Free Territory by Judy Nunn Page B

the great jagged bolts of lightning must strike the homestead. But Terence and the other members of the household had taken it all in their stride, unbothered by the show of nature’s force. The storm had been followed by torrential rain which had lasted a fortnight, turning the red earth into mud. Where was the pattern to such weather, Henrietta had wondered. It was the monsoon, Terence told her, the ‘wet’ season, the weather was always erratic during the wet season, she’d find the ‘dry’ more comfortable.
    Henrietta soon realised that extremes were a daily occurrence in the Northern Territory and, as a result, the Territorians’ reaction to drama was, on the whole, rather placid. To Henrietta everything around her seemed dramatic. The size of the landscape, the ferocity of the storms, the intensity of the heat. She must learn to adjust, she’d told herself.
    She was aware, however, that there was one adjustment which she would find very difficult to make, and that was the change in moral outlook. In particular, Terence’s explanation of European and Aboriginal relations which had shocked Henrietta immeasurably.
    â€˜It’s not talked about, although it’s common knowledge,’ Terence had said, shortly after she’d met the Aboriginal family whom she’d presumed to be house servants, ‘but Nellie is Dad’s half sister.’
    Henrietta had been more mystified than shocked at first. The fact was very difficult to assimilate, Nellie being so distinctly Aboriginal in appearance, and a good twenty-fiveyears younger than Jock. But Henrietta had tried to cover her nonplussed reaction as she waited for Terence to explain.
    â€˜There are hundreds of half-caste blacks wandering about the place,’ he’d said, ‘the offspring of white station owners and the wives of black stockmen. They take the boss’s Christian name as their surname—Nellie was Nellie Lionel before she married.’ He grinned. ‘The whole thing’s a bit of a joke, really. In pubs all over the Territory there are white blokes skiting about the number of black kids running around with their Christian name—kids they’ve fathered by stockmen’s wives.’
    â€˜Don’t the stockmen mind?’ She wondered how she could sound so calm as she voiced the question.
    â€˜Good God no,’ Terence scoffed at the suggestion, ‘on the contrary, they’re proud if the white boss takes a fancy to one of their wives—they usually have two or three, sometimes more. Quite often they’ll offer the services of whichever lubra the boss has an eye for, and the boss’ll give them a present in return. Tobacco’s the most popular.’
    â€˜Oh, I see.’ Henrietta’s reply had been followed by a breathless gulp, and that’s when Terence had suddenly realised that she was shocked.
    He’d cursed himself. Of course she’d be shocked, it would all be so foreign to her. She needed to be broken in to their ways gently, he should have been more careful.
    â€˜Well, that was a while back now,’ he assured her, ‘times have changed.’
    They hadn’t really. Terence knew full well that his own father had had his fair share of dalliances with Aboriginal women in the past. Discreetly of course, for fear of incurring the wrath of his wife. And Terence himself, encouraged by his father, had lost his virginity at the age of fifteen to the eighteen-year-old daughter of a black drover. Jock had boasted of the fact to his mates. ‘The boy’s developed an early taste for black velvet,’ he’d said, and Terence had felt like a man.
    Henrietta still looked rather shaken and Terence realised she needed further reassurance.
    â€˜My grandfather was a good man, Henrietta,’ he said, ‘he did the right thing by Nellie. He gave her a decent education at Port Keats Mission, and he found her a husband, and I’ll