A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  ‘I’ve just begun to fight.’ He grinned and kissed her. ‘But three times in one afternoon is definitely beyond me.’

  They went downstairs, and Hannah walked to the corner with him. She watched his vigorous steps as he strode up Liverpool Street. He would most certainly fight, but no matter how successfully things must inevitably change. They both knew it.

  The reporters gathered the following morning at the front gate. Before nine there was a solid cluster visible from the house. William knew there was no likelihood of them leaving, so at 9.30 he sent a parlour maid to invite them to the side lawn. By the time they reached there, he was a picture of domesticity: his extremely attractive daughter sitting beside him and William playing with his grandsons as if hardly aware of the descending press corps, and certainly unconcerned by their arrival. He seemed relaxed, a study in informality. Close to the house, his wife Edith could be seen in her wheelchair, and a baby in a pram was being minded by a young nursemaid.

  Very clever, thought Alistair Beames of the Telegraph. The old dog has a few tricks yet. The old dog rose from the lawn, holding a three-year-old in his arms. He nodded to Beames and to Quinton Jones of the Herald, with whom he had a passing acquaintance. There were other reporters there from the Sunday Times, and the Star, as well as John Norton’s rag, Truth, from whom William knew he would get no mercy. Norton was not only sole proprietor and editor whose pungent prose was eagerly read every Sunday, and who published scandalous divorce news under the caption ‘Prickly Pairs in the Garden of Life’; he was also a fierce rival in the Parliament. The two disliked each other intensely.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ William said, noting there were four photographers with their cumbersome equipment, ‘let’s make this as pleasant as possible. I’ve ordered some tea.’

  The maids were already on their way from the house, as if to forestall a refusal, bringing teapots and plates of buttered toast. The Telegraph and the Star exchanged a smirk; the Herald looked bored and rather grand.

  ‘Bribed by buttered buns,’ murmured the alliterative Truth reporter, mentally composing a Norton-sryle headline: Patterson Parliamentary Pariah: William’s Wicked Wexford Wangle.

  The Sunday Times eyed Elizabeth, and thought he wouldn’t half mind hopping into the cot with her.

  William stirred his tea, and said, ‘Gentlemen, ask any questions you like and I’ll do my utmost to answer. If you wish to take photographs, I’m sure you won’t mind if they include my family. My daughter is Elizabeth Patterson Muller, married to a hard-working young wine grower in South Australia; this young chap I’m holding is Henry Muller, and his younger brother there is Carl.’

  ‘I is Carl,’ Carl piped up with his infectious grin, and several of the reporters smiled and noted down their names.

  ‘Your son-in-law is German?’ Alistair Beames asked, thinking he deserves a friendly one for the tea and toast.

  ‘He comes from Augsburg, Mr Beames,’ William said, ‘in Bavaria. That’s what is going to make this country of ours great. The influx of other nationalities, bringing their customs and traditions which will enrich our culture. In two months’ time, when the Commonwealth is declared, we’ll be one people no matter where we originated from. You and I and my son-in-law, Stefan, will all be Australians.’

  Jesus Christ, Beames thought incredulously, I don’t believe this.

  He’s making a phony political speech, and two of them are writing it down.

  ‘But never mind that,’ William continued, ‘you didn’t come here to listen to my views on patriotism or the great future ahead of us, even though most of you know how hard I’ve fought for Federation. I crossed the floor, and jeopardised my political career, because I couldn’t accept the yes-no hypocrisy of Premier Reid. I stumped the country, and stood on soap boxes pleading with people to vote yes in the referendum; I don’t need to remind you how hard I worked …’ He stopped suddenly, with a modest shrug, as if to say he had not meant to embarrass them with this; they must forget his achievements and get on with the sordid business in hand. I have done the State some service, Alistair Beames smiled sardonically;you clever old prick.

  ‘Mr Patterson,’ he asked, ‘are you the principal of the Regal Property Trust?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And does this company own houses in Wexford Street?’

