The Plantation (5 page)

‘I’m not really sure. Sometimes I got the impression that the reason she left Malaya was as much to do with Bette as it was with Father.’

Julie had a sudden thought and her eyes widened. ‘Mum! Your father didn’t have an affair with Bette did he?’

Caroline vehemently shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’

‘So why did she come back to Australia?’ asked Julie.

‘I really can’t tell you. That was a closed topic. But I did get snippets of Mother’s story and one day, when I was about fifteen, she actually decided to tell me the story of how she met my father and her early years with him,’ said Caroline. ‘It was a long time ago, but I’ll try to remember what she said if you’d like to hear it?’

‘I would,’ said Julie, helping herself to more toast and waiting expectantly.

2

The Mediterranean Sea, 1937

T
HE YOUNG WOMAN CLUTCHED
her large circular straw hat, the salty breeze causing the soft voile of her dress to cling to her legs and outline her trim figure. The older woman beside her, dressed in a sensible cotton skirt and cork-soled shoes with a large hat tied under her chin, pointed to several sheltered deck chairs.

‘Why don’t we sit down, out of the wind? We’ve walked around the deck at least three times.’

The young woman glanced behind her. ‘I was hoping we might see that nice Mr Elliott again. I’ve heard that his father owns a plantation in Malaya. It sounds very interesting and romantic.’

‘Margaret Oldham, you’re impossible. I’m sure you’ll see him this evening since we’ve been invited to join the captain’s table and I believe he has, too. And we have weeks more at sea before we reach Brisbane. So I’m sure you’ll meet lots of other nice young men.’

Adelaide Monkton sat on one of the vacant deck chairs, smoothed a light blanket over her skirt and opened the small book of poetry she’d been carrying. She’d had a very interesting tour of Europe and England these past several months, but accompanying the much younger Miss Oldham had been tiring.

The twenty-one-year-old Margaret was energetic, overly so, Adelaide thought, and at times she could be a bit too forward, a bit too keen to look for the company of young men rather than learning about the culture of the Old World. While Margaret was a well-raised young lady, who’d been to one of Brisbane’s most prestigious schools, Adelaide Monkton had decided there was something of a rebellious streak in her youthful charge. Where Margaret’s friends and contemporaries were demure, Margaret was rather forthright. Perhaps it was her tall, straight-backed figure, no doubt learned in classes devoted to deportment, but Margaret could appear slightly imperious even for a twenty-one year old.

Was her manner due to the subtle sense of entitlement that was bred into girls from well-to-do families in the small social sphere from where she came, wondered Adelaide? Certainly, she recalled that when they had been introduced into high society in London, Margaret had been unfazed and seemed to fit in perfectly well. Margaret had been seen as a good sport and referred to as that ‘rather fun Australian gel’. Adelaide also noted that Margaret’s vowels had now taken on what Brisbane would consider to be a rather toffy accent. Yes, Adelaide would be glad to hand Margaret back to her parents so she could enjoy some leisurely pursuits.

Margaret sat back in her deck chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun, completely unaware that her travelling companion had been analysing her. But soon Margaret, who was quickly bored, got up. ‘I think I’ll go and get ready for luncheon. Shall I see you in our cabin?’

‘Yes, I’ll be down shortly. This is jolly pleasant.’ Adelaide folded her hands, one finger marking the page she was reading, and closed her eyes.

Margaret took a circuitous route to the cabin she shared with her chaperone. Winifred, Margaret’s mother, had declined to take her elder daughter to England since she was not fond of travel. Moreover her younger daughter Bette was in her final year of school and so she had entrusted her elder daughter to an old family friend. The two of them had been away for more than nine months and were now on the final voyage home.

Margaret went into the first class lounge on A deck and then through the music room and peeped into the closed glass doors of the smoke room, which was a reproduction of an old baronial hall complete with a huge fireplace with a large crest above it. Beside the fireplace was a suit of armour and a small museum of medallions and some artifacts that had belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Continuing down the swirl of the red carpeted staircase with its art deco design and fittings, she paused at the small birdcage French lift. It descended to the indoor swimming pool that designer Miss Elsie Mackay had modelled after Roman baths with marble pillars and elaborate mosaic tiles. Adelaide permitted Margaret to bathe there during the sessions set aside for lady swimmers. Adelaide said that it was a more discreet activity than the playful pool games and social activities of the outdoor pool on B Deck.

Back outside on B deck, Margaret pulled off her hat and leaned against the railing, watching the wash of blue water foam away from the curve of the ship’s white hull. On the breeze she heard a burst of laughter, so she went around the corner of a lifeboat to the games deck and saw that there was an energetic game of deck quoits in progress. She recognised some of the younger set, especially the tall figure of Roland Elliott. She stopped to watch, clapping as the game came to an end.

Roland Elliott, dressed in tropical whites, looking flushed but pleased to be on the winning team, came over to her. ‘Hello, Miss Oldham, how cool you look. Jolly hot work out here.’ His accent placed him squarely in a box marked English Public School.

‘It looks a lot of fun. You played awfully well,’ said Margaret.

‘Would you like to join us after lunch for a second tournament challenge?’ he asked. ‘Just for fun, nothing too serious.’

‘You look as though you play very seriously,’ said Margaret.

He gave a slight shrug. ‘My father tells me that if you do something, do it to the best of your ability.’

‘I’ve never played quoits, but I’d love to try,’ said Margaret, thinking that it couldn’t be very hard to throw a rope ring over a spike.

‘Excellent. We assemble up here in the late afternoon when the sun is off this deck. Say around four?’

