by Peter Watt
‘Yeah, the army throws the odd one out occasionally,’ David said. ‘I know you have one or two like it yourself.’
‘Well, as young Patrick is too young to join us at the pub, I thought we might eat in tonight and have a beer together,’ Sean said, rising to his feet with the assistance of his cane. ‘I made up a good old-fashioned Irish stew for us – more vegetable than meat, of course, thanks to rationing.’
‘That sounds grand, Uncle Sean,’ David said, propping his kitbag against a chair. Patrick was watching his every move. ‘Come to think of it,’ David continued, ‘I might have something in my kit that the young fellow would like.’
David pushed his hand into the top of the sausage-shaped kitbag to retrieve a small brass aeroplane made from empty bullet cartridges and scrap bronze. It had been crafted by a soldier in the workshops and David had purchased it from the enterprising young man. The soldiers also turned the leaf springs from vehicle suspensions into Japanese Samurai swords and sold them to naive Yank servicemen for a good price. David had been planning to give the aeroplane to Sean as a paperweight, but given the expression of delight on Patrick’s face when he handed the heavy object to him, David didn’t think his uncle would mind.
‘Thank you,’ Patrick said reverently, gripping the brass aeroplane as if it were made of gold.
‘You can call me Uncle David,’ David said. ‘I like the sound of that as I don’t have any kids of my own.’
The three sat at the table in Sean’s clean and neat flat with the plates of steaming stew before them. A loaf of fresh white bread sat on a wooden board beside a small tub of dripping, and Sean poured two glasses of beer, along with a glass of cordial for Patrick.
When Sean glanced from David to Patrick he experienced a strange feeling of joy and sadness. He had lost the love of his life last year when Louise, the estranged wife of Sir George Macintosh, had died of cancer. Her death had made him question the very reason for living, and he had even considered suicide. He had drowned in many bottles of strong liquor to dull the pain, but the news of Patrick’s arrival had given him the feeling that he had something to live for after all. He had never been a father, but he had raised David and now he must raise another, at least until his mother returned to claim him. How long that would be depended on many things, and one of those things was winning the war so that Patrick’s mother could be liberated from Japanese captivity. In the meantime he could only hope she managed to survive the harsh conditions of the camps.
‘I know there is one young lady who has been counting the days until you return,’ Sean said to David with a smile. ‘She bothers me every day whether I have heard from you.’
‘Allison,’ David said, returning the smile. ‘Her letters have kept me going, but she has never expressed any romantic interest in me.’
‘I have come to learn a little about Miss Lowe since she took up her position with my law firm,’ Sean said. ‘She is very reserved. She has reverted to her maiden name, which I suspect is her way of putting behind her the tragedy of losing her husband and baby, but I think she is afraid of losing anyone else close to her. So I don’t want you to go upsetting a young lady I like a lot.’
‘I can reassure you, Uncle Sean, that given this bloody war does not look like ending soon, I am in no position to make plans for romance.’
‘I can tell you, my boy, that it’s bloody near impossible to resist the right woman when she comes into your life, no matter how hard you might try. Believe me, I know from experience.’
‘I hardly know Allison,’ David said.
Sean smiled and shook his head. He raised his glass of beer as a salute. ‘To love and war,’ he said, leaving David to reflect for a moment on the two women in his life – Allison and Sarah.
*
Sir George Macintosh stared at the wall in his office. It was adorned with the Aboriginal weapons collected from Glen View after the massacre of the native people who had once lived there peacefully. That peaceful time had changed eighty years earlier, when the Native Mounted Police had descended to ‘disperse’ Wallarie’s clan. Wallarie had been the last of his people and his death a decade earlier should have ended the curse on the Macintosh family, who had authorised the killing of the men, women and children that terrible morning so long ago. However, to Sir George it seemed that the curse had persisted. He had just returned from an appointment with his specialist, who had informed him that the new wonder drug penicillin could be used to cure syphilis. However, Sir George’s sickness was too far gone for treatment, and the disease was entering its terminal stages. Damn the disease, thought Sir George, he had too much left to do to ensure the family’s future to die.
