by Peter Watt
Matthew was aware that he was on his back. He could see Diane’s horrified expression above him, as panicked people fought to get away from the scene. Two burly British military police pushed their way through the fleeing customers to Diane’s side as she knelt by him.
‘I couldn’t let it happen again,’ Matthew gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain. ‘I love you too much.’ For a moment Matthew was not sure if he was seeing Joanne or Diane hovering in the receding view he had of the world. But he could feel Diane’s grip in his hand and was being washed with her tears.
Then Matthew died in her arms.
*
David had spent the last few nights at Sean’s Sydney flat, and his days at Harry’s gym building up his strength. The bullet wound to his shoulder had caused enough damage to put him out of heavyweight contention but he still sparred with partners Harry found for him.
At the end of a tiring day he showered, changed into a newly purchased suit and tie, and joined Sean on the street outside the gym.
‘I fancy a good steak tonight,’ Sean said with an evil grin. ‘Care to join me – my treat?’
‘Sure thing, Uncle Sean,’ David said, feeling good after a rigorous workout.
The two men caught a taxi and were driven to a posh hotel in the city. David expressed his surprise.
‘Hope I’m suitably dressed,’ he remarked as they left the taxi.
‘You are, my boy,’ Sean said. ‘I’m hoping that we’ll bump into someone I think it’s about time you met.’
‘Who is that?’ David asked as they made their way through the hotel’s grand entrance.
‘All in good time,’ Sean said mysteriously.
Sean was known to the maître d, an Italian who had once claimed to be a count on the run from Mussolini and had come to Sean for legal assistance when he had used his alias to pass bad cheques. Sean had helped him out of a tight spot and the man had never forgotten it.
‘Major Duffy,’ he said with a bright smile of welcome. ‘I have kept the best table for you.’
‘Thank you, Giuseppe,’ Sean replied after handing his hat to a pretty young lady behind a tiny counter, who kept casting David admiring glances.
The Italian ushered them to a table to one side of the busy dining room and Sean ordered a bottle of white wine. David took his seat and noticed Sean looking around the room as if seeking someone.
‘Ah, there he is,’ he finally said. ‘I see that he is dining with his daughter.’
He rose from his chair. ‘Time I introduced you. Come on, young man, meet your illustrious uncle, Sir George Macintosh, and his very pretty daughter, Sarah.’
David rose and followed Sean across the room. When George saw them approaching his smile turned to a scowl.
‘Sir George, Miss Macintosh,’ Sean said, smiling charmingly. ‘I thought I might finally introduce you to your long-lost brother’s son, David Macintosh.’
David hardly heard the introduction. He was too busy staring at Sarah; their mutual recognition was almost instantaneous.
‘It’s you!’ Sarah gasped. ‘You are the young man who saved us in that café in Berlin.’
‘And you are cousin Sarah?’ David replied, almost at a loss for words. ‘I guess protecting family was worth the trouble that followed that incident.’
The two young people continued to gaze at each other, locked in a moment on the other side of the world. For David it seemed a lifetime ago; that afternoon that had led to the series of events that found him on the battlefields of Spain. Finally he became aware that his uncle was glaring at him.
‘We finally meet, Uncle George,’ he said without any warmth.
‘We were led to believe that you had been killed in Spain,’ George spluttered. He turned to Sean. ‘How do I know this man is not an imposter? I would not put it past you to attempt such a thing.’
‘Look at him, Sir George, and you can see that he is your brother Alexander’s son. You need to try better than that. Oh, did I forget to mention that David is only mere months from turning twenty-one and assuming an equal third share in the management of your family’s companies?’ Sean enjoyed seeing the business tycoon’s face redden with frustration and fury.
‘If you have any courtesy, you will leave me and my daughter to enjoy our meal in private,’ George said.
‘Well, Sir George,’ Sean said, a smile still plastered over his face. ‘We will leave you in peace. Miss Macintosh, I hope that our uninvited call on your table did not cause you any distress.’
