Territory (40 page)

‘Yes,' Aggie said, ‘she would.' She didn't stay long, she never did. Despite her profound sympathy for the man, she
was never particularly comfortable in Terence's company. But she would never forget the agony of his grief that she had witnessed in the lounge at the Hotel Darwin, and her friendship was always on offer. She owed it to Henrietta.

Terence sometimes wondered why he kept playing the game, Aggie bored him now, but he couldn't afford the risk of alienating her. Keep her on side or she might start thinking, he'd decided, and he remained always charming and sensitive in her presence.

A fortnight after Terence had shown her the house, Aggie was walking down Smith Street when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. It was lunchtime and Smith Street was busy but, through the idling window shoppers and those more intent upon going about their business, she had seen a familiar figure. The breath caught in her throat and she stood frozen to the spot. The ambling gait, the lanky frame, the hair falling over the brow which, even as she watched, was raked back in a characteristic gesture. It was Paul Trewinnard.

The shock lasted for only an instant. She quickly realised that the figure was that of a youth. A gangly boy yet to grow into his frame. It was Kit Galloway. He hadn't seen her. He turned to browse in a shop window.

Aggie paused for a moment, taking a breath to recover, then she walked towards him, wondering what exactly she'd say. Wondering indeed whether he might fail to recognise her, it had been over two years since they'd seen each other, after all. He'd been a boy of twelve then, now it seemed overnight he'd become a young man.

She was nearly abreast of him, and about to say something, when he turned from the window.

‘Miss Marshall,' he said with a broad grin of delight.

To Aggie his face suddenly became that of the twelve-year-old she had known so well. Of course he was bound to have recognised her, Aggie thought rather foolishly, middle-aged women didn't change over two years.

‘Kit,' she replied, moved beyond measure by the warmth of his smile, which immediately reminded her of Henrietta. ‘Kit Galloway.' She offered him her hand and they shook firmly, like men. ‘And it's Aggie now, I'm not your school teacher anymore.'

‘Okay,' Kit said a little self-consciously, it didn't seem quite right to call his old teacher by her first name. ‘Aggie it is.' He was genuinely pleased to see her. Miss Marshall had always been his favourite primary school teacher. She, along with Paul Trewinnard, had nurtured his love of literature; he owed her a lot. ‘Gee, it's so good to see you.'

‘You too. I hardly recognised you, you've grown so tall.'

‘Yes I know,' Kit was used to the comment. ‘They tell me I'm “at that age”.'

Aggie wanted to say something about Henrietta, but she wasn't sure how to begin so, in her customary fashion, she blurted it out. ‘I'm sorry about your mother.'

Kit's smile faded. ‘Yep,' he said. ‘We all miss her.' It had been seven months now and, although he'd accepted the shock of her death, he missed his mother as sorely as if it had been yesterday.

The boy looked so sad. Damn, Aggie thought, why had she blurted it out like that. She tried to change the subject without being tactless.

‘Henrietta would have been very proud of you,' she said. ‘Your dad tells me you're doing really well at school.'

But Kit didn't seem to need a change of subject. ‘He said you've been a real good friend to him, Miss Marshall, since Mum …' Kit never quite knew how to say it. He accepted that his mother was dead, but he could never say the words. Perhaps it would have been different if there'd been a proper funeral with a coffin and everything.

‘Aggie,' she gently reminded him.

‘Yeah, Aggie,' he responded automatically, ‘Dad needs friends, he misses Mum a lot.'

Aggie gave a sympathetic nod, then decided that a
complete change of topic was called for. ‘Do you and Malcolm like the new house? It's lovely, isn't it?'

‘Yeah.' Kit shook off his mood. ‘We both reckon it's great. Hey, it's Malcolm's birthday on Friday, I'm trying to buy him a present, I don't know what the heck I'm going to get. Anyway we're having a bit of a party, why don't you come around? I bet Dad'd love to see you.'

‘No, no, I'll pop in and say hello over the weekend,' Aggie promised, and she said her goodbyes, leaving him to his gift shopping.

That night the phone rang. It was Terence. ‘Kit told me he bumped into you,' he said. ‘The boys'd love you to come around for dinner on Friday, it's Malcolm's seventeenth birthday.'

‘Oh no, really, Terence.' Aggie was a little embarrassed that Kit had put his father in such a spot. ‘I couldn't possibly intrude, teenage boys don't want their old school teacher at a birthday party.'

But he was insistent. ‘Oh yes they do. There's only a couple of other boys coming, two old mates from their primary school days. I don't know who the hell they are but you'd be bound to know them.'

‘That'd only make it worse,' she laughed.

‘Rubbish.' Terence refused to take no for an answer. ‘Kit's mad keen for you to come, and so am I. It was remiss of me not to ask you in the first place. Don't leave me with the kids, Aggie,' he begged, ‘I need some adult company, please say you'll come.'

‘I'd love to,' she replied, flattered.

When Kit had brought up the subject of inviting Aggie Marshall, Terence had sided with his younger son.

‘What the hell do you want to ask Miss Marshall for?' Malcolm had scoffed.

‘She was Mum's best friend,' Kit retaliated.

‘She's still a school teacher, for God's sake, Pete and Frank'll think you're mad.'

‘No they won't, Pete always liked her,' Kit retorted, ‘he reckoned she was a good sport. And we're supposed to call her Aggie now.'

Malcolm cursed himself for having automatically referred to his old teacher as Miss Marshall, it seemed infantile. ‘Well, I don't want Aggie here, she won't fit in.'

‘Yes she will,' Terence interrupted. ‘She'll fit in very well. It's an excellent idea, Kit, I should have thought of it myself.' In response to Malcolm's scowl, Terence continued, with a warning edge to his voice, ‘I told you Aggie's been a very good friend to me since your mother died.'

‘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.