by Peter Ralph
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, removing her silver, wire-framed glasses as she played with her plaits.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You really don’t want to know.’
‘Jeez, I dunno why I employ you. You can’t type, you can’t make coffee and you won’t give me my messages.’
‘You employ me because no-one looks after your back like I do, and who’d defend you from pissed-off subscribers if I wasn’t here?’
He knew that was true. She was blindly loyal and could be downright intimidating - no-one could collect debts so effectively. ‘Buffy, please tell me what was so funny?’
‘All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Old Mrs Elliot asked me how come your daddy was born with such big gonads but you didn’t get any.’ She burst out into laughter again. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s funny, especially coming from her, when she’s so prim and proper.’
Steve felt himself going red and wondered what they expected him to do. Everyone knew that the well had been sabotaged, but they still wanted him to sink the boots into CEGL - to say that the gas wells were dangerous, poisonous and that they contaminated the air and water. Well, his parents had not brought him up to tell lies but, as he thought about this, he smiled at the irony of them having become such convincing liars themselves.
‘Yeah, real funny, Buffy, I don’t think,’ he said.
The Fisher Valley Protective Alliance was a group of townsfolk and valley people vehemently opposed to the extraction of coal seam gas. It published a weekly newsletter and, unlike Steve Forrest, had no compunction about unleashing a vicious attack on CEGL and the safety of the gas wells dotted around the valley.
Paisley Police Station was a single-level brick building with a main office, a holding cell, a small, tight driveway and three car parks at the rear strictly reserved for police. ‘No parking at any time’ signs ran the length of the driveway. The window in Josh Gibson’s corner of the office looked directly out onto the driveway and he groaned when a silver Porsche pulled up directly in front of him, completely blocking the driveway. He was glad that his two offsiders were out making calls, because he had a feeling that he would not like them to see what was about to occur. A middle-aged woman with sandy hair alighted, wearing a pants suit and silk scarf that would not be out of place in Paris. She quickly checked her perfectly applied make-up in the driver’s door rear-vision mirror, but it failed to disguise the hardness of her features.
Josh had met Moira Raymond three years earlier when she had parked in exactly the same spot and he had told her to move or he would book her. As cool as a cucumber, she had pulled out her mobile, punched in a number and, while he was still shouting at her, she passed it to him. ‘It’s the Chief Commissioner. He’d like a few words with you.’ It was the first and only time he had ever spoken to the state’s top cop and he was told that Moira was a personal friend and that he should do everything he could to help her. Since then, he had watched her take the premier and senior government ministers on tours of the gas wells around Paisley on many occasions and later dine with them. Whenever she was with a politician, she was quick to spruik the benefits to the state and nation of extracting coal seam gas.
She was as comfortable drinking beer and telling crude jokes in the company of labourers she employed on gas wells as she was sipping Dom Perignon with oil barons. Moira was a complex mix of rapier-wit and charm, which she could turn off and on at a whim. In the not too distant future, with the proviso that she did not fall at a hurdle, she would be CEGL’s CEO. She was grimly determined that those opposed to the extraction of coal seam gas in the Fisher Valley would not be that hurdle.
‘Good morning, Josh.’ Moira smiled through perfectly capped teeth. ‘How are you this beautiful day?’
‘I’m fine, Moira. What brings you here?’ He knew that whatever had brought her here could not be good for him.
‘Have you made any arrests yet?’
‘No. We don’t know that it wasn’t an accident.’
‘God, the whole town knows it was sabotage, knows who did it and knows Len Forrest is a liar. You know that, don’t you Josh?’ She rested a perfectly manicured hand on his wrist in the same way a mother restrains her child from straying into danger.
‘No, I don’t.’
Her icy blue, unblinking eyes locked onto him and she slowly shook her head. ‘We plugged the well last night and guess what we found?’
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.
‘A small melted mass of metal that looks like a petrol drum.’
‘Don’t your maintenance guys carry diesel and oilcans with them?’
‘Are you saying that one of my employees left an oilcan at the well? It’s not possible. They have to account for everything on a report sheet.’
‘People make mistakes and what you’ve found doesn’t prove anything.’