Clearly still stunned at recognising David as the handsome young man from the Berlin café, Sarah could hardly find words to reply. ‘No, Mr Duffy,’ she said eventually. ‘I hope to meet with David in the future to personally express my gratitude.’
This brought a disapproving scowl from her father and Sean and David turned to make their way back to their own table, where the bottle of wine was waiting for them. Sean expected to have the best steak he had ever consumed.
*
The same people who attended Matthew’s wedding attended his funeral service in Basra. Major Guy Wilkes stood by Diane on one side of the grave dug in the hard earth a short distance from Matthew’s airstrip, and on the other side stood Cyril and Tyrone.
‘The skipper always said that he wanted to be buried here,’ Cyril said, reaching for a handful of sand to throw on the simple wooden casket in the grave. ‘He was a man of vast horizons and desolate lands. Rest in peace, old friend.’
Diane cried for the man she had finally found, loved and lost so soon. She, too, reached for a handful of desert sand to throw on the coffin. Tears rolled down her pale cheeks, as the Eastern Orthodox priest who had officiated at their wedding now performed the last rites of burial. When the burial was over, Diane remained by the grave, staring at the coffin for a long time, then she turned and walked away to the staff car Major Guy Wilkes had provided. Matthew’s Ford trimotor aeroplane was standing forlorn on the tarmac, as if a faithful hound mourning the loss of its master.
‘What will you do now?’ Guy asked gently.
‘Matthew left the company to me and his children, James and Olivia,’ Diane said. ‘I have already mailed a letter to James explaining the circumstances of his father’s death.’
‘So you will continue operating the airline?’
‘Yes, but I have spoken with Tyrone and Cyril and we have decided to relocate to the Pacific region after our oil field contracts are up here,’ Diane replied. ‘I think it will put me out of the range of the Nazis.’
‘We will miss you,’ Guy sighed. ‘As it is, though, I’m being posted back to England to a staff job. It’s a promotion for my work here.’
‘Congratulations,’ Diane said. ‘I know that Matthew was very fond of you. He always considered you both a friend and foe.’
Guy gave a short laugh. ‘I considered him a friend, and I regret very much inducing him to help us out. He would still be alive if I had left him well alone.’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Diane consoled. ‘If I had not been in his life, my dear Matthew would still be alive. He sacrificed himself to save me, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life.’
‘It seems we both will have a burden of guilt,’ Guy said, opening the rear door of the staff car as Tyrone and Cyril walked over to join them.
‘We’re going to have a wee wake at the hangar,’ Tyrone said. ‘Hope you can join us, Major Wilkes, and raise a glass to one of the finest men who has ever flown the skies of this part of the world.’
‘Now the boss is flying somewhere high – with both arms intact,’ Cyril added. ‘I’ll miss you, Skipper.’
Guy drove them across the bumpy ground to the hangar. Diane was vaguely aware that she felt ill, the nausea seemed to come to her each morning she woke up. But she dismissed the feeling of nausea as the effect of extreme grief for the man she loved and lost.
29
David celebrated his twenty-first birthday quietly. He joined Harry and Sean at the pub a
round the corner from Harry’s gym, and Sean shouted him his first legal drink. The three spent the afternoon drinking, and before David knew it, the walls of the hotel had begun to spin. He was bundled into a taxi back to Sean’s flat, where he promptly threw up.
The next morning he groaned as he realised that he was still alive – the way he felt, death might have been a better option. In the kitchen Sean prepared a big plate of fried eggs, bacon and grilled tomatoes.
Bleary-eyed, David slumped in a chair at the table, and Sean pushed a plate in front of him.
‘Eat up, it will do you good,’ Sean said cheerily, already dressed for work. ‘Tomorrow I believe you have an appointment to be introduced to the board of directors. Today, you will get to formally meet your cousin Donald.’
David stared at the fried food and reached for a slice of toast, which he nibbled on slowly. There was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice by the plate, and David sipped on this between bites of the toast.
