Territory (46 page)

Kit Galloway was awarded the Military Medal. His father accompanied him to the Queen's Birthday Awards announcement at Admiralty House in Sydney.

‘On 16 January 1969, in the province of Phuoc Toy, South Vietnam, Private Christopher Galloway did, whilst under heavy enemy fire, ensure the security of his battalion's position and aid the repulse of a concerted enemy attack. For his actions he is awarded the Military Medal for bravery in the field.'

Terence stood at attention as Kit's citation was read out by the Governor-General, Sir Paul Hasluck.

Upon their return to Darwin, Kit's photograph was featured on the front page of the
Northern Territory News
, and Terence accepted endless congratulations as the father of a hero, nodding when people said ‘you must be so proud'.

But Kit's Military Medal rankled Terence, as did the fact that the boy was seen as a hero in the eyes of others. He considered Kit a pretender. A man with no true military calling. A conscript who, by sheer force of circumstance, had been recognised for bravery.

The truth was, Terence hated Kit because he'd returned. The wrong man had come home, and Terence would never forgive Kit for that.

Terence Galloway was heartbroken at the loss of his elder son. His only son, he now decided. For the past several years he'd lulled himself into an acceptance of Kit. He'd spoken of him with genuine pride, particularly to Aggie, for whom he had a begrudging respect. He was pleased that, in Aggie's eyes, Kit was such a fine student.

It angered him now to think that he'd felt any pride in Kit's achievements. It was disloyal. Traitorous. Kit was alive and Malcolm was dead. It was inconceivable that Paul Trewinnard's son should survive when Malcolm Galloway, the one and only true heir to Terence's empire, had ceased to exist. There were times when Terence could barely disguise his loathing for the boy others thought was his son.

Kit knew that his father was grieving. He even knew that, had his father been given a choice as to which of his sons should survive, he would have chosen Malcolm. Malcolm had always been his father's favourite. Kit was prepared to accept that, he'd lived all of his life in his brother's shadow. But he too had loved Malcolm. Couldn't he and his father grieve together? Couldn't they comfort each other? But his father seemed inconsolable, isolated in his grief. Kit did everything he could to soften the blow of his brother's death.

‘I was with him, Dad,' he said shortly after his return as they sat on the verandah in the early twilight. His arm was still heavily bandaged, but the prognosis was good. ‘You'll have an impressive scar,' the army doctor had said, ‘but no permanent damage.'

‘I was right beside him …'

Terence Galloway gazed silently through the light mesh screen at the harbour.

‘… and he didn't feel any pain.'

Terence gave a brief nod, appreciative of the knowledge that Malcolm had not suffered, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Kit.

Kit longed to embrace his father. He couldn't remember a time when they'd ever embraced. Not
really
embraced. Perhaps once, after the death of his mother, but it had been so clumsy, he recalled, so awkward.

‘He died bravely.'

Of course he did, Terence thought, he was a Galloway. It had been a magnificent sunset, and the final glow of the sun still glinted pink on the ripples of the water.

Malcolm's words returned to Kit. ‘Don't tell Dad.' He could see the plea in his brother's eyes. ‘Don't tell Dad.' Of course he would never tell their father. Their father would not be able to stand the truth. And so Kit lied. He lied not only for Malcolm, but also for his father. ‘He was a hero, Dad.'

So why didn't
he
get a bloody citation, Terence thought. Even a posthumous award might have been of some comfort. Malcolm Galloway was listed as a casualty, a mere statistic, whilst Kit Galloway was cited for bravery. The thought of it galled Terence beyond measure.

His father remained silent, staring out at the water, and Kit longed to break through his pain, to offer him some form of comfort. ‘You would have been really proud of him.'

‘I am,' Terence said, focussing on a yacht under full sail heading up river for home. He dared not look at the bastard. He might kill him if he did.

 

‘I feel guilty, Aggie.'

Six months later, following their trip to Sydney and the award presentation, there was still no change in his father, and Kit was deeply disturbed. The only person he could turn to was Aggie Marshall. ‘I feel guilty because I came home and Malcolm didn't. I know that's what Dad's
thinking, he's wishing it had been the other way around.'