  ‘Yes,’ William replied. One of the photographers was ready and waiting beneath his black cloth. A magnesium flare exploded. Heinrich jumped, then giggled, and William smiled reassuringly at him. He had no intention of being photographed without holding the boy, unless someone insisted. There was no risk of being recognised after all this time, but it was best not to take foolish chances.

  ‘Are these slum houses being used for prostitution and gambling?’ the Truth reporter asked.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ William said. ‘If I were aware of that, I would certainly have the tenants evicted.’

  ‘Chinese tenants,’ the reporter persisted.

  ‘Are you prejudiced against Chinese people?’ he countered, and turned deliberately to Quinton Jones of the Herald. ‘Are you, Mr Jones? Is this whole matter a case of racial hatred?’

  ‘I don’t think the nationality of your tenants has the slightest thing to do with it,’ Jones said, in his rather patronising way. ‘What we’re talking about is the misuse of parliamentary authority. When you, as the Regal Trust, bought these houses two years ago, you had already served on the Legislative Commission that decided Wexford and Srephen Streets were sub-standard and should be demolished. You knew the amount of compensation to be paid, you …’

  ‘Just a moment, Mr Jones,’ William’ interrupted sharply. ‘You’re here to ask questions, not make long-winded, defamatory statements. I deny what you’ve said, and if the Herald should stoop so low as to publish that, they’ll receive a writ from my lawyers. And so will any other newspaper,’ he said, making sure he caught the eye of the Truth representative.

  There was another half hour of questions. He parried those he was able; disassociated Dr Fairfax from any connection with the company, other than as a nominee; trod a difficult and precarious tightrope between apparent frankness, ingenious equivocation, and occasional bluster. It was every bit as tough as he had predicted, but by the end of it, when they were putting away their notebooks and the photographers were dismantling their cameras, he felt he had done as well as he could. That was when he became aware of Beames looking at him curiously.

  ‘Why did you shave your beard off?’ It was a casual question that took him by surprise. He was aware of them observing him, puzzled by his silence, and waiting for an answer.

  ‘Because …’ he said, and stopped, feeling a moment of panic. ‘Because I asked him to.’

  Elizabeth smiled as the reporters turned to her.

  ‘I persuaded him whiskers are going out of fashion, and he’d look years younger.’ She singled out the impressionable Sunday Times reporter. ‘Don’t you think I was right?’

  The Sunday Times, enraptured by her beauty, agreed she was absolutely right.

  ‘Why did you shave it off?’ Elizabeth asked him, when the press had gone and Sigrid had taken the children to the park. William knew that an evasive answer would not suffice this time.

  ‘You know perfectly well,’ he said, ‘that I’m no plaster saint. We wouldn’t have this house or any money if I had been.’

  ‘Did you do something crooked, Father?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I’m ashamed of it now, but they were desperate times,’ he said, and was surprised when his daughter rose and hugged him affectionately.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t anything too terrible, but I always knew there was something. Do you think anyone will recognise you?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  She tilted her head to one side, and studied him.

  ‘I doubt it. You look different. Don’t you think so, Mama?’ she asked as Edith awkwardly propelled her wheelchair into the room.

  But Edith had only one in
terest nowadays.

  ‘Where’s Heinrich?’ she asked, and on being told Sigrid had taken both children across the road to the park, she rang for Forbes and requested him to wheel her across to join them.

  That night, after dinner, William told Elizabeth the full truth about Edith’s fall. He did not spare his own behaviour, he admitted his failure as a husband and the debacle of their marriage, although he managed not to mention Hannah.

  He begged his daughter to stay a little longer, perhaps till Christmas, pointing out that if she took the children away, particularly Heinrich, it would break her mother’s heart.

  The newspapers might have been a great deal worse, William reflected over breakfast the next day, although it was too much to hope they would not make full use of this juicy morsel.

  WEXFORD STREET: MR PATTERSON’S STATEMENT, said the Herald, and gave a careful and non-defamatory account of his answers.

