘Sadly, yes,’ John sighed. ‘The adverse publicity is damaging. It is bad enough that the press makes our PM’s face a subject of scorn in their political cartoons. John got his scarred face when his fighter plane was shot down defending Singapore. At least I know that you have a friend in the PM, because you both fought for this country in its most dire time of need. Now the press is calling Markham a war hero when we both know that is not true.’
‘You know the press,’ David said, staring into his glass of beer. ‘They have no interest in the truth – just stories that will sell papers, with the age-old excuse that they’re in the public interest. Bloody public interest – read that as newspaper profits.’
‘Sadly, Mr and Mrs Smith – who think that the press tell only the truth – will believe what they read. You may have to consider standing down.’
‘Yeah, I have already thought about resigning,’ David said. ‘At least Sean Duffy has come out of retirement to organise my defence. If anyone can win my case it will be Sean.’
‘I hope so,’ John said. ‘The way things are, the opposition will be putting pressure on the courts to have you locked up and the key thrown away.’
‘It really irks me that Markham’s party can put him up as a war hero and paint me as some kind of cowardly bully.’
‘That is the nature of the political beast,’ John said. ‘But you have seen a lot of dangerous times in the past, and politics is no different.’
‘I have discussed the matter with Gail and made my decision. I will tender my letter of resignation to the PM. I guess I’m going to have to learn more about macadamia farming.’
‘Your resignation will be a noble gesture,’ John said. ‘It’s just a bloody shame that it has come to this.’
David rose from his chair. ‘Gail asked me to invite you and Nancy over for dinner tomorrow night.’
John thanked him and David left. He walked to his car and felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders. The fact that he opposed Australian troops in Vietnam had made him a lone voice in his party, and it had been harder and harder to support military involvement for the sake of the party line. Now, if only he could walk out of court a free man he would be able to return to Gail and his beloved northern home. He just hoped Sean would be able to weave his legal magic and get him off the assault charge.
*
Gunner Bryce Duffy-Macintosh gazed out across the scrub. The deployment of his battery of 105 millimetre howitzers from Nui Dat to Bien Hoa was intended as fire support for the two battalions of infantry being deployed to provide interdiction of North Vietnamese Army units moving to and from Saigon in a mini Tet Offensive, three months after their disastrous first attempt across the provinces of South Vietnam. The flat scrub-covered land they were deployed to reminded Bryce of Glen View. Even the sweltering heat reminded him of home, but unlike Glen View, this heat was humid. He stood, leaning on a shovel, stripped to his waist, as a small bulldozer pushed up earth to form bunds: small walls built to help give the big guns protection from direct fire. They did not, however, protect against mortar rounds.
It was late afternoon and Bryce had the task of digging out shell scrapes to position their M60 belt-fed machine guns further forward as a means of better defence.
He reached for the water canteen on his web belt and took a long swig of the warm, brackish water. From the air, when they had been ferried in by chopper, he had seen with a farmer’s eye that the area they occupied was gently undulating with no hills in immediate proximity. There were views of rice paddies, open grassy land, bamboo clusters and a creek bisecting the larger task force AO, given the name of Surfers. But mostly Bryce could see a landscape of low, tough scrub about the height of a man.
‘You’re on the gun tonight,’ a bombardier said when he passed Bryce. ‘So make sure you dig as deep as you can.’
Bryce acknowledged the order from the artillery corporal. He had a bad feeling about this de
ployment. Someone said that the Yanks on their flank were taking heavy casualties against fresh, well-armed and well-trained North Vietnamese regulars coming in off the Ho Chi Minh trail. But someone else said that their AO was relatively free of enemy troops. Bryce hoped so because all he wanted to do was finish his national service, go home, drink as much cold beer as he could and eat the biggest Glen View steaks the cooks on the property could serve up to him.
*
Only a couple of kilometres away, Sergeant Major Patrick Duffy felt very uneasy as he stood in the scrub. Next to him was the company commander with map and compass. Both men had served in Malaya together, then Borneo and now Vietnam. Major Stan Gauden wiped the sweat from his forehead and checked his map again.
‘According to what I know,’ he said, ‘the Kiwi arty and our own battery are too far apart. We will have wide gaps to defend between them. This whole thing is a shambles.’
‘I get the same feeling about our deployment,’ Patrick said. ‘Call it an old soldier’s instinct, but I get the feeling that the nogs are watching us, and that there are a lot more of them out there than intelligence has told us.’
Major Stan Gauden turned to the soldier he trusted above all in the battalion.
‘Pat, we’re low down the military food chain, so who would listen to the hunch of a couple of old diggers?’
‘This is going to be different,’ Patrick said. ‘The battalion is more used to patrolling, ambushing, and cordon and search operations. I get the feeling that the nogs are going to try and wipe us out, and if I am right, they will be able to because they have superior numbers. I think we are about to engage in a set piece battle, like our Yank brothers have been doing for years.’
The infantry major nodded his head in agreement. It was time to organise his company into a defensive role. The guns of the artillery were the primary weapons to defend, as their firepower could be devastating to an enemy in such open country.