Territory (55 page)

It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Foong Lee had just returned to the restaurant having popped out to the post office to collect his overseas newspapers. They were sent to him regularly in batches, and he was very much looking forward to settling down with a pot of
heung ping
and the overseas news, he always enjoyed the afternoon lull between lunch and dinner, and the papers made the prospect doubly pleasurable.

As he was about to pull the door closed behind him, he saw Kit Galloway crossing the street. He didn't bother calling out to gain his attention, it was obvious that Kit was heading directly for the restaurant. How nice, Foong Lee thought, he was coming to visit, the papers could wait.

But Kit wasn't coming to visit. In fact he walked right past Foong Lee without even seeing him. He was probably preoccupied by whatever assignment he'd been on, Foong Lee told himself, Kit was always very passionate about his work. But in his distraction, he'd appeared worried. Foong Lee didn't call after him, not wishing to interfere. Perhaps when he next saw Aggie he might make some discreet enquiries, he thought as he closed the door; if
anyone would know what was troubling Kit it would most certainly be Aggie.

Only seconds later, there was a tap at the door. Foong Lee hoped it was Kit. But then he saw, through the glass with the red-painted dragon on it, the form of a young woman. The restaurant hours were clearly marked on the window for all to read, but Foong Lee never put up the ‘closed' sign. He left it to his own discretion whether or not to turn people away. If he liked the look of them, or felt in the mood, he might invite them in for
heung ping,
to while away an hour or so before the evening trade. Today, with the overseas newspapers before him, he decided to tell the young woman the restaurant was closed.

He opened the door. ‘I'm so sorry,' he said, ‘but we're not open until half past six.'

‘I realise that, but I wonder if I might have a quick word with you,' she entreated. ‘You're Mr Foong, aren't you?'

‘Yes I am,' Foong Lee said. What an extraordinary looking young woman, he thought. Hair the colour of copper and eyes of jade, she was not only attractive, but her origins intrigued him. She was not Irish as some might presume, she was a strange mixture. Pale-skinned admittedly, but there was a fullness to her perfectly shaped upper lip, and a curve to the nostrils of her aquiline nose. He'd seen many white blacks before, and he wondered whether perhaps she might have Aboriginal blood in her. White blacks were usually very attractive, he'd found. Like Eurasians. Nature was prone to choose the best features from both races. Most intriguing.

‘Come in, my dear, may I interest you in a cup of jasmine tea?' There was always time to read the papers.

Jessica stepped into the restaurant where the overhead fans created a welcome breeze from the sweltering stillness of the day. ‘Thank you, Mr Foong,' she said, ‘that would be lovely.'

She watched him as he made the tea. He was a small,
neat man, rather like a penguin, she thought, and she wondered at his age. He looked no more than sixty but he had to be much older. And there was a warmth about him, an old-world courtesy.

‘My name is Jessica Williams,' she said as he ushered her to a table by the windows. ‘I've been in Darwin for two months on a research trip.'

‘And what can I do for you, Miss Williams?' he asked, sitting opposite her and pouring the tea.

‘I've just come from the library,' she said. ‘And I was reading about the Sullivan family in a book called
The Rise and Fall of Darwin's Pioneering Families
…'

‘Ah yes,' Foong Lee smiled, ‘Robert Ashworth. He was rather unpopular with a number of people after that was published, particularly the Sullivans. They wanted to sue him but they couldn't, he'd got all his facts right, you see.' He chortled, his eyes disappearing into mirthful slits as he recalled Matthew Sullivan's outrage. ‘However, Miss Williams, if you're researching Darwin's pioneers, I can suggest a number of books with a little more depth and a little less sensationalism than Mr Ashworth's.'

‘I'm not actually an historian, Mr Foong,' she corrected him, ‘I'm an anthropologist. I specialise in Aboriginal anthropology.'

‘Oh? How very interesting.' He was pleased that he'd been correct, Jessica Williams was Aboriginal, he was sure of it. Foong Lee always prided himself on his powers of observation, particularly when it came to a person's origins. But then one saw such a mixed bag in Darwin, it became quite easy after years of practice.