  PATTERSON’S CURSE: THE WEXFORD AFFAIR. The Star had a banner headline, and the story below it did him no favours.

  MY VIEWS ON PATRIOTISM. A DREAM OF ONE NATION, said the Telegraph, and William mentally pigeon-holed Alistair Beames for a crate of whisky at Christmas.

  It was relatively quiet until Sunday, when the Truth hit at him with a typically lurid headline: SLUM SCANDAL SHOCKS SYDNEY. PREMIER PREDICTS PATTERSON’S POLITICAL PLUNGE.

  The next day the Premier, Sir William Lyne, in answer to a question from one of William’s political allies, categorically denied having made such a statement. William instantly instructed his lawyers to sue John Norton and Truth for defamation, well aware this would render the matter sub judice and prohibit comment. There was a delay of at least a year in the courts, by which time he hoped to settle it privately, or failing that, to tactfully drop the action.

  The following week, with the far-from-subtle backing of their leader George Reid, the Opposition forced a vote of censure, demanding the resignation of William Patterson for misuse of his parliamentary position, and for a blatant attempt to profit illegally from privileged information. After a torrid debate the division bells were rung, the chamber divided, and the censure motion was lost by four votes.

  ‘We cannot afford to lose men of such initiative and insight from public life,’ declared George Roland, MLA, in what many considered was his most convincing speech since his election.

  November brought unexpectedly cold winds, but despite the weather William was in good spirits. Elizabeth had made no further mention of her return to the Barossa. In the streets, McCredie’s rat catchers were seen no longer, and the battle in the quarantined slums had been won. The bubonic plague was officially declared over. In all, nearly five hundred people had contracted the disease, and one hundred and forty victims had died. Over twenty-eight thousand rats had been destroyed. The city garbage and sanitary systems were radically overhauled, derelict streets and archaic hovels marked for demolition, and the rat catchers went back to the ranks of the unemployed.

  Soon afterwards, the worst of the sub-standard premises in Exeter Place and Robertson’s Lane were reduced to rubble. It was several more years before the shanty homes in Wexford Street were torn down, and William was able to pocket a substantial profit, but by then people had largely forgotten the accusations against him, and there was little public comment.

  The final months of 1900 were a curious time for William Patterson. He had the enjoyment of Elizabeth’s prolonged visit, and the pleasure of his grandchildren; his affection for them grew with every week, and he felt a deep, possessive pride that astonished him. He had never been a man with a great deal of time for young children; now he spent a part of every day joining in their games and telling them stories. The boys responded in a most natural way — they both loved him.

  Although he tried not to make it too obvious, William had formed a great attachment to Heinrich, who now responded naturally to the name of Henry. Often the little boy and his vigorous and relatively young grandfather were to be seen walking in the park, bringing indulgent smiles to observers noticing the small child hand in hand with his tall and well-known companion.

  Because of his daughter and the children, he was happier in the Centennial Park house than he had ever been since its purchase. He found a new affinity with Edith. He sympathised and understood her desperate anxiety at the thought of losing Henry when Elizabeth took the children home. He watched her, sitting in the garden with her elder grandchild, reading to him, playing with him, and he marvelled at the blossoming of this woman he had lived with and disliked for over twenty years. If there was one shadow on his happiness at this time, it was that Elizabeth must soon shatter the pleasure and delight her children had brought them by going home.

  Meanwhile he managed to see Hannah almost every day and began to persuade her to appear occasionally in public with him. They went once to the theatre, and another time to a social gathering, and on both occasions he felt a great sense of pride at being seen with her. William Patterson in these final months of the century, had little to complain about in his personal life.

  Only he, and Hannah, knew how deeply the Wexford exposure had hurt him. Publicly he had ridden out the storm; but privately William began to accept the fact that his political ambitions were very likely at an- end. He would remain a member of the Legislative Assembly, but he had aspired to a goal far beyond that. William had seen himself standing for election in the new Federal Government. Every day of the last five years had been directed towards that objective.

