by JH Fletcher
Lucky to have seen the leopard or lucky to have survived the encounter he did not say. Both, perhaps.
Ruth never forgot it. For the rest of her life it typified Africa for her: the mountain gorge, the rushing stream, the figure of the leopard, peaceful yet menacing, lying in the sun-dappled shade.
It changed the holiday radically. It was an experience almost religious in its intensity and the three of them had shared it. They did not talk about it much yet it brought them together as perhaps nothing else could have done. For the first time Ruth saw that Roberta had grown happy with Richard, that after all she might come to think of the three of them as belonging to each other, a sharing that until then had seemed too much to hope for. For the first time Ruth could contemplate the possibility of love re-entering her daughter’s life.
‘What a wonderful thing to have happened,’ she said. ‘I am so happy for us all.’
Deliberately she said nothing of Richard. A week later Roberta said it for her. ‘Richard and I are great friends,’ she told her. ‘Very great friends.’ But casually, as though it had always been so.
Truly, for the first time, they had become a family. Roberta had come home at last.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Something was stirring in the inner recesses of Ruth’s being. She couldn’t put a finger on it yet but that would come. Deep within her a new book was struggling towards the light.
She lay in bed, listening to the surf, the wind gusting against the fabric of her house. The dunes would be moving this morning, the air full of sand and salt and the booming of the waves. She wondered how many times she had lain like this, watching the light turn from grey to gold, hearing the voice of the sea, wondering what the day would bring. Not when she was writing, of course; then she would be up before the sun. At least I have been disciplined, she told herself. Contemptuously she dismissed the thought. What about it? A writer writes. Nothing praiseworthy in that.
She thrust her feet out of bed, went to the window, breathed the salty air. I can’t bear it when you start feeling sorry for yourself. The first stirrings of a new book always depressed her. Once again she would be putting herself to the test, wondering whether this would be the time when she found out she’d lost it. It was enough to depress anybody.
What number will this one be? she wondered. She could not remember and that, too, troubled her. All the children of her imagining; now she couldn’t tell one of them from another. Just as well it didn’t work like that with real children. They gave you trouble enough without having to wonder which was which.
With her own children that at least had been no problem. Boyd had been amenable from birth, too amenable, Ruth saw now. Never one to stand up for himself. Whereas Roberta … From the first her will had been like a tank regiment.
She paced to and fro. Restlessness was also part of the process. She got dressed, no idea what clothes she threw on. She grabbed a chunk of bread, gnawed it as she paced the beach. Hours later she came back, got into her car. Unwashed, no make up, she drove. When she returned it was late. She had no recollection of where she’d been.
She ate, showered, walked about the house. Listened to music, gave up halfway through. Went to bed in disgust.
The next day the same. Ideas, too tenuous to grasp, welling in her head. She drove into town, bought odds and ends of food she didn’t need and probably wouldn’t eat. Again she walked the shore. She was no good to herself.
‘Or anyone else,’ she complained, disliking herself heartily. That, too, was part of the process. ‘Who’d be a writer?’ she demanded of the air, the indifferent waves.
Generations of tears, joy, fulfilment culminating in what? An old woman, walking upon the beach. A madwoman, listening to voices, like another woman before her. Call me Joan, she thought. St Joan of Matlock Beach. Look what they did to her.
She needed to let light into her mind. She thought she would drive to the city, feel the busyness of people around her before immersing herself in writing. She phoned to invite Roberta to lunch, was told she was in a Cabinet meeting. No comfort there.
Roberta got Ruth’s message that evening when she came out of Cabinet.
‘Did she say what she wanted?’
‘Something about starting a new book,’ Betty said. ‘Wanted to know if you’d be free for lunch later in the week.’
‘This week?’ Roberta said, exasperated. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘She asked you to ring her.’
‘She’ll have to wait.’
Roberta was bone-tired, for the moment had no patience with Ruth and her ways. The meeting had gone on for hours and every second had been mined. The Premier was out to get her and everyone around the table had known it. Her supporters had kept their eyes on their papers and said nothing. She had survived — again — but it was wearing on the nerves. What she wanted now was a long, hot bath and bed. She most emphatically did not want a conversation with Ruth who in the light of past experience would only be looking for a fight, anyway. When she had a new book on the boil she was impossible. ‘Clearing the pipes,’ Ruth called it.
Plenty of times Roberta had called it something a lot ruder than that.
No, Ruth could wait until the morning. She mixed herself a drink, chucked it down, went to her desk. A huge stack of files awaited her. She might want a bath and bed but there were some things you couldn’t put off. She sighed. You had to be mad to choose a life like this. Betty had placed a list of incoming phone calls on the desk. She ran her eye down it, paused at an unfamiliar name. She frowned, picked up her phone.
‘Betty, who is Barbara Getz?’
Next morning, at half-past seven, she sat at her desk while Anthony Adam brought her up to date on whatever had happened overnight, her schedule for the day.
The same routine. Once she had loved every minute of it; now she was only going through the motions. Her staff knew it as well as she did. The betting was that Roberta was on the way out, the latest in a long line of sacrificial victims designed to keep Gavin Cornish and his mates in office for another term, another session, another minute. Everyone was as polite as ever but behind the bland faces the alarm bells were ringing. No one was going to stick their necks out for a loser.
What the hell, Roberta thought. I’ve still got my deal with Donald Guthrie to fall back on, if I have to. Though would have preferred to let it go, if she could. She had been hot for it at the time but now was not so sure.
‘It stinks,’ Ruth had said. ‘I’ll have no part of it.’
Much though Roberta disliked admitting it her mother’s views still counted for a lot.
Anthony was saying something.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I missed that.’
‘I said you should look at this.’
He put a newspaper cutting in front of her.
She glanced at it casually then stiffened. ‘What!’ Read it again, eyes incredulous.
‘Exactly.’
ADELAIDE. TUESDAY. Last night the State Treasurer’s office announced that the government was planning a multi-million dollar leisure facility on the coast south of the city. Negotiations with interested parties were already under way. A further announcement would be made shortly.
She leant back in her chair. ‘The bastards,’ she said.
Anthony, discreetly, said nothing.
Her fingers drummed the desk top. Anger stirred. ‘That was our project, Anthony. Ours. How many hours did we spend in this office going over the figures? Forty? A hundred? And now that bastard Maltby’s trying to pinch it.’
‘You could speak to the Premier,’ Anthony said doubtfully