The Plantation (2 page)

‘Who said we are shooting apes? We are hunting for food. Mind your own business, lady.’

She stopped, unnerved by his hostile, threatening manner. She saw the local man moving away, and in seconds he was out of sight. The European moved his rifle menacingly while he stared at her, before he quickly followed his companion into the jungle.

Feeling shaken, the peace and solitude of her surroundings broken by the presence of the two men, she began to retrace her steps. As she approached the small jungle camp carved from the forest at the edge of the river, she saw activity on the tiny landing as the klotok, the village longboat, prepared to head downriver to trade for supplies. Behind it was moored the motor boat she and her husband had travelled in to reach this remote place. She walked on to where he was talking with the village headman. She spoke quietly to her husband, and his reaction was one of surprise and worry.

As soon as he could politely conclude his business, the two of them set off with one of the Iban from the long-house to the place where she had confronted the two men. The tribesman, so at home in this jungle, moved easily, but the husband and wife soon became breathless as they struggled to keep up. The young man quickly lengthened the distance between them. Through the trees in the dim light they saw that he had stopped and had bent down.

The woman reached him first and let out a cry. Stumbling, her hand to her mouth, she turned away to her husband. He reached the scene and opened his arms to his stricken wife, shielding her from the terrible sight before them.

A tangled pile of matted orange fur was covered in blood. The stomach of the creature had been gutted but what distressed them even more was that her head, feet and hands had been roughly hacked off.

‘Where’s her baby?’ whispered the woman.

The young man lifted his shoulders and, looking at her husband, said, ‘Gone, tuan. Sold for money.’

‘Poachers. How utterly senseless.’

His wife buried her face in his shirt as he stroked her hair. ‘You start back, dear. Leonard and I will bury the poor creature,’ he said.

‘How I wish we could catch these people. It’s too distressing,’ said his wife through her tears. ‘It’s just too hard. I want to leave here.’

1

Brisbane, 2009

T
HE RAIN FELL IN
sheets that sliced across the windscreen and shone in the lights of oncoming cars. Julie Reagan was glad she had known these suburban streets all her life as she turned into a driveway which ran with the deluge from the summer storm. She pulled up in front of a beautiful big old house, set high on stumps to allow the cooling air to flow beneath the solid wooden floors. The house was encircled by a wide verandah accessed by sandstone steps and atop its pitched roof sat a small, ornate turret. The old Queenslander had an imperious air, perched above the other nearby homes, with its sweeping views from the verandah, the colonnades of which were smothered in the bright yellow flowers of an alamanda vine.

The young woman turned up the collar of her cotton jacket before racing across the sodden lawn, under a dripping poinciana tree, up the steps and onto the front verandah. She stepped out of her shoes and shook the drips from her hair and shirt. She knew her shoulder-length brown hair was starting to curl in the warm dampness.

Julie opened the carved white front door with its panels of stained glass and paused to hear the news on the TV in the sitting room and inhale the toasty, cheesy smell of something that her mother was cooking. The long, airy hallway with its polished wooden floor, the white wooden fretwork, the floral pattern in the pressed-metal ceilings and the carpet runner that had belonged to her great grandmother – everything was familiar to her.

Bayview had originally been bought by her great grandparents more than one hundred years ago. Her grandmother, Margaret, had lived here and now her parents. Her mother Caroline said that although old Queenslanders were expensive to maintain, she had no wish to give up the comfortable and gracious home where little had changed since she was a schoolgirl. For Julie, the house had always been a constant in her life and, while she valued her career, social life and independence, the idea of not having this wonderful family home was inconceivable.

‘Mum? It’s me.’

‘In the kitchen, Jules.’

‘Not watching the news?’

‘Listening from here. I had to get this out of the oven. Nothing special but as your father is going to be late I’ve indulged myself.’ Caroline Reagan looked at her thirty-two-year-old daughter standing in the doorway and her heart warmed at the sight of her. She saw her regularly but occasionally, like now, she paused and couldn’t help but think of what a lovely looking girl Julie was, with her thick, wavy hair, bright blue eyes, firm square jaw and large, happy mouth. But there was also something else about Julie that Caroline hoped others, meeting her for the first time, would also notice. There was a calmness, strength and warmth that radiated from her even before she spoke.

Caroline turned her attention to the dinner plates. ‘Do you want to stay and eat?’

Julie dropped into her family home a couple of times a week and knew that it wasn’t necessary to stand on ceremony, for her mother was always happy to feed her. Her parents’ fridge was always full of tasty leftovers or the makings of a quick meal.

‘I wasn’t, but it smells good and that rain is atrocious. So I’ll wait for awhile, if that’s okay?’

‘Do stay, sweetie. I’ve been hoping you’d call by.’

‘Oh, why is that?’ Julie could tell from her voice that Mother Had News. ‘Heard from Adam and Heather lately?’ Julie’s mother was always hoping that Julie’s married brother in South Australia would announce the imminent arrival of a baby.

‘Yes. But nothing really exciting to report. Oh, they’ve found some fabulous old recycled timbers which they’re going to use in their renovations, but no big news to speak of.’

Julie smiled to herself. It mightn’t be news in big letters to her mother but she could imagine how pleased Adam must have been at finding a treasure for the mud brick home he and Heather were creating in the Adelaide Hills. ‘So what news do you have?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Pour us a small drink. How’s work?’ asked her mother.

