by Di Morrissey
There was a formal atmosphere in the conference room. Around the big cedar table were three accountants with several large files and account books before them, Hector and his wife, and Kate and Ben.
Hector Dashford gave a light cough to signal that the meeting should get under way. ‘Well, then, where would you like to start?’
‘I want a broad picture of the real financial situation please,’ answered Kate. ‘In simple language if you can manage it. I still have a lot to learn about this aspect of the estate.’
‘The value of the estate as a whole, Mrs Johnson?’ asked Frank Stuart-Wright, the chief accountant.
‘No, the cash situation. Accessible funds, profit-and-loss sheets, that sort of thing.’
‘Ah, well now . . . that’s quite a delicate situation,’ he began, and Kate sensed a stiffening among those on the other side of the table.
‘Delicate?’ she questioned.
‘Yes, that might be a reasonable description. I think we will start with the current operating accounts at the bank.’
As he reached for one of the ledgers Mrs Dashford left the room. ‘I’ll organise tea and sandwiches,’ she said.
What followed in the next hours was a nightmare that left Kate and Ben absolutely stunned. After the accountants had left, Kate, Ben and the Dashfords had another cup of tea and went over the summary of what had been revealed.
Ben spoke, ‘In a nutshell, the estate is in a very desperate situation’.
Hector tried to put a brave front on matters. ‘Not quite that bad, I should say. But prudence is needed. Basically, there is very little left in the operating accounts due to a heavy drain of cash funds for the rehabilitation work with the men at Zanana for so many years.
‘And farm income from the property has dropped substantially, through no fault of your good managers I hasten to add. Times are getting hard, prices aren’t what they used to be. Some of the companies your father invested in have not been performing at all well, and share prices have dropped. Some mortgages have collapsed badly and one company servicing the rural sector has gone into liquidation. It was a great shock to everyone, I can assure you.’
‘It has all been a great shock to me too, Hector,’ said Kate in a controlled voice.
Ben took her hand, squeezing it slightly. ‘What has to be done?’
‘Well, we will have to sell off some of the assets to boost the operating account, or go into a bigger overdraft. I suggest we sell the poor performing stock and cut our losses there. Then I think we should follow my wife’s advice which Mr Stuart-Wright has endorsed, to liquidate some other low-yielding assets and reinvest in the new exciting mining and exploration companies that are doing well. The prospects of capital gain look very good indeed.’
Hector’s wife, who had taken her seat once more, broke in quietly, ‘Of course there is another option: you could sell Zanana entirely and start afresh with something a little more modest.’
‘No! Never! Zanana is not for sale,’ Kate almost shouted, then slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid this is all a little overwhelming.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Hector reassuringly, ‘we’ll work something out and make a report to you as soon as possible. My wife will work full-time on the restructuring of your situation. Her talent in business and high finance is most extraordinary.’
‘That is very good of you,’ said Ben. ‘How long will it take before we hear from you?’
‘I can’t say exactly, Mr Johnson, but it will have my undivided attention, that I can assure you,’ said Mrs Dashford.
As Ben drove them back to Zanana they talked quietly about this devastating turn of events. ‘Do you think we should write to Hock Lee about it? I’m sure he’ll be quite stunned,’ said Ben.
Kate thought for a minute. ‘No, we must handle this. Hock Lee has enough on his mind, and in any case the mail would take too long to be of use.’
They drove the rest of the way in silence and as they passed through the great iron gates and up the sweeping driveway, Kate resolved that no matter what, she would never give up Zanana.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sydney 1971
Odette packed up the five years of her life in London and after several hours of darkness in a plane, returned to what was familiar and yet different. The years away had changed Odette’s perceptions. Things that used to irritate her she now found endearing; Sydney had caught up with the rest of the world in many ways and she was glad that some idiosyncrasies remained.
