Free Territory by Judy Nunn

was a Gallipoli veteran, with his medal and discharge papers to prove it.
    The Spitfire was a speck in the distance. Soon it would disappear over the far-off hill to land at the RAAF base beyond. Jock turned to discover Henrietta standing barely ten yards away, she too apparently lost in thought. Margaret had hustled the Aborigines back to their chores, Nellie and Pearl only too happy to obey, and Charlotte had left her father to his reverie as she always did, Jock invariably watching until the aircraft had disappeared from sight. But this time Henrietta had remained. Just as she should, Jock thought. Paying tribute to her husband, it was only right.
    â€˜He’s a fine man, the man you married,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes.’ It wasn’t what Henrietta had been thinking.
    â€˜Put on a hat if you’re going to stand around in the sun.’ Jock’s voice was as gruff as always but his intention was kindly enough. Although Margaret would have preferred an Australian daughter-in-law, Jock approved of his son’s choice. A good strong body, shapely, but not plump. A healthy bosom, good child-bearing hips, a sound young filly when all was said and done. Jock had always likened women to horses. No insult was intended, indeed more often than not he considered his comparisons a compliment to the woman to whom they were directed. They certainly were in this case. Henrietta was a filly with excellent breeding prospects. A chestnut into the bargain.Chestnuts had always been Jock’s preference. ‘Or else come into the house,’ he said, ‘the sun’s not kind to complexions like yours.’
    â€˜I’ll come in when I’ve fed the chickens,’ Henrietta replied. She wanted to be on her own for a while.
    â€˜Chooks, girl! When will you learn? Chooks!’ But he smiled his leathery smile as he said it.
    â€˜Chooks.’ She smiled back. ‘Chooks. Yes.’
    Henrietta watched him mount the steps to the verandah. She watched the flywire door slap shut behind him. The heavy wooden front door remained open, as all the doors in the homestead did on still days like this, to channel through the house any available vestige of breeze.
    The flywire door had amused her at first, it was at odds with such an imposing house. ‘Designed by my grandfather,’ Terence had proudly informed her three months previously, as he’d pulled the Landrover up in front of Bullalalla homestead. ‘Built entirely from imported Tasmanian oak.’
    Two storeys high, the house was surrounded by verandahs on all four sides, and large front balconies opened out from the upstairs bedrooms. A succession of elegant lemon-scented gums lined the last fifty yards of the driveway. They were around thirty feet tall with graceful white trunks and silver-green leaves and, just beyond the gums, where the drive dipped down to the homestead gates and the private road beyond, was the grove of mango trees, glossy green in foliage, rich and luscious. The mixture of sub-tropical and Australian-outback flora was striking, and typical of the area Henrietta was to discover.
    â€˜Two storeys is a bit of a luxury,’ Terence boasted. ‘Grandpa Lionel owned a stud in South Australia. Race-horses. He was very successful. Very wealthy. He only bought the Bullalalla property as an investment, running buffalo for pet meat, it was big business back then. He hadn’t planned on falling in love with the place, but he did,so he built the sort of house he wanted to live in. Personally,’ Terence added with a grin, ‘I think the old bloke wanted to show off a bit of southern style to the locals.’
    Terence could barely remember his grandfather, Lionel Galloway, but the stories he’d heard from Jock were romantic and intriguing.
    â€˜Grandpa left the place solely to Dad in his will,’ he continued. ‘Dad was always his favourite, because of his war record and all that. When Grandpa built this