‘My people don’t make mistakes.’ She scowled. ‘I really hoped you’d be more cooperative. If any more of our wells are sabotaged, I’ll hold you responsible.’
‘Moira, there’s three of us to cover the whole valley and we’ve got more to do than worry about your wells. If you’re worried about sabotage, you better bring in your own security guards.’
‘I might do that,’ she said, walking to the door. ‘But you won’t like it Joshy, because, unlike you, they have their own ways of getting results.’
He watched the Porsche’s tyres burn rubber as she reversed out of the driveway and he hoped he wouldn’t see her again any time soon.
Five minutes later Moira entered the premises of the Paisley Chronicle. Neither Steve nor Buffy had met her but they both knew who she was - everyone in the valley knew who Moira Raymond was. She looked past Buffy and said, ‘Steve Forrest?’
Before Steve could respond, Buffy smiled cheekily. ‘Who will I say is calling?’
‘That’d be me,’ Steve said, glaring at Buffy.
‘Your article was pretty weak, but I don’t suppose you could call your father a liar when he owns the paper.’
Steve was about to protest, but Moira held her hand up. ‘I’m not here to complain. I think you’ve been even-handed in the way you’ve reported on our industry and I’m guessing you resisted a lot of pressure to bucket us. That’s right isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to compliment me on my writing.’
‘You’re right about that. I want to book the centre pages of this Friday’s paper for a community announcement about the benefits CEGL can bring to the town.’
‘We … we can’t,’ Buffy gasped.
‘I take it you’re not the editor of this fine publication,’ Moira said, eying Buffy disdainfully. ‘So I presume it’s not your decision.’
‘Buffy plays a vital part in running this newspaper and she organises and allocates advertising space,’ Steve said. This wasn’t a total lie and at that moment Buffy wanted to hug him. She liked to think that she was tough in a nice way but the woman on the other side of the counter was a bitch: caustic and just plain nasty.
‘I’ve got the copy with me,’ Moira said, opening her Hermes handbag. ‘There are twenty points, starting with the employment opportunities we’ll generate and finishing with our undertaking that we haven’t and won’t contaminate the town’s air and water.’
‘You’ve already poisoned the water,’ Buffy said. ‘Look what happened to poor Charlie Paxton.’
Moira ignored Buffy and stared at Steve. ‘You know that’s not true. If it was, there’d be a lot more Charlie Paxtons in the valley. I feel sorry for the kid and his family, but his death had nothing to do with us. Are you going to run our advertisement this Friday, or not?’
‘You’ve been here for nearly three years but you’ve never approached us before. Why now?’
‘We looked at advertising a few years back, but your circulation barely exceeded three thousand then, so there was no point. You’ve done well in building up the readership and I’m going
to reward you for your efforts by running weekly community advertisements for the next twelve months.’
‘And it’ll drop back to three thousand if we run your ads,’ Buffy butted in.
Steve was pondering the pros and cons of this surprising offer and knew that he needed more time. The increase in advertising revenue would add significantly to cash flow and profits, which were still small, but, against this, it would be a real fight to hold on to subscribers and small advertisers.
‘Thank you, but I need to think about your proposition and talk to my professional advisers before I can make a decision. I’m sorry, but I can’t place your announcement in this Friday’s paper.’
‘That’s very disappointing. Talk to your advisers, Steve, but don’t think that my offer’s going to remain on the table forever. Phone me.’ She dropped her business card on the counter, turned on her heel and disappeared through the door.
‘You can’t do it, Steve. You’ll destroy everything you’ve worked so hard for,’ Buffy said.
‘We’ll see.’
Steve had only been home a few minutes, flicked the TV on, grabbed a coke from the fridge and put his feet up when the phone rang. ‘Hello.’
‘You can’t do it! You just can’t do it!’
‘Dad, settle down. You’ll do yourself an injury.’
‘Listen to me. You not only won’t have a subscriber left, you’ll be the most hated man in the valley.’
‘How did you find out about CEGL’s proposition?’
‘Word travels.’
‘You mean Buffy phoned you the minute I left the office, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t say it was her.’