She moved back to the Gazette as the conquering heroine — her own office, consultation on stories she’d like to cover, a trust and freedom given in respect of merit. Odette liked the independence, yet in many ways it felt as if she’d never been away. The five years that had passed since she’d left Zac and Peace Valley seemed a long time ago. Her heart had mended, though she recalled the tranquillity of the valley in moments of hustle and bustle — in Trafalgar Square, once at the Trevi Fountain, on the jammed Santa Monica freeway. Why was everyone hurrying with no time to stop for a moment to talk or take a deep breath and look at the sky?
She decided her first assignment would be checking out the fate of Zanana. Lifting the phone to call Mrs Bramble she felt the familiar surge of excitement of a story challenge.
Mrs Bramble was reluctant about Odette coming to see her. ‘I don’t want to get my son into any trouble. He works at the council and he sort of found out what’s going on,’ she explained to Odette.
‘Well, you come into town and meet me at the office and we’ll talk here or go out for a coffee — how’s that?’
Mrs Bramble waited nervously for Odette at the reception area on the fifth floor of Australian Incorporated Newspapers. Seeing her hurrying down the hallway, burnished curls flying and a wide smile, Mrs Bramble relaxed.
‘You haven’t changed since you were a little girl, Odette. I used to watch you dashing up the street with those curls bobbing. My, how proud your mum and dad would be of you today.’
They settled into a small Italian coffee bar in Rowe Street and Mrs Bramble was fascinated by the hissing cappuccino machine and the exotic pastries. Not much of the immigrant influence had reached Kincaid.
Once settled with their foamy coffee and sticky honey halva cake, Mrs Bramble told her what she knew.
‘My son works in the planning department at the council and being a Kincaid boy, he pricked up his ears when he heard Zanana mentioned. There is an application from a big development company to rezone Zanana’s acreage and subdivide it into housing blocks all the way to the riverfront. No fringe area for the birds, no bit of a park for us locals. A lot of us are worried they’ll bulldoze the lot including all the old trees and the gardens. It always looks so pretty from the water; I can imagine what Zanana’s grounds must be like and it would be a dreadful shame to lose it, Odette. It’s been part of our life, and we think it’s special.’
‘It is,’ murmured Odette.
‘I s’pose like a lot of things we locals have just taken it for granted. It’s part of our local history and even though most of us have never been inside the place, we’re rather attached to it. The thought of it being knocked down and some awful cheap housing slapped up has got our backs up, I can tell you.’
‘That’s really fascinating, Mrs Bramble. Not too many people ask questions when it comes to knocking down old buildings. It’s all seen as progress. Don’t you like progress?’
‘Well, there’s no doubt that we’ve got to have more houses, what with all these migrants coming in, and it is surely giving people a lot of work to do. But some of us were saying over afternoon tea a couple of weeks back that there’s no need to knock down everything. And that’s what seems to happen — everything goes . . . and Zanana seems just too beautiful to bulldoze.’
Odette sipped her coffee. ‘Well, Zanana’s mythology aside, the immediate story is that of the developers sneakily carving up a slice of historic Sydney and bulldozing some of its heritage. Could your son get
me copies of the plans? And find out the name of the development company?’
Mrs Bramble looked worried. ‘I don’t want him to get into trouble. I’ll have him phone you after work one night. Give me your home phone number. We’d really appreciate anything you can do, Odette. Too much of the old stuff is being ripped down for modern things. We need to hang onto a bit of the past too. That’s why we’re forming a residents’ group. We’re going to try and save it.’
Odette ran the story past Mrs Metcalf. ‘I think it has the makings of a good yarn. I’m trying to be objective, but I have to say that Zanana is a special place to me. A brief interlude in my childhood that made a big impression.’
‘Then I’m sure you’ll write about it with great passion and feeling. But tread carefully around this development business, you’d better do a lot of careful research. I’m not sure there’s really that much interest out there in history and heritage, even though there are signs of it becoming fashionable.’