The sun was setting outside and the shadows crept across the floor of the dimly lit library. It was time to turn on the lights.
A knock at the door broke Sir George’s melancholy thoughts.
‘Come in,’ he called.
Sarah walked inside and kissed him briefly on the cheek. He noted how cold her kiss was.
Sarah sat down on a divan by a large French window overlooking the white-stone gravel driveway leading up from the great wrought-iron gates of the mansion.
‘I believe your appearance at the board meeting rather took everyone by surprise,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Are you well enough to resume your management roles?’
‘I had a baby, Father, not a life-threatening illness,’ Sarah replied.
‘I gather you named him Michael,’ Sir George said. ‘You know that is a name not welcome in our family. Why did you do that?’
‘It was a whim,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t think a name has much to do with anything.’
‘It does when it is linked with the Macintosh name,’ Sir George said.
‘Well, that is ironic,’ Sarah said bitterly. ‘Especially when you and I know the baby’s father is also a Macintosh. At present he does not appear to resemble either his namesake or his father. He is weak and sickly.’
‘Jehovah has punished you for lying down with your cousin,’ Sir George said, and Sarah laughed.
‘Who are you to speak of God when I have never seen you do one charitable thing in your life – unless it was meant to further your reputation as a philanthropist. No, Father, it was my desire for David that brought about the birth of this baby, not your Jehovah.’
Sir George seethed at the thought that his grandson was of the blood of a man he had done everything possible to eliminate. Still, he had to admire his daughter’s guts. She was not afraid to stand up to him, and he had discovered this was a rare quality when a person held as much power as he did. His only son Donald was a weakling in comparison, and Sir George had long come to realise that it would be his daughter who would rule the Macintosh empire when he was gone from this world. She had already abandoned her married name and resumed her maiden name of Macintosh, and her son would be known as Michael Macintosh.
‘One of the servants informed me that there was a disturbing incident here a few weeks ago,’ Sarah said, changing the subject. ‘I was told that a man was loitering in the grounds with a gun.’
‘We are not certain that the man had a gun,’ Sir George said. ‘And since then there have been no other problems.’
‘Do you think you might have been the target of the intruder?’ Sarah asked.
‘If you think that it was some jealous husband on the rampage, I can assure you those days are long behind me,’ Sir George said with a half-smile. ‘No, I suspect that it was some criminal intending on breaking into our house to rob it.’
‘Would that not be too risky?’ Sarah countered. ‘Considering that we have servants on the premises, and you have a pistol by your bed. Surely a burglar would not chance such a risky venture.’
Sir George pondered on his daughter’s words. He had dismissed the incident as an attempted robbery, but perhaps there was a different explanation. Was it possible that Lord Ulv
erstone had been the intended target? If so, why? He knew that the British aristocrat had been linked to Fascist causes in England before the war, and he suspected that the links went much deeper, but Ulverstone was one of Britain’s esteemed upper class and surely not capable of outright treason.
‘You can sleep soundly,’ Sir George lied to his daughter, ‘there is nothing to worry about.’ In fact she had caused him to reassess the whole incident, and he thought again about the long-dead warrior, Wallarie, and the curse he had laid upon the Macintosh family. This kind of mischief was surely his doing.
If the younger generation did not believe in the ancient curse, Sir George Macintosh certainly did.
Four
Sir Colin Archibald Sinclair, KBE, MLC and current president of the highly elite and prestigious Australian Club in Sydney’s Macquarie Street, might have asked Sir George Macintosh to depart the premises had he known about the conversation taking place between Sir George and his guest, Lord Ulverstone – whose presence was authorised because of his reciprocal membership of the Brook’s Club of London.