‘I’m not sure if I should thank you and Uncle Harry for my birthday party,’ David said, ‘because I don’t remember much after the first shout.’
‘What you will remember,’ Sean told him, ‘is how rotten you feel now, and you’ll make sure you never drink enough to feel this bad again. When I returned from the war I hit the bottle to try to wipe out the things I’d seen and done, and I used to wake up feeling as you do now. I was a slow learner, but I know you’re much smarter. My birthday present to you is, hopefully, a life free of alcoholic binges.’
David raised his hand. ‘I swear, Uncle Sean, I will respect the bottle for the damage it can do to a man.’
‘Good lad,’ Sean said. ‘This afternoon Donald will drop in to introduce himself. I guess you can sleep off your hangover until then.’
David took Sean’s advice and retired to his room to snooze for a few hours, allowing his body to dry out. Around 3 pm he heard a knock at the door and eased on a pair of slacks and a clean shirt.
‘We finally get to meet under more civilised conditions,’ Donald said, thrusting out his hand to David when he opened the door. ‘I guess this is my opportunity to thank you for your intervention that day in Berlin. Major Duffy has told me what that help cost you. I was mortified to hear that you attracted the attention of the German police and were sent to Dachau. I wish that I could have turned back the hands of time and changed the events of that day so that we did not accidentally cross paths.’
‘No need for apologies or speeches,’ David said. ‘Come in and I’ll make us a cuppa.’
Donald was dressed in an expensive suit and looked as though he had come from work at the Macintosh offices in the city. David prepared a pot of tea and invited Donald to take a seat at the kitchen table.
‘Nice bag of fruit,’ he said as he placed a cup in front of Donald, who sat stiffly in his chair. ‘Do I get one like that when I start tomorrow?’
‘I suppose with the allowance you will be granted you will be able to afford one a decent suit,’ Donald replied. ‘I will have the honour of introducing you to the members of the board, as I doubt my father will do so.’
David sat down at the table and poured the tea, pushing the milk jug towards Donald. ‘I don’t know if I want to put on a suit and go into an office every day,’ he confessed. ‘I think I need a bit of time to just head off and have a look around.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Donald said, sipping his tea. ‘I would have rather remained at Glen View learning how to manage a cattle station.’
The two young men looked at each other and in their simple statements recognised a commonality of shared aspirations.
‘What’s stopping you?’ David asked.
‘Something that has been drilled into me since I was a child – something called family duty,’ Donald frowned. ‘While my father lives, I need to be close by to counter some of his increasingly mad ideas. He is not a well man, and I have been quietly approached by members of the board saying they fear my father is showing signs of madness. They want me around to balance any decision making.’
‘Fair enough,’ David replied. ‘Uncle Sean has a very high opinion of you.’
‘I am flattered to know that,’ Donald replied with a note of genuine pleasure. ‘I think you have been fortunate to have Major Duffy guiding you. He has told me that you are a top-class heavyweight fighter who might have turned professional. I envy you your prowess. The last fight I got into I lost badly.’
David smiled. ‘Maybe you should come to Uncle Harry’s gym, and I’ll get him to train you,’ he said. ‘You have a pretty good build, and I figure you would be around my weight division. I think it must be in the blood and that we Macintosh men are born to fight.’
‘From what I can gather,’ Donald said, ‘we get that from the Irish blood we are not supposed to have, thanks to one Michael Duffy. According to an old diary, he was a soldier of fortune, and a champion bare-knuckle fighter. His sister, Kate Tracy, passed away at a ripe old age in Townsville a few years ago. I wish that I’d known all this before she died, because I feel she could have told us so much about who we really are.’
David nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Uncle Sean told me that you have recommended Glen View be sold to Tom Duffy,’ he said quietly. ‘I guess you know that I would oppose such a sale.’