‘You didn’t need to. Dad, we can use the additional cash flow and, if we handle it well, we won’t lose many subscribers. I thought I’d do an editorial saying the Chronicle has to present both sides of the story.’
‘That’s baloney. I forbid you to accept that woman’s money!’
‘Forbid me? Dad, you put me in charge of the paper; now let me do my job.’ Steve slammed the phone down, something he’d never done to his father before.
Chapter 8
The Federal Bank of Australia had been established in Paisley for nearly a hundred years in a large bluestone building on the corner of Main and Pedder Streets. The bank had an almost unblemished history of helping wineries, farms and small businesses through the hard climatic times that rural Australia was subject to. You could count on one hand the number of times the bank had foreclosed on a mortgage, and in living memory it had never forced anyone into bankruptcy. As the area expanded, the other banks set up branches in town but hardly won enough business to justify their existence. The FBA was the people’s bank, the bank you could trust to help you through the hard times.
Craig and Jenny Orr operated a successful organic fruit and vegetable farm on fifty acres of prime land, and were not the slightest concerned when their good friend, Andrew Brown, FBA’s branch manager, phoned on Monday and asked them to come in and see him. However, they were a little taken aback that Andrew had not said anything to them at the weekend, when he had attended the birthday of their nine-year-old son, Jarryd.
Usually, when they had a meeting with Andrew, he came out of his office and greeted them warmly. Today they were shown into his office by one of the tellers and they were surprised to see him wearing a suit and tie. He was usually tieless, shirtsleeves rolled up, with his shirt hanging loosely over his protruding stomach. He got up from behind his desk and shook Craig’s hand but did not make eye contact, nor did he kiss Jenny on the cheek.
‘Did you get a promotion or something, Andy?’ Craig joked, his deep voice echoing around the room. In direct contrast to his tiny wife, he was a big man who, after years of hard work, didn’t carry an ounce of surplus weight. His face was weather-beaten and drawn.
Andrew stroked his bushy salt-and-pepper beard nervously, picked at his ears and patted his long brown hair. ‘It’s a bit more serious than that.’
‘You’re worrying me Andy,’ Jenny teased. ‘You’re not going to foreclose on us are you?’
‘Head office has directed me to reduce the bank’s loans to you by half,’ he blurted out, looking down at his feet.
‘You’re joking,’ Jenny said, but her face said otherwise. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, she stared at Andrew and watched him cringe in embarrassment. Because she was small, there were those who ignored her, but Andrew knew better, having seen her outmanoeuvre suppliers who had mistakenly taken her for a soft touch. There was nothing soft about Jenny Orr when it came to business and she provided the brains in the Orr partnership, while her husband supplied the brawn.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry. Why, Andrew, why? Have we ever missed a mortgage payment? Have we ever exceeded our overdraft limit? Have we ever missed a lease payment? What have we bloody-well done to deserve this?’
‘They know that you’ve been model customers, but they’re concerned about the security.’
‘Are they stark raving mad? They have the property as security, the orchard as security, the vegetable gardens as security and the equipment as security. What do you mean they’re worried about the security? Jesus, for every dollar we’ve borrowed, the bank’s got two as security.’
‘No, that’s what it used to have.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Jenny, you know that your neighbours, the Cleevers, signed an access agreement with CEGL, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do. The poor old things were conned into signing and CEGL was never going to let ’em off the hook. They lost six acres of their land and inherited three bloody gas wells that they’d do anything to get rid of. But what’s that got to do with us?’ Jenny squeezed her husband’s hand.
‘The powers that be in Sydney had your property valued and those gas wells really knocked the value about. The valuer discounted your property on the basis of who’d want to buy it when there’s three ugly, possibly poisonous gas wells right next door. Worse, the Cleevers’ property is on the high side of the hill and you’re both drawing your water from the same source.’
The Orrs were shocked. They had toiled from dawn to dusk on the property for nearly fifteen years and had never failed to increase its productivity and yield. They had been increasing the cash flow of the business while at same time thinking that they were increasing the value of the property.
‘What about the value of the produce?’ Jenny was stunned. ‘We’re going to have a record year and supermarkets and health food shops are paying premium prices for organics.’