The Australian Club had been established to cater for wealthy and influential gentlemen in the early part of the nineteenth century as a home away from their vast pastoral holdings and industrial empires. Its mahogany panelling, glass-fronted bookcases, priceless artworks, crystal chandeliers and deferential staff made it a cathedral to money and power. Within its walls business was discussed – despite the rule that this should not be. Membership was not only by wealth but also by connection to society’s elite. Subjects verging on treason were definitely not acceptable to gentlemen of the Australian Club.
Sir George settled back in a comfortable leather couch, Lord Ulverstone opposite him. Between them they sipped on the finest Scotch available in Australia.
‘You should be my guest at the Imperial Service Club in Barrack Street next we meet, old chap,’ Ulverstone said, raising his crystal tumbler to sip his Scotch. ‘After all, I believe that your father and brother both served the empire with some distinction.’
‘They were both fools,’ Sir George replied. ‘And both dead in a war that was supposed to end all wars.’
‘That might have been so had it not been for the damned Jewish Bolshevik conspiracy to rule the world,’ the British peer growled. ‘What we have had since 1918 are weak so-called democratic governments. Only Germany and Japan have had strong government, and see how both have swept the world virtually unopposed.’
‘I should point out that Herr Hitler does not seem to be sweeping Russia any more after his defeat at Stalingrad,’ Sir George said. ‘From what I have read, Germany lost a complete army in their failure to capture the Bolshevik city.’
‘It is only a temporary setback,’ Ulverstone replied quickly. ‘Hitler will consolidate and counterattack in a spring offensive. You will see the Bolsheviks reel back in defeat. Mark my words.’
‘How do we explain Rommel’s defeat in North Africa?’ Sir George asked. ‘Another front that Hitler has lost.’
‘The damned Eyties let us . . . Germany down,’ Ulverstone said, correcting himself. ‘It has never been the Führer’s intention to conquer that part of the Mediterranean. That was Mussolini’s domain.’
‘Any way that you look at it, the war for the Axis powers of Germany, Italy and Japan has slowed considerably, albeit they are not defeated,’ Sir George said, glancing around for a waiter to refill his glass.
‘True believers are needed now more than ever to assist the crusade to stamp out the Jewish Bolshevik threat to Western civilisation,’ Ulverstone said quietly.
‘I am not a traitor,’ Sir George said. ‘I may have financial interests in Germany but so too do the big American companies – despite being officially at war with Hitler.’
‘We English do not have the same pragmatic attitude as our American cousins,’ Ulverstone replied. ‘The Americans are smart enough to recognise they should not confuse waging war and making money. But we have a code of honour that says we must differentiate between the two. So, as far as the King’s law is concerned, you are a traitor simply for dealing financially with the German government.’
The statement stung Sir George. He had little time for military affairs and had always tried to convince himself that what he did was simply make money, despite the political differences between his own country and those considered the enemy. After all, wars came and went, and in the end what counted was who was in a position to put food on the table of workers and give them roofs over their heads.
‘I would never consider assisting the enemy,’ Sir George said.
‘You are already, old chap,’ Ulverstone warned. ‘Your interests in German industry are building the infrastructure for Herr Hitler and his Nazis. But that will prove to be the best thing you can do for your family’s enterprises in the long run, when the Axis powers eventually win this war. Who will the victors look to to provide leadership in the new world order? It will be men like you and I.’
‘I would rather not discuss this subject any further,’ Sir George said, looking about nervously. ‘The reason I invited you to the club today was to discuss the incident at my house some weeks ago.’
‘I presume you are referring to the burglar,’ Ulverstone answered.
‘I don’t think he was a burglar,’ Sir George said. ‘Burglars in this country rarely carry guns, and I am sure that I saw a pistol in his hand, and that you appeared to be his target. Is there something you might like to tell me?’
The British officer shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I will be truthful with you,’ he lied. ‘I did recognise the man. He is the husband of a woman I have been seeing. I suspect he was attempting to settle the score with me.’