Odette started in the Kincaid library and found press clippings going back to the turn of the century, reference papers and anecdotal pieces about the Maclntyre family and the ‘Australian Mandarin’ Hock Lee. She got lost in the heyday of Zanana, the stories about the parties, and the business interests of the oddly matched couple — the Chinese baron and the Scottish philanthropist.
She pored over yellowing photographs of Robert and Catherine Maclntyre like long lost relatives. Everything was just as beautiful and fabulous as she’d imagined. What had gone wrong? What had happened to their family? Where was the Maclntyre fortune?
For several evenings she sat in the library thumbing through old newspaper files. During World War I there was a lot of coverage of local people, of sad losses and brave deeds. Then a photograph stilled her hand as she turned the pages. It was the Chinese gentleman in the centre of a group that caught her eye. The caption read, Sydney businessman Hock Lee, flanked by Miss Kate Maclntyre and Mrs Gladys Butterworth from Zanana, welcome home local hero Mr Hector Dashford at the Kincaid Railway Station. The photograph had been snapped amidst the welcoming crowd and the group, apart from the broadly smiling Hector Dashford, looked a little bemused as they regarded the photographer. Odette jotted down the names Dashford and Butterworth in her notebook.
Soon huge parcels of documents, clippings and well-researched papers began arriving on Odette’s desk from the Save Zanana Committee. It seemed that the original concern of a handful of people had taken off like a bushfire and concern had been overtaken by widespread outrage. At least widespread in Kincaid.
Mrs Bramble’s son searched the council rates records and discovered that Zanana was owned by a nominee company and that all correspondence was sent to a box number in the city. The rates were always paid on time. He also passed on the name of the development company and its consulting architect.
Odette slowly worked her way through the mass of paper and gradually a picture of Zanana in its great years started to take shape, like a jigsaw puzzle. She could see how once it must have been almost like a great old English estate, with prolific orchards, market gardens and a dairy. And she glimpsed the human touches of viceregal dinner parties and Catherine’s special children’s parties for the orphans. In more serious papers, local experts had presented evidence in support of the architectural merits of the house and outbuildings, the importance of the gardens, the grotto, the sunken garden and the swimming pool and bath houses.
It was all fascinating, but even so it left Odette wondering just how useful it would really be in stopping the development. The owner and big money would probably have louder voices. Such doubts had a short survival span in Odette’s awareness. The reporter’s gut feeling of being onto a good story kept her digging into files and making notes.
A delightful little dissertation from the Kincaid Horticultural and Gardening Society along with the Rosarian Club was lyrical about the rose garden at Zanana and the importance of preserving it. Several rare old roses still bloomed in what represented an unrivalled collection that went back to the earliest days of the century. It was part of a superb intact Edwardian garden that should be saved even if everything else was lost. A local fishing club weighed in along with an ornithological group with an eloquent plea for saving the mangroves that lined part of the waterfront.
It seemed that Kincaid was awakening from a long sleep. It had found a cause.
Odette had settled back into the flat with Elaine, delaying the chore of finding a place of her own. Besides, Elaine was like a big sister. At breakfast one morning Odette sat in the breakfast nook, munching her toast and Vegemite, studying yet more documents about Zanana unearthed from the council’s archives.
‘You’re becoming obsessive over this story,’ yawned Elaine, lifting the teapot to see if Odette had drained it as usual. She had. Elaine refilled the kettle. ‘So you haven’t seen this morning’s paper yet?’
‘No. I’ll read them when I get into work. It’s called research, looking for story ideas. Besides, you had it.’ Odette bit into the last of her toast.
‘Your friend Zac is all over the entertainment pages of the Daily Telegraph. He’s hit the big time it seems.’
Odette looked up, mid-mouthful. ‘What?’
‘Did he star in some film? Some documentary on Peace Valley?’
‘Oh yes, he did . . . but that was ages ago. He thought they’d canned the project. What’s happened?’
Elaine smiled as she reached for the paper from the bench. This news had brought Odette’s attention back to the present. ‘Seems since it screened in America everyone wants him. And his music.’
