by Peter Watt
‘An interesting idea,’ Kurt persisted. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘The farmer wants to know how best to set up irrigation on his property,’ Matthew said, cutting across any further explanation from his cousin. ‘How about we retire to the bar where we will be closer to the supply of these good wines?’
As the three men weaved their way to the bar, Matthew realised that he would have to keep an eye on his cousin who was quickly succumbing to the bonhomie of the evening.
Matthew was able to secure another two dances with Louise Gyles before the ball came to an end. More importantly, he had been able to convince her to leave her visiting card with him.
Hardly anyone noticed the announcement of Pastor von Fellmann’s arrival at the ball later in the evening. Already the champagne and music had fired the revellers into a noisy, dancing, chattering throng. However, Kurt saw his brother, dressed in a simple black suit, step into the room and look around for a familiar face. Kurt excused himself from the table he shared with some young officers from Patrick’s regiment and hurried across to his brother. Both men’s eyes met and an immediate warmth could be seen in their expressions. Kurt stepped forward and thrust out his hand. ‘It is good to see you, my brother,’ he said, holding Karl’s hand firmly in his own. Their strict Prussian upbringing forbade more overt expressions of fraternal love in public.
‘Time has been good to you, Kurt,’ Karl said, reluctant to let go his brother’s grip. ‘You must tell me how things are with our family in Prussia.’
Kurt allowed himself the gesture of placing his arm around his brother’s shoulders and guided him to a quiet alcove where he briefed his brother on the situation he had left behind at their family home in Germany.
‘You must realise that we could be at war with the English before the year is out,’ Kurt said when the conversation concerning family had ceased. ‘It is time that you considered returning to our Fatherland. Or you may become a prisoner here.’
Karl gazed at the happy revellers and smiled sadly. ‘I am at home, brother,’ he replied.
‘But you are German,’ Kurt reminded him. ‘You were born a German and will die so.’
‘My beloved wife Helen is buried up north in Queensland,’ Karl responded. ‘I wish one day to lie beside her for eternity.’
Annoyed, Kurt attempted to reason with his brother whom he loved dearly. ‘The Australian authorities will not be so sentimental if we are at war with the British Empire. You may die in some concentration camp like our Dutch brothers did in the last war the British fought. You may as well be safely at home until it is all over. You owe them nothing for your selfless missionary work among the heathens of this desolate land.’
Karl responded to his brother’s words with a gentle smile. ‘Do you know, my dear brother, a few years ago I might have agreed with you but for the last years I have seen the face of God in the desolate lands that I have served for the Church. I think that I have taken on some of the native spirituality although I dare say my divinity teachers back home would find this heretical. I have been exposed to the solitude of a land in a way that is not unlike the experiences of the old time recluses who found their own peace in the deserts of the Holy Lands. Do you know, my spiritual guide is a heathen Aboriginal by the name of Wallarie. An old man, he is the last of his tribe after we Europeans slaughtered all his people many years ago. He comes to my mission station from time to time to sit under a tree and simply reflect on the world around him. At first I tried to bring the word of Jesus to him but he gently rebuked me. And now I find a peace in his words concerning our place in this world. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I am still a good Lutheran pastor but I have also found a tolerance to all that I do not always understand. No, dear brother, I will die out there with my brother Wallarie. It has been foretold by him.’
‘God in heaven!’ Kurt exploded. ‘Does our mother know of your plans never to return?’
Karl looked away. ‘I pray that you will be able to explain to her why I must remain in this land.’
Kurt shook his head. ‘You are my brother and I will do my best to explain,’ he said sadly. ‘Still, you must realise that if war comes we may never see each other again.’
‘I know that you will carry on the family name,’ Karl said. ‘That is what is important to the family.’
Kurt was pleased when Patrick made his way to them. The German officer was having trouble restraining his emotion and knew well that it was not manly to display his true feelings. Before long, Karl was introduced to the rest of their distant Australian relatives and the night continued into the early hours of the morning.
Very few of the departing revellers took much notice of the two men saying goodbye to each other – one in the uniform of a German officer and the other in the dress of a Lutheran pastor. Had they taken more notice they might have commented on the remarkable likeness between the two men. But how different they really were; one followed the way of the sword, the other the way of the Lord.
12
The meeting between George Macintosh and the German consul official, Maynard Bosch, was less than friendly. They stood in the shadow of the 125-foot high obelisk with its Egyptian design near the Bathurst Street entrance to Hyde Park. The air blowing around the two men was as chilly as their feelings.
‘You failed to carry out your side of the bargain,’ George scowled, his hands in his pockets and his coat collar pulled up around his neck in the late afternoon. ‘My brother is alive and well.’
Bosch shivered against the cold and gazed across the central park of Sydney. ‘We are not murderers, Mr Macintosh,’ Bosch replied. ‘Your brother was not under our control when he departed our territory. We could not simply pursue him across the sea and then execute him.’
‘But you had all the evidence that my brother is planning to carry out subversive activities in Neu Pommern,’ George protested. ‘Even I can guess that he is engaged in plotting to map out possible landing sites for an invasion of the island.’