Sir George frowned. Ulverstone’s explanation had the ring of truth; in his early years he too had confronted the angry husbands of women he had seduced. ‘I would advise that you report the man to the police,’ Sir George said. ‘He may not be finished with you.’
‘Steady, old chap,’ Ulverstone said. ‘That could expose me to a scandal, and as an officer wearing the King’s commission, I could be court-martialled for conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman. I do not wish to bring attention to the situation, and I have since terminated any contact with the married woman in question.’
Sir George stared into the eyes of the English lord and thought he could detect the hint of deceit. But the man’s explanation had logic, and frankly if the betrayed husband did catch up with him it might not be a bad thing; Sir George strongly suspected that Ulverstone was a full-blown traitor to the Empire. It did not pay to be in such company in times of war, when hanging was the sentence for traitors in Australia.
*
Allison Lowe was breathless. She stared at the message taken by one of the law clerks and felt her face flush. It was a request from Major David Macintosh to be his date for an evening of dining and dancing at Romanos nightclub tomorrow.
Allison had heard about the legendary nightclub where only the wealthy could afford the high cost of food and beverages. Located in the basement of the Prudential Insurance building in Sydney’s Martin Place, it was said to be a sumptuous and elegant place with subdued lighting to set a romantic ambience for the patrons. It was also a place where ladies wore evening dress, and Allison did not have such a dress.
Allison glanced at the big clock on the wall opposite and noted that it was 9.30 am – plenty of time to organise a dress if she could get the day off. She rose from behind her desk and went directly to the Major’s office – as Sean Duffy was warmly known by all those who worked for him.
She could see that he was alone, poring over legal documents, and she knocked lightly. Sean glanced up, ‘Yes, dear,’ he said.
‘Major Duffy, I was wondering if I could have time off today for something very important.’
A broad grin spread across Sean’s face. ‘It wouldn’t have something to do wi
th Major Macintosh’s invitation by any chance?’ he asked and was pleased to see the startled expression on Allison’s pretty face.
‘How . . . You have seen David, haven’t you?’ she said, a little annoyed that he had not told her David was already in Sydney.
‘He would have asked you in person, but the army have him tied up with duties at the moment,’ Sean answered. ‘From your request, I gather you have accepted his invitation to Romanos.’
‘Yes,’ Allison said. ‘And I need time to find an evening dress for the occasion.’
‘Take the rest of the day off,’ Sean sighed, knowing how this young woman could easily steal the heart of any red-blooded male. ‘But I expect you back at work tomorrow morning.’
Allison broke into a radiant smile. She would have liked to give Sean a hug, but she knew he was a man who rarely displayed emotion in public, so she thanked him warmly instead, then hurried away, her thoughts full of David and the evening to come. She would contact the one woman she was sure would have an evening gown she could borrow – her best friend, Sarah Macintosh.
Allison caught a taxi the few blocks to the building that housed the headquarters of the Macintosh enterprises. She paid the driver and went into the foyer to speak to the receptionist. A phone call was made and Allison was cleared to head up to the Macintosh offices.
There she was greeted by a radiant-looking Sarah who showed no signs of having just had a baby. Allison had sent a small layette as a gift when she had heard about Michael’s arrival, but she had not seen Sarah for many months. In fact she had been rather surprised to hear that her friend was returning to work so soon after giving birth; even so, she was pleased to see her and she embraced Sarah warmly.
‘I must apologise for not calling on you when I heard about your return to Sydney,’ Allison said, disengaging from the hug. ‘But it is good to see you again, and looking so marvellous too.’
Sarah gestured to a comfortable settee in the corner of her office, and Allison sat down. ‘You do not need to apologise,’ she said with a sweet smile and settled into a large leather armchair. ‘Since my return I have been too busy to catch up with anyone. How are you? I have been told by a little birdie that you are working for the enemy.’