  He had always been a vigorous supporter of Federation and had cultivated the party hierarchy who were staunchly in favour of it, establishing the image of a committed politician with handsome looks and a fine platform presence, and the rare gift in Australian politics of a resonant and fluent speaking voice. He had every reason to believe he would be chosen, and was quietly confident he would be elected.

  In the secret moments of the night, when he allowed ambition and imagination to run free, a seat in the Cabinet did not seem beyond him. He knew, without false modesty, that he had the personality and ability for such a position. But now the chance of reaching these heights was virtually impossible. While he had coped with the immediate scandal, the smell of it would remain to taint the rest of his life. As George Roland had said — he had done the unforgivable and been caught. Since he knew, and had made it his business to know, that many of his colleagues were up to their necks in worse corruption, it seemed to him blatantly unfair.

  Hannah surmised, better than he realised, the full extent of his ambition. She would have gone one step further and ventured that his sights were even set on eventually becoming Prime Minister. His age was certainly not against him; Edmund Barton, whom most considered the likely candidate for the office, was many years older at fifty-one. Alfred Deakin, another contender, was the same age as William, but there was a body of opinion that being a Victorian would disadvantage him.

  She would not have spoken this aloud, for fear of being ridiculed, but Hannah suspected William might have let it be covertly rumoured he would be available, in case there was no clear consensus and a compromise candidate was required.

  If it was speculation on her part, it was based on their intimacy of the past five years, and it gave her a unique insight into the depth of his disappointment. That disappointment would be all the more acute, she knew, once Elizabeth took her children home — which must happen any day now.

  Stefan’s letter was careful not to show reproach, but she could sense it.

  I do understand your father needs support at such a time, but by now the worst of his troubles must be over, and I hope your mother is better.

  Elizabeth sat with it in her lap, watching the children scamper and shriek with laughter, as her father played Blind Man’s Bluff with them around the garden. He had a scarf tied around his face, and pretended to step first into the fish pond, and then to collide with a rhododendron, while the two boys laughed and encouraged his antics. Then he lay down on the grass, and they rushed towards him and
jumped on him. How beautifully the three of them play together, Elizabeth thought, and the idea of it made her smile. She took up the letter again.

  I pruned the grape bushes back in the way that Christian Hubrich taught me they do it at Seppelts and Yalumba, and I think it will benefit us. Even though the winter was the coldest I can recall, there is now good growth on the vines. Everyone misses you, and Gerhardt and Eva-Maria send you their fondest love …

  It seemed so far away, and she was uncomfortably aware of a sudden feeling of guilt, and what seemed perilously close to disloyalty. She watched her father and the children. Now they were chasing him around the azaleas, and he seemed to have an inexhaustible patience and energy for them. And how hard he works at it, to keep us here, she mentally added, for she was perfectly well aware of her father’s intent. He had made it transparently clear for weeks now.

  She took Stefan’s letter into the house, and sat at the writing desk.

  Dearest Stefan,

  Papa has asked me to stay until the New Year. I do realise that will prolong my absence, but with Federation to be proclaimed on January the first, it is a wonderful time to be here in Sydney. I wish you were with us. There is already great excitement, and much competing for invitations to the festivities and the Grand Ball to be given by the Earl of Hopetoun at Government House. Papa has already met the Earl when he was Governor of Victoria, and pronounces him a ‘pommy chinless wonder’. Pommy is a new word everyone is using here this year, which means English.

  She broke off for a moment, thinking of what she could not express in a letter; her mother’s simple joy when she had announced her decision to stay for Christmas and the New Year. She was more and more uneasily aware Edith’s happiness was contingent upon her presence and that of her children.

  My father expects to be entertaining quite heavily during the proclamation and its celebrations, and has asked me to be his hostess. I really feel it is an opportunity for Heinrich and Carl to see all this — even though they are young. I’m sure it is something they will remember all their lives. Do forgive me, but I have said yes to Papa, knowing that you will understand. We will leave here, I promise you — after the first week in January. Imagine it! 1901 — a new century!