‘And it's not the Sullivans I'm interested in,' she continued, ‘it's the locket which the family went to court over. The locket which you yourself had purchased at the time.'

‘More and more interesting,' Foong Lee said, plainly fascinated. ‘What part could a seventeenth-century locket play in Aboriginal anthropology?' he asked.

‘Seventeenth-century?' Jessica felt the familiar quickening of her pulse, could this be another step in the right direction? ‘Are you sure?'

‘Fairly sure, yes. An educated guess, mind you, I never did have it authenticated. But I'd say seventeenth-century, and the work of a Dutch master craftsman.'

‘Oh!' Jessica beamed, she wanted to kiss him. Surely it was proof that her theory of the symbol had been correct. An artifact bearing its image had come ashore from one of the early Dutch shipwrecks. ‘Mr Foong,' she said a little breathlessly, ‘do you still have the locket? Please. Please may I see it?'

‘Sadly, no, my dear, I'm afraid the locket is no longer in my possession.' He knew she was about to ask him where it was, how she could find it, but he cut her off even as she mouthed the question. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a little of your interest which appears so avid.'

Jessica realised she'd been grilling him. He really was owed an explanation, he'd been so kind and patient. ‘Of course,' she said, ‘I'm sorry, it's just that I'm excited about getting so close to it after all this time.'

She told him about her discovery of the simple kaolin clay outlines early in her university studies, then her later discovery of the ochre paintings and the theories she'd developed over the years. He watched her as she spoke, she was so passionate.

When she finally came to the end of her story, Jessica felt the need to once again apologise. ‘I'm sorry, I've carried on a bit, haven't I? But it's become an obsession with me.'

‘Don't apologise, my dear, may I call you Jessica?'

‘Of course,' she said, a little taken aback by the non sequitur, but charmed nonetheless.

‘And I am Foong Lee,' he said with a gracious bow of his head which she took as a signal that they were friends. ‘I'm very much afraid, Jessica, that I cannot tell you the locket's whereabouts.'

She stared at him. Cannot or would not, she wondered. His tone, although kind, was final.

‘I cannot tell you, simply because I don't know,' he said. ‘I gave it to my very dearest friend, a man by the name of Paul Trewinnard, and he has since died. Many years ago now.'

‘Do you have any contact you could give me?' she asked desperately. To have come so close! ‘His family, anyone who might know …'

‘Certainly you would have no trouble getting in touch with his blood relatives. Trewinnard's is a well-known family firm of solicitors operating in both London and Singapore, as they have for the past fifty years or more. But I'm afraid it would do you little good,' he dashed her hopes as soon as he'd raised them. ‘Paul had no contact with his family. He was a solitary man.'

Her disappointment was clearly profound and Foong Lee wished he could tell her the truth. He would like to have told her that Paul Trewinnard had given the locket to a beautiful woman called Henrietta Galloway. That the locket had symbolised the great love they had shared. He would have enjoyed telling such a love story to this passionate young woman. But the story was not his to tell, it was a story which endangered too many people.

‘I'm sorry that I'm unable to take you to the locket, Jessica,' he said, ‘I would if I could, I'd like very much to be present when you saw it.'

Why did he seem to know more than he was saying, Jessica wondered.

‘However,' Foong Lee continued, ‘I can tell you a great deal about it which I'm sure will enable you to trace its origins. Do you have a pen and paper?'

‘Of course.' She took out the notebook she always carried in her oversized shoulder bag.

He gave her an intricate description of the locket. Its size, weight, silver content, and diamond carat value, all of
which he'd evaluated before he'd bought it. He also gave her details of the craftsman's insignia, two small g's, and the initials engraved inside, ‘L v.d. M and B v.d. M'.

‘It should be easy enough to trace,' he said. ‘The initials appear Dutch, and I would suggest you start your search in Amsterdam. Amsterdam was the home of the true diamond cutters and master craftsmen of the seventeenth century.'

Jessica looked up from the notes she'd been scribbling at the rate of knots. She didn't know how to thank him. With this detail she knew she'd be able to trace the locket. The fact that she would never see it was a personal disappointment, but she would know its origins. And that was, after all, she told herself, the most important part of her search. To tie up all the links. She was greatly indebted to him.