Andrew felt gutted. He had not slept the previous night and had discussed with his wife, Sally, handing in his resignation; but where was he going to get another job? He had no university degree, had been with the FBA for twenty years, was approaching forty and the only chance he would have of getting another position was with another bank, but even that was doubtful. He had a low-interest-rate housing loan that he would have to pay out if he quit; a fully maintained car that he would lose; and he had three children to provide for. There was no way he could buck his superiors in Sydney, or resign.
‘I’m sorry, but my bosses don’t think you’re going to be able to sell your produce as organic anymore.’
‘All because of those bloody gas wells, which aren’t even on our property?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘Thirty days.’
‘We’ll find another bank.’
‘I really hope you can, but you should know that they’re also reviewing their clients’ loan security.’
‘What happens if we can’t?’
Andrew felt Jenny’s eyes glaring at him and he didn’t have the courage to look directly at her. ‘The bank will appoint a mortgagee in possession to sell your property.’
‘And we’ll get nothing for it. Only bottom feeders turn up to mortgagee’s auctions. By the time the mortgagee in possession takes his fees and you recover your
principal, interest and legal fees, we’ll get nothing.’
‘So CEGL’s gas wells killed us,’ Craig growled. ‘How does that work?’
‘What about the wineries?’ Jenny asked. ‘Did those hard-hearted bosses of yours get the wineries valued too?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘You just did. How many, Andrew? How many wineries are you going to close? You’re going to destroy families and land values throughout the valley.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t say.’ Andrew cringed, knowing that in the next month he would repeat this scenario at least twenty times with people who were friends and whom he had known for years. He fought the urge to puke and felt himself starting to choke. He wanted to say, It’s not me, it’s CEGL and it’s the gas wells, but how could he? CEGL was one of the bank’s biggest accounts in Sydney, its business far more valuable than the Paisley branch’s thousands of accounts.
‘Sorry? Is that all you can say? Doesn’t our friendship mean anything to you?’ Jenny’s eyes watered in frustration.
‘Honey, it’s not Andrew’s fau..’
‘Shut up Craig. Come on, we’re leaving. And Andrew, if you or Sally ever need any help with anything, don’t even think about phoning us.’
After they had left, Andrew rested his head in his hands and wondered how he and his family were going to survive in Paisley.
The Orrs sat in their car and stared at the old bluestone bank. ‘I can’t believe that Andrew’s doing this to us,’ Jenny said.
Craig knew that it wasn’t Andrew but, rather than risk feeling the sting of his wife’s tongue again, he said, ‘Me neither.’
Chapter 9
The Fisher Valley Protective Alliance, through its Chief Executive, Jack Thomas, hastily convened a meeting of valley folk and other interested parties in the Paisley Town Hall, after it became known that the FBA had served demands for repayment of loans on four wineries, a dairy farm and the Orrs. Thomas was a middle-aged Canadian with a lush mane of silky hair, a genial face and love of food and wine; equally obvious was his hate for the coal seam gas companies. It was rumoured that he had spies, or those friendly to his cause, in some of the gas companies and he always seemed to be a step ahead of ‘the enemy’. When he stood to address the meeting, every seat in the hall was taken and it was standing room only, with the crowd packed six deep against the rear wall. Many attendees carried placards with the words, ‘CEGL go to hell’ and ‘What gives CEGL the right to rape and destroy our properties?’ One held by Charles Paxton as he entered the hall with Len Forrest had even some locals gasping, ‘CEGL killing our kids,’ but the gasps were drowned out by thunderous applause and calls of, ‘Let’s blow up a few more wells,’ and, ‘The government won’t help us so let’s take matters into our own hands.’ Unlike the cheers his father received, Steve Forrest was met with loud whispers of ‘traitor’ and ‘Judas’ as he pushed his way to the front of the hall, and squatted down in the aisle. Billy McGregor and his mates parked themselves against the back wall, itching to belt the daylights out of any CEGL supporters stupid enough to show themselves. Josh Gibson stood nervously at the entrance to the hall and wondered if this was what a lynch mob looked like. Sandi Carlisle was next to him, mesmerised yet excited by the anger in the seething crowd.