‘Oh Kit, that's not true.'

‘Sometimes I catch him looking at me and I can see it in his eyes.'

He was agitated, she could tell. He'd refused a cup of tea and he didn't want to sit down, he just paced about by the bay windows occasionally peering out over the Esplanade at nothing in particular.

‘He hates me.'

Aggie was concerned. ‘You're wrong, my dear. He's proud of you, as we all are.' Kit shook his head, but she continued. ‘Your father is in pain, Kit. He's grieving, and he's closing you out along with the rest of the world.'

Kit turned to her, and she could see that he was hanging on to her every word, desperate for reassurance of his father's love. Dear God, she thought, he's only twenty-one. Despite all he's been through, he's little more than a boy.

Aggie wanted to sound wise, although, in truth, she had no idea why Terence would alienate his son. Certainly Malcolm had been his favourite, it had been evident for years. They'd been so alike, Terence had always seen himself in his elder son. But Malcolm was dead, and Kit had come home. Terence could have lost both his boys, Aggie thought, he should be thankful that his younger son had returned.

‘It's a pity,' she said in her matter-of-fact way, trying to reach the boy through plain commonsense. ‘It's a very great pity that your father's not including you in his grief. It'd be easier for you both if you could share your loss.' Kit's grey eyes were focussed on her with such intensity, anxious for answers she didn't have. ‘But grief takes many forms, and he's holding his inside, you just have to give him time.' It seemed such a lame reassurance, she thought, and he looked so young and so vulnerable.

‘Think of your mother, Kit. Think how proud of you Henrietta would have been.' She didn't know why she'd
said it, in her customary blunt fashion the words had just come out. But, surprisingly enough, they hit the right chord.

‘Yes she would, wouldn't she?' Kit thought of his mother, and suddenly the tears welled in his eyes. He didn't attempt to fight them back.

Aggie embraced him and, unashamedly, Kit returned the embrace. He clung to her as he wept for his brother. He'd had no-one with whom to share his own grief and, as he wept, the emotion he'd kept in check was released with his tears until, finally, he was left with an overwhelming sense of relief.

‘Thanks, Aggie,' he said when he'd recovered and Aggie had returned from the bathroom with a box of tissues. ‘Sorry to be such a baby,' he apologised, grabbing a fistful of Kleenex, ‘but I must say I feel a hell of a lot better.'

‘It's a pity your father can't have a good cry.'

‘Yes, isn't it,' Kit agreed. ‘Perhaps you should visit him,' he grinned as he blew his nose loudly, ‘you're an excellent therapist.'

He was only joking, but it was a damn good idea, Aggie thought. Terence might well tell her to mind her own business. But then Aggie was used to that.

 

‘He told you this, did he?'

Aggie froze at the animosity in Terence's voice and the dangerous glint in his eyes. She thought she'd chosen the right moment. They had the house to themselves, Kit was at the library studying, as he was most afternoons; he was returning to university in the new year. Fran had served them afternoon tea and they were comfortably settled in the lounge room with the ceiling fan whirring, it was far too hot for the verandah, and Terence, although subdued, had seemed pleased to see her.

Aggie had visited him a number of times over the past months. She had been amongst the first to offer her
condolences upon the news of Malcolm's death, and when Terence had returned from Kit's award ceremony, he had responded pleasantly to her congratulations. ‘Yes of course I'm very proud,' he'd said. He'd seemed a little distracted, which was understandable, but there'd been no animosity in him as there now was.

‘What exactly did he say?'

‘Well he didn't
say
it, not in so many words.' Aggie started backing off as quickly as she could. ‘It was just something I sensed.'

‘How exactly could you
sense
that my son thinks I hate him? Don't treat me like a fool, Aggie, what exactly did he say?'

Aggie cursed herself, her interference had caused trouble for Kit. ‘He said he felt guilty that he'd come home and Malcolm hadn't.'

‘Well, that's his problem, isn't it,' Terence sneered, ‘and then he said that I hated him, is that it?' Terence was angry. How dare the boy go running to Aggie Marshall with his problems, the snivelling little coward.

‘As I said,' Aggie hedged, ‘I just sensed that …'

‘Don't lie to me, Aggie.' There was something threatening in the way Terence leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips methodically on the wide wooden armrests. ‘I will not have lies, do you understand?'

Aggie felt a jab of fear. He was trying to intimidate her, and with some success, she realised. Terence Galloway could be formidable. But her protectiveness of Kit quickly overrode her fear. If he was prepared to bully her in this way, just exactly how far would he go with his son?

‘Terence, I know that you're grieving,' she said, ‘but you must understand …'

‘Don't bullshit me, woman,' Terence growled angrily, rising from his armchair. ‘What did the boy say?'

At fifty-five, Terence Galloway was still an impressive looking man, but his body had thickened over the years.
Now, as he towered over Aggie, his shoulders bull-like, the veins standing out on his powerful neck, he presented a frightening figure.

Perhaps it was his very power, and his awareness of it, which goaded Aggie. Terence was a bully who liked to instill fear, and Aggie refused to be bullied. She also stood, prepared now to give as good as she got.

‘Malcolm was always your favourite, Terence,' she said, and it was the voice of accusation. ‘God only knows why, but you favoured him for years, and now that he's dead you're forgetting that you have another son.'

The words struck him like a blow. Terence stared at her. He had gone too far, he realised. Since Malcolm's death he had felt recurring bouts of his madness. There had been times when he could have killed Kit for the fact that he had survived when Malcolm had not. Terence suddenly realised that he had been endangering himself. He must be more guarded.

‘I was not aware that I had so favoured Malcolm,' he said a little stiffly. Had it been that obvious, he wondered.

‘You always did, Terence. Ever since he was a little boy it was quite obvious he was your favourite.' Aggie was astonished at the effect her outburst had had upon him. She hadn't intended to sound so brutal. ‘It's understandable, he was so like you. But Kit is your son too,' she added a little more gently.

‘Thank you, Aggie,' he said. Annoyed as he was at Aggie Marshall's interference, Terence was nonetheless grateful. Her warning was timely. ‘Since he was a little boy' she'd said. So she'd recognised that Malcolm had been his favourite well before Henrietta's death, that was good. Nothing suspect could be read into that.

‘I haven't been kind enough to Kit, I agree.' He sat. Leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clenched, he stared at the floor. ‘Malcolm's death was such a shock. I haven't been able to think about anything else.
It was wrong of me.'

‘I'm sorry,' Aggie said. She remembered the day at the Hotel Darwin when Terence had cried over the death of Henrietta. A broken man. He looked much the same now. ‘I'm truly sorry, I didn't mean to be hurtful.'

‘No, you're right, and I'm grateful. Kit is my son and I love him.'

‘Of course you do, Terence, I know that.' She knelt beside his armchair, her face a picture of concern. ‘Just as he loves you.'

Terence wanted to give the interfering bitch a swift backhander, but he played the distraught father instead. ‘I hadn't realised I'd been so cruel. I'll make it up to him, Aggie.' Damn Kit, he thought. Thank Christ it was only a couple of months until he returned to university, Terence couldn't wait for the boy to be out of his sight.

He suffered a few more of Aggie Marshall's platitudes and when she'd gone he breathed a sigh of relief. But, irritating as she was, Aggie had given him a great deal to think about. Not only must he take care to disguise his antipathy towards Kit, he must accept Malcolm's death or it would destroy his life. For months now he'd avoided the emporium and the showrooms, ignoring all contact from his associates. He knew that his business had suffered.

Terence poured himself a large Scotch and ice. He'd become obsessed with the death of his son, he realised. He needed distraction. A woman would help. The discreet call-girl service he'd employed on a regular basis over the years wasn't enough. He needed a woman living in the house. Not a wife. Not yet anyway. But a woman who could be at his beck and call.

‘You need some help, Fran,' he said when his housekeeper arrived half an hour later to clear away the tea things.

Fran looked at him, mystified, as he sat back in his armchair nursing the fresh Scotch he'd just poured for
himself. Why would she need help carrying a tea tray?