‘The same. Hectic. Trying to help get some new companies on the map is always hard.’

‘Well, I guess that’s what a marketing consultant gets paid to do. Give them good advice.’ Her mother wiped her hands on a tea towel and led the way into the living room as Julie followed her with two glasses of chilled white wine.

Caroline turned off the TV and settled herself on the sofa. ‘We’ll eat in a minute. It’s just macaroni and cheese and a little salad. I want you to read this first.’ She handed Julie a letter from the coffee table.

Julie put down her glass. ‘Is it from someone you know?’

‘No. But it’s an interesting letter.’

Julie scanned the letterhead of one of Queensland’s universities and noted the signature, Dr David Cooper
.
Intrigued, she read the letter slowly.

Dear Mrs Reagan,

I hope you don’t mind my contacting you, but I am an associate professor in the Department of Anthropology, currently researching the Iban people of Borneo with a special focus on the changes to their methods of agriculture, social structure and lifestyle given their loss of habitat and resettlement from their previous existence as jungle and river dwellers in Sarawak. In the course of my research in Malaysia I came across a small book,
My Life with the Headhunters of Borneo
by Bette Oldham, which was published in the seventies, and in which she recounts a period of time spent with a local group of Iban in Sarawak. The author was, I believe, your aunt.

     I would, of course, very much like to know more about Bette Oldham and her work. If you can help me at all, I’d very much appreciate it. I can be contacted at the above address or email, or phone.

Yours sincerely,
Dr David Cooper

‘
Good grief!’ exclaimed Julie. ‘Is this the Aunt Bette that Gran was always so critical of? Did you know that Aunt Bette lived with the headhunters of Borneo? It sounds amazing.’

‘Mother always said that her sister was wild and had shamed the family,’ said Caroline. ‘But I had no idea that she’d done anything like that.’

‘And Gran never told you anything?’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’

‘Do you remember Aunt Bette?’ asked Julie.

‘Vaguely, when I was very little and still lived in Malaya, before Mother moved back here.’

Julie was thoughtful. ‘Well, Gran hardly ever mentioned her sister to me but if she did she always called her names like, “my dreadful sister” or “the horrendous one”. There didn’t seem to be much love there.’

‘No, there certainly wasn’t. Funny that this David Cooper should raise the subject of Aunt Bette. To be honest, I rarely think about our family in Malaya. Malaysia, as it is now,’ said Caroline.

‘Not surprising. We tend to get wrapped up in the immediate day-to-day stuff, don’t we,’ said Julie. ‘Are you going to contact him about Bette?’

‘No. What can I say? I hardly remember her and Mother clearly disliked her so much that she could barely bring herself to talk about her.’

‘I’d like to know how this David Cooper tracked us down. Now, can we eat? I’m starving.’ Julie folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.

It wasn’t until several days later that Julie had a few moments free to pull David Cooper’s letter from her handbag and then ring the phone number he’d given.

‘Dr Cooper? This is Julie Reagan. You wrote to my mother Caroline about my Great Aunt Bette …’

‘Indeed! How wonderful to hear back from you so quickly. Your aunt seemed to be quite a remarkable woman, if the book is anything to go by. I’d really like to learn more about her. May I ask if she’s still alive?’

‘Actually, I have no idea. I’d be surprised if she were, as she’d be quite old. But I have to tell you that although she was my grandmother’s sister, they were estranged, so I know nothing about her at all and my mother barely remembers her. That’s why we were intrigued to hear of her book. Is it possible to get a copy of it?’

‘I doubt it. I knew of the existence of the book and I’ve been trawling the net for over a year looking for it. I was elated when I found it in the Sarawak museum shop in Kuching. You’re welcome to borrow my copy. It’s a slim volume but quite insightful.’

‘Yes, I’d like that. Tell me, how did you track down my mother?’

‘It wasn’t very difficult at all. You see there is a dedication in the front of the book to Philip Elliott at the Utopia plantation in Malaysia. I contacted the plantation, it’s well known, and his sons Shane and Peter, your cousins who run it. They gave me your mother’s address. They did mention to me that they had never met your mother,’ he added.

‘That’s true,’ said Julie. ‘My grandmother and my mother returned to live in Brisbane after the war, but Uncle Philip stayed on with my grandfather on the plantation, in Malaysia. So my mother has spent most of her life here, which is why she won’t be of much help to you, I’m afraid.’

‘I appreciate your contacting me. My email address is on the letter. Just in case anything does come up, or your mother recalls anything,’ said David.

‘I don’t think she will. As I said, my mother left Malaya when she was very young and she had little contact with that side of the family, except for birthday and Christmas cards and that sort of thing.’

‘That’s a pity. I enjoy Malaysia so I try to find as many reasons as possible to go there.’

‘Are you investigating the headhunters too?’ asked Julie. He sounded youngish and she imagined he was probably a bit stuffy.

David chuckled. ‘Yes, I’ve done a lot of research on the Iban tribespeople in particular. Borneo is pretty amazing. I’ve adopted several orangutans in a sanctuary because their habitat, like that of the indigenous people, is threatened. So I use both these reasons to keep going back as much as I can. If you ever plan a trip there let me know and I’ll pass on some tips and contacts.’

‘Thank you, but that’s not on my agenda at the moment. Good luck with your research.’

‘Many thanks. Julie, was it?’