‘That may be so,’ Bosch replied, ‘but we are not at war and your brother is a highly placed person because of your father. We would need to have absolute proof before we took any action. We would appreciate it if you could reveal the precise dates that this plan would be put into place.’
‘I can tell you when my brother will be shipping out next and with what cargo,’ George replied. ‘That is something I feel is worth a lot to your government.’
‘To know would be very helpful,’ Bosch replied. ‘At this stage our source has only been able to provide an approximate time for the operation in our territory. More accurate knowledge would put less strain on our limited resources to catch your brother and his comrades in the act of subversion.’
‘I will be able to do that for you,’ George answered. ‘But this time you must be able to eliminate my brother – and I mean I expect to hear that he is dead.’
Bosch looked at the Australian with barely concealed contempt. ‘If that is all, I will bid you a good afternoon, Mr Macintosh,’ Bosch said, moving away from the man he loathed.
George watched him walk away. His thoughts were consumed only with keeping his brother and sister from any chance of future inheritance. With some smugness he felt that he had at least been able to use Guy Wilkes to ensnare his sister in the world of elicit drugs. According to Wilkes, Fenella was now verging on total addiction to heroin and it was beginning to show in her work. She was missing appointments on the set or, at best, arriving late. Fenella was becoming more and more fixated on how she would obtain the next dose of the drug to get her through the day and to that end Wilkes was her saviour.
Besides the small fortune George paid Wilkes to encourage Fenella into a world of drug taking, Wilkes himself was more than happy to assist. Fenella had dumped him in favour of the American and the actor did not take kindly to being rejected.
In their last conversation Wilkes had suggested that perhaps George could make his move. Fenella’s condition was ripe to exploit, Geo
rge mused. Maybe it was time to visit his father and pour out his heart about dear Nellie’s unfortunate situation. He could already anticipate his father’s reaction to the news about his one and only daughter’s slide into drug taking. George smiled. His weak siblings would never see it coming, he thought. They were too stupid to understand why he alone must rule the family.
George Macintosh strolled across Hyde Park through a swirl of crisp brown leaves under naked trees. He had an appointment to see Miss Louise Gyles for dinner at one of Sydney’s finest restaurants, but he felt a twinge of uncertainty. Matthew Duffy rose into his thoughts. There had been something about Louise’s reaction to meeting the aviator at the regimental ball a week earlier that disturbed him. George Macintosh was not a man who abided any competition in either his private or public life.
Randolph Gates watched a flock of seagulls rise on the wind over the beach, squawking a protest as he and Fenella approached. Beside him, Fenella had slipped off her shoes and could feel the wet sand squelching between her toes as she walked along the edge of the cold, grey sea rolling in from the Tasman.
‘Manly has always been the family’s favourite place to retreat from the world,’ she said, avoiding a sharp-edged sea shell washed ashore by the winter winds. The two were virtually alone on the beach and behind them was the picturesque village of Manly itself, a place popular all year around with the citizens of Sydney who could take a ferry from the southern shore to lose themselves in the beauty of the northern one. ‘Our family maintains a little cottage here.’
Randolph stopped and gazed out to sea. A coastal trader was steaming south. For a moment he was reminded that within weeks he would be departing on a dangerous mission north into German territory. He had been sworn to secrecy by Matthew on the nature of their mission and could not even tell Fenella.
‘You are miles away,’ she said, noticing the distant expression in his eyes. ‘A penny for your thoughts.’
Randolph turned to face her, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘It is nothing,’ he said, dismissing his gloomy thoughts of having to leave this beautiful woman’s side. A woman whom he had decided he would settle down with and spend the rest of his life loving. ‘I was just thinking that I love you.’
Fenella glanced away and frowned before looking back into his face. ‘I wish that you would not say that,’ she said softly. ‘We have enjoyed a grand time together for the past few weeks but love is not something I am able to entertain in my life just now.’
‘Is it Wilkes?’ Randolph growled.
‘No,’ Fenella quickly reassured. ‘What was between Guy and myself is long over. It is just that there are things you do not know about me.’
‘What should I know?’ Randolph asked, exasperated by Fenella’s continual avoidance of his declarations of love for her. ‘All I know is that I have never met a woman like you, nor had I really known what love means until I first looked into your eyes.’
‘You are very sweet,’ Fenella said, reaching up with her gloved hand to touch his face. ‘But I bear a secret that I cannot tell even you. I must find a way to overcome my problem before I can ever allow myself to feel whole again. Please do not ask me any further questions and let us just enjoy this beautiful day together before we return to the ferry.’
Randolph shook his head but accepted her plea not to interrogate her any further about ‘her secret’. He had lived a life facing danger but considered surviving those experiences easier than learning more about the daughter of Patrick Duffy. He would be patient, however, and maybe one day she would trust him enough to confide whatever haunted her.
The two continued to walk northwards along the beach as small sprays of sand whipped around their legs and a seagull drifting above called with a mournful cry on the winter wind. They would be at the ferry terminus at Manly before dark, travelling together across the harbour to separate – Randolph returning to the hotel and Fenella to her home in the city.