Donald placed his cup on the saucer and gave a pained expression. ‘There is so much more you don’t know of the family history,’ he said. ‘Major Duffy told me that you do not wish to lose the property because your mother is buried there. I can understand that as many of our ancestors are buried in the soil of Glen View, but Tom Duffy’s side of the family have more roots in the soil than we do.’
‘I’m prepared to consider the matter,’ David replied. ‘But for now I am forced to side with your father – as much as it irks me to do so.’
‘So you are not saying outright that a future sale is beyond consideration?’ Donald said.
David rubbed his face with his hand as if to wash away the last of the remnants of his hangover. ‘Maybe one day,’ he said.
‘Okay, we will leave it at that,’ Donald said. ‘In the meantime I can say that I feel it a real honour to know that you are my cousin. I never had a brother, and hope that we get to be close friends.’
David eyed his cousin carefully but could not see any falseness in his statement. He stood as did Donald and the two men shook with firm grips.
‘Welcome to the family – for better or worse – David Macintosh,’ Donald said.
‘I think it’s time that we cemented our relationship with a drink down at the corner pub with some friends,’ David said with a broad grin. ‘It will be a quiet drink as I have learned a good lesson last night. My uncles, Sean and Harry, might not be real uncles by birth, but from the little you have told me about Michael Duffy, I don’t think a bit of bastardry really matters in the Macintosh family.’
*
Two weeks later Tom Duffy and his daughter, Jessica, stood by the grave of Hector MacManus on Glen View. Beside them was Donald Macintosh, wearing a suit that made him feel just a bit out of place when he glanced at the stockmen wearing their cleanest work clothes out of respect for the tough old Scot.
When the funeral was over the Presbyterian minister, who had travelled such a long distance to conduct the service, looked relieved to finally be able to escape the heat.
‘It would have been better if the pastor had conducted the service,’ Tom said. But Pastor Karl von Fellmann was long dead and his mission station deserted; a place of dust, termites and crumbling buildings, inhabited only by snakes and goannas.
‘The pastor was Lutheran,’ Jessica reminded her father.
‘Karl was one of Hector’s best friends,’ Tom countered gently.
‘Hector was a truly remarkable man,’ Donald said. ‘He taught me so much.’
‘Are you staying?’ Tom asked.
‘I wish I could but I have to return to Sydney. We will be employing a new manager for Glen View,’ Donald answer
ed.
‘Jessica told me that you attempted to pass a motion to sell me Glen View,’ Tom said. ‘I just want you to know how much your gesture meant.’
‘It is not the end of the business,’ Donald replied as the three of them walked back to the homestead. ‘Give me time and I hope to change the board’s thinking about the sale.’
Behind them the rest of the Glen View stockmen and staff, Aboriginal and European, straggled along to partake in the wake organised by the head cook.
Donald felt a little guilty that Hector’s death had provided him with an excuse to travel to Queensland. He had flown to Brisbane and then taken a coastal steamer to Townsville; from here he had journeyed by a lorry over rutted dirt tracks until he reached Glen View. His trip had taken a total of four days, but the funeral had been postponed until he arrived. At last he was in the company of the young woman who had remained aloof to his flow of passionate letters. When he was able to manoeuvre Jessica to a quiet place in the backyard under the shade of a big old pepper tree he decided it was time to lay his cards on the table.
‘Jessica, you must know how I feel from the letters I have sent you,’ he said. ‘But you have not made your feelings clear.’ Jessica looked away avoiding his eye. ‘Just tell me that you do not feel the same way about me, and I will cease writing.’
Jessica turned to Donald. ‘Donald, my personal feelings are something that I must learn to control.’ He could hear the anguish in her voice. ‘I have made a decision, and my life is no longer mine to decide.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Donald countered. ‘That is a ridiculous thing to say.’
‘Not if you have been called to become a nun,’ Jessica said quietly.
For a second Donald thought he had misheard. ‘That’s crazy,’ he blurted. ‘You’re far too beautiful to be locked away in a convent. The world needs you – I need you.’