She opened the paper to page three where a photograph of Zac was captioned in large letters — AUSSIE TROUBADOUR A WORLD HIT.
‘Let me see! Let me see that!’
Elaine waved the newspaper across the table and Odette snatched it, quickly scanning the story.
‘They call him a poet philosopher whose message and music will soon reach millions. Good grief!’
‘Where is Zac?’ asked Elaine pointedly.
‘I don’t know. I never know,’ sighed Odette. ‘We kept in sporadic touch while I was away. He could be anywhere.’
Elaine turned off the kettle and sat opposite Odette. ‘Wouldn’t he tell you if something like this was going on, or if he was rushing to the other side of the world?’
‘No,’ said Odette simply.
Elaine shook her head. ‘I don’t mean to pry but you seem to have an unusual thing with this fellow. I mean, I thought he was the love of your life.’
‘Oh Elaine, it’s hard to explain. He’s been my first and only real love — physical, emotional, mental. I’ve learned so much from him. He’s special, truly special. But that’s just it, I don’t think he’ll ever conform to what society, women, customs, dictate. That’s why I went away.’
‘Sounds like he’s set himself up to go his own way. Or have his own way.’
‘Not in a selfish way. He’s a free spirit and that’s one of the things I love about him — his gypsy soul. I think if I spent every day with him, the magic would disappear.’
‘So what are you settling for then? At the moment it’s hunky-dory because you have a stimulating job and your freedom. But then what? Don’t you think about children, settling down, writing something deep and meaningful?’
Odette closed the paper and pushed back her chair, taking her plate and mug to the sink. ‘This is too deep for breakfast. I’m just taking it one day at a time.’
‘I bet that’s Zac’s philosophy.’
Odette didn’t answer and marched into the shower. She couldn’t explain the bond she felt with Zac.
Later, in the office, she went down to the news desk and made a few enquiries about the story on Zac. It had come in on the wire and there hadn’t been any quotes from him. The photo was a publicity still from the film. Instinctively Odette was convinced Zac was at Peace Valley and had no idea of the impact the film — and he — had made.
‘I know this gu
y pretty well. Want a story from him? I think he’s still up north. I’ll fly up and phone it through tomorrow,’ she suggested to the news editor of the Daily Telegraph.
‘It wouldn’t make it in time for the Gazette, being a weekly magazine. Good thing we’re in the same press family. Everyone will be on to him pretty fast but I think I know where he is and I don’t think he knows about all of this yet.’
‘Cripes, Odette, do you have a secret contact for every story that breaks?’ the news editor mocked, but quickly added, ‘Yeah. If the Gazette will let you do it, let’s go for it. Don’t bother with a picture man, we’ll use this photo again.’
Grudgingly the Gazette gave approval for Odette to take off for Peace Valley to do a story on Zac for the Daily Telegraph.
Looking down from the plane as it whirred above the creamy coastline of northern New South Wales, Odette was shaken briefly by a thought — what if this was a wild goose chase? Zac could already be over in England or America being feted by TV and record companies. But Zac would have contacted her, she reasoned. Not necessarily, she answered herself. Zac ran his own race — he wouldn’t be interested in publicity.
She hired a taxi and directed him to Peace Valley. It was mid-morning. The valley was calm and peaceful as always. Two men cutting down large hands of bananas stopped to watch the taxi slip along the muddy road towards Zac’s cottage.
As they rounded a bend, Odette caught sight of Ruth Rawlings walking beside the track holding the hand of a little girl.
‘Pull over please, driver, I want to have a chat with that lady.’
Odette called to Ruth. They hugged each other and Odette asked breathlessly, ‘Is Zac still here in the valley?’
‘Yes, he’s here. Is there something up? It’s so good to see you again. How was your stay overseas?’
‘Wonderful. I’ll drop my things at Zac’s and see you later. I’ll fill you in then.’