Randolph was now considering his future. He had been bitten by the movie bug and seriously considered accepting Arthur’s offer to work on his projects, as an all-round cameraman, stunt man and sometimes fill-in for the other male actors. Arthur had even thought about making a film with Randolph in the leading role as an Australian stockman. Arthur had identified the American’s ruggedly good-looking face as one that would appeal to the women who sat in the dark theatres, dreaming of romance away from the constricted lives they led as servants to their husbands. Randolph had a natural, masculine grace and sex appeal that could translate to the celluloid film and onto the silver screens.
To accept such an offer would mean Randolph breaking his partnership with Matthew. But all things had a life expectancy, he consoled himself. He was growing older and it was time that he thought about a steady life away from his drifting from one dangerous place to another. He was a little uncomfortable with his thoughts as he felt like a traitor. At least he would share this one, final mission with the young man he had protected for so many years on behalf of his employer, Kate Tracy. But he needed to see Matthew that evening and explain his decision to settle down in the employ of Arthur Thorncroft after their mission into German territory. It would be the first evening in weeks that he was not spending with Fenella, he mused as they strolled arm in arm along the beach. The tough and independent American felt nervous about facing his friend and informing him of his decision.
Alexander Macintosh sat in the living room of his father’s house re-reading the letter from Giselle for the third time, lingering on her words and sentences as if she were speaking them to him in person. She missed his company and was counting the days until she arrived in Sydney with her mother from New Guinea. Alex sighed when he considered that was still months away. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway outside the living room made any sound, marking the seconds of the late evening.
Since Alex had met the young woman he had not been able to get her out of his mind and even spent his spare hours plotting a way to return to her father’s plantation. But he was reminded from time to time of the mission he was involved in and its importance to Australia’s future security. Although he was a militia soldier he was still a commissioned officer and took his responsibilities seriously.
‘Your brother has arrived unannounced, Mr Macintosh,’ came the voice of Angus MacDonald from the doorway, interrupting Alex’s pleasant thoughts. ‘Shall I announce him?’
The former soldier was a stickler for protocol and even a member of the immediate family still required permission to enter Colonel Duffy’s house. Angus MacDonald would have preferred that George Macintosh sent his card first – or even made a telephone call to say that he would be visiting. He had done neither which annoyed his sense of right and wrong.
‘Certainly, Angus,’ Alex said, looking up from his letter which he now carefully folded to return it to the envelope with the German stamps adorning it. ‘Show him into the living room.’
When Angus ushered George Macintosh into the living room Alex was standing in the centre of the room wearing his smoking jacket. George had surrendered his coat to Angus and stood wearing an expensive suit.
‘What brings you to the house so late?’ Alex asked his brother.
‘I did not expect to see you here,’ George replied. ‘I came to see Father about a rather disturbing matter, but I suppose you also should be privy to what I have to inform him of.’
Alex frowned. ‘What matter is that?’ he asked.
‘I would rather have Father here before I say anything,’ George replied, searching around the room for a drink. He could not see any liquor bottles. ‘Angus,’ he called loudly. ‘Fetch the colonel and then also fetch a bottle of his best whisky.’
‘I shall do so,’ Angus called back from the hallway while George settled down in a large, comfortable leather chair opposite a small fireplace. Alex watched his brother make himself at home and thought he had that smug look Alex remembered so well from when they were much younger. It was the look of
knowledge of one who had bad news.
Angus entered the room accompanied by Patrick who was also wearing a smoking jacket. The valet placed the bottle of whisky and three crystal glasses on the sideboard and left the room.
‘Hello, George,’ Patrick said. ‘What has brought you here tonight?’
George rose from his chair and walked over to the sideboard where he poured three generous tots of whisky. He handed his father and brother a glass each. ‘I think what I have to tell you tonight is going to require a stiff drink to hear,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that I am the bearer of very bad news concerning Nellie,’ he continued, staring at his father. ‘My sister is both pregnant and a drug addict.’
Patrick’s face paled and Alex could see his father’s hand tremble. For a moment he said nothing.
‘Where in bloody hell did you hear this piece of absolute rubbish?’ Alex responded before his father could recover. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Nor did I want to believe it,’ George replied innocently, taking a sip from his whisky. ‘But I am afraid it is true – Nellie is addicted to heroin and carries Guy Wilkes’ baby.’
‘How in hell did you learn this?’ Patrick said, rage written across his face. He stepped towards George who suddenly felt fearful of the sudden shift in his father’s demeanour.
‘I would rather not disclose how I have come to learn of the situation,’ George quickly answered, taking a step back. ‘Except that Mr Wilkes is prepared to make a written statement corroborating what I have said.’
Patrick placed his untouched glass of whisky on the sideboard. ‘You are speaking about your only sister, and my beloved daughter. Nellie is very special and it is the duty of her brothers to protect her.’
‘Alas, Father,’ George said, ‘I suspect that it is the influences she is exposed to in that immoral industry of film-making that have brought about her condition. I am afraid that you have been remiss yourself to allow her to work for that old sodomite, Arthur Thorncroft.’