‘Wonderful. I’ll see you here.’

‘Deck sports? Sounds exhausting,’ said Adelaide. ‘I’ll come and watch.’

‘You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. It’s a nice young crowd, I’ll be fine.’

Adelaide Monkton hesitated. ‘If you’re sure. Tonight might be a late evening. We’re the second sitting. I’d quite like a longish nap.’

Margaret thought about what to wear for the deck quoits. While she was not beautiful, she was attractive and made the most of her patrician looks, having an eye for the clothes that suited her tall figure. She settled on loose, wide-legged trousers, sandshoes, a navy-and-white striped maillot top and the perky white sunshade she used for tennis.

Arriving on deck she found two other girls in shorts and another who wore a long skirt and a halter-neck top. Already their fair skin had turned a blushing pink and, with several more weeks at sea, Margaret imagined they’d be having trouble with sunburn.

‘I’m from Queensland, I’m used to the sun,’ she told one of the girls.

‘You’re so lucky. I’m dreading the Australian sunshine in one way but it will be nice to get away from the rain. We’ve had a dreadful winter.’

‘Do you all know each other, or have you met on board?’ asked Margaret, wondering at the camaraderie of the group.

‘Our families are friends, and those two chaps know each other from school,’ answered one of the English roses.

The game got underway and Margaret was elated at being on Roland Elliott’s team. He was tall, tanned and handsome. He had a pencil-thin moustache, just like Ronald Coleman, and was older and more sophisticated than the chinless wonders she’d met in England. He seemed to be a person who radiated natural authority, which she found quite attractive. Their team won the best of three matches.

He shook her hand. ‘Well done, partner. You had some good throws there.’

‘No, that was luck,’ said Margaret lightly and he laughed.

As they walked to a table on the verandah terrace, where jugs of iced water and cool handcloths were set out, Margaret thought that the two of them made a handsome pair. Both were tall, athletic looking, with similar colouring, and fine fair hair.

‘I say, is everybody coming for sundowner stengahs? We can meet in the bar off the music room,’ said Roland as the group prepared to leave the deck.

‘It sounds delightful. What exactly is a stengah?’ asked Margaret.

‘You Australians! It’s whisky and water. But you could have something else. A G and T, or a BGA, a gimlet, that sort of thing,’ said Roland. ‘Gin and tonic, brandy ginger ale, gin and lime,’ he added.

‘Oh, of course. I’d love to. I believe we’re seated together at dinner.’

‘Good show. See you later then.’ He strode away.

That evening Adelaide watched Margaret pat her hair into place and smooth the bias-cut satin evening gown with its ruched bodice. Diamanté buckles held the straps at her shoulders. Adelaide handed her a finely embroidered shawl, as much for modesty as warmth.

‘You’ll need this. I’m glad you’ve met some nice sociable young people.’

‘Not that young, Adelaide. They’re a very sophisticated group. Mostly English and Scottish. Mr Elliott must be at least thirty-two.’

‘I’ll meet you in the first class dining lounge when the gong goes for dinner,’ said Adelaide as Margaret twirled out of the cabin.

It was the same group in the bar that she’d met at deck quoits as well as some other couples she’d seen at the pool. Everybody was smartly dressed. Margaret felt they all looked as though they had posed for a magazine advertisement for an expensive cigarette or vermouth, where gentlemen in dinner jackets and women in clinging movie-star gowns smoked cigarettes with an ivory holder and held martini glasses.

Roland, who was dressed in a faultlessly tailored dinner jacket, lifted a glass of champagne from a tray a waiter proffered, and handed it to Margaret, taking a whisky for himself. ‘Shall we sit down?’ He indicated the comfortable cane table and chairs beneath a string of coloured lights.

She noticed that he sat carefully, so as not to crease his trousers.

He raised his glass, ‘Cheers, Margaret.’ He sipped his drink then drew a silver cigarette case from his jacket and took out a cigarette, tapping it lightly on the lid before snapping open a matching lighter. ‘Oh, sorry, do you?’ he held out the silver case.

‘No, thank you,’ said Margaret. ‘Though I do indulge on occasion.’ This was true, but she had done it more to annoy her mother and Adelaide since she didn’t particularly like the taste of cigarettes.

‘Do you make the trip to the Far East regularly?’ asked Margaret.

‘It depends. My grandparents are quite elderly, and Mother has been staying with them in Kent, looking after them. I’ve just been to visit the three of them.’

‘Will you be staying in Malaya?’ asked Margaret.

He raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘Of course. My family owns a rubber plantation called Utopia
.
It’s my home. I was born there and, apart from boarding school and Cambridge, I’ve always lived there.’ He blew a thin spiral of smoke. ‘But you’re right, I have made this voyage – port out, starboard home – to England and back several times.’

‘Do you have a lot of friends in England?’ asked Margaret, trying to imagine what his life must be like, split between two countries.

‘Oh, most certainly. Of course, other friends are scattered, in Singapore, all over Malaya and India, but that’s the nature of the empire. Some of them work in the Civil Service, others are plantation managers and so forth. Surely none of this interests you.’ He spoke mildly but the look he gave her was probing.

But Margaret was interested in anything that Roland said. ‘Oh it does! It sounds fascinating. Adventuresome and, well, an interesting life. Not like my boring existence in Brisbane.’

He gave a half smile. ‘It isn’t boring in Malaya. It’s often quite adventuresome, as you put it, though some adventures aren’t always welcome. Life is what you make of it,
n’est ce pas
?’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Another champagne?’