‘Thank you, Foong Lee,' she said. ‘You don't know what this means to me.'

‘I'm sure I don't, a passion like yours can be hard to fathom for we non-academics.' He seemed to study her for a moment before continuing. ‘I would suggest, however, that such a passion goes far deeper than your academic studies.' Foong Lee knew he was being presumptuous, but he liked to prove himself right. ‘Could it perhaps have something to do with the discovery of your people?'

Jessica was astonished. In the whole of her life, no-one, either black or white, had ever guessed at her Aboriginal ancestry. ‘My mother was a Yamatji woman,' she said. ‘How did you know?'

‘It's a hobby of mine,' Foong Lee smiled, very pleased with himself. ‘We are such a mixed breed here in Darwin, people's origins are a constant source of interest for me and guessing has become a habit. Will you join me in a fresh pot of tea?'

‘I'd love to,' she said. She meant it, she could have talked to the old Chinese for hours, ‘but I have to get home and do some packing, I leave for Perth first thing tomorrow.'

‘Very wise,' he said, ‘with the cyclone coming.'

‘Do you think it'll hit Darwin? Everyone seems very blasé.'

‘Who knows?' Foong Lee shrugged, ‘they're such mercurial things, cyclones, but yes, I think it will.'

‘Thank you, Foong Lee.' They shook hands. ‘You've been a wonderful help.'

‘I only wish I could have done more,' he said.

Was there the faintest hint of regret in his voice, she wondered? Once again she had the vague feeling there was something he wasn't telling her. She rummaged in the side pocket of her shoulder bag.

‘I'll leave my card with you,' she said, ‘just in case anything else comes to mind.' His expression was quizzical and Jessica was certain that he knew what she was thinking. She found herself rattling on a little self-consciously. ‘And of course if you ever come to Perth, I do hope you'll ring me, I'd love to see you, I've enjoyed our chat.'

‘Perth,' he said as he took the card. He seemed most interested. ‘A very pretty place, Perth.'

‘You know it well?'

‘No. But I've visited a number of times, I have friends who live there.' As he opened the door for her, she couldn't resist impulsively kissing him on the cheek, and it obviously pleased him.

‘Goodbye, Foong Lee, and thanks again.'

‘Good luck with your search, Jessica.' He stood deep in thought as he watched her walk down the street.

Two days after Jessica's departure, Foong Lee was concerned that his weather prediction may prove ominously correct. On the morning of Christmas Eve, the cyclone was given a name. She was called Tracy. And although most remained heedless of the warnings, convinced that Tracy would alter her path, Foong Lee, always a man of caution, telephoned his son.

‘You will bring the family around and stay the night with your mother and me, Albert,' he said.

The large storage cellar beneath Foong Lee's house, which had been built following the Japanese attack on Darwin, was constructed to also serve as a shelter. It was protection against bombs or cyclones or anything else that might threaten his family, and in the case of Tropical Cyclone Tracy, Foong Lee was taking no chances, particularly with the safety of his beloved grandchildren.

 

Kit Galloway had more on his mind than an impending cyclone. For three days he had agonised over the locket and what it signified. He'd gazed for hours at the photographs of his mother and the man who must surely have been her lover. He recalled the resemblance he'd initially recognised between himself and Paul Trewinnard. Was it possible that this man was his father? If so, the ramifications were immense. Had his mother lived a lie for fourteen years? Or had her husband known from the outset? It would certainly explain Terence Galloway's antipathy towards him. For as long as Kit could remember he'd felt alienated from his father. Had Paul Trewinnard himself known? Kit recalled, with vivid clarity, their last meeting at Mindil Beach when he'd known that Paul was dying. He remembered the fervour with which the non-demonstrative man had returned his hug. Had Paul been saying goodbye to his son?

The more Kit pondered the subject, the more he convinced himself that Paul Trewinnard was his father. And the more he gazed upon the locket, the more tortured he became in his desire for the truth. He must know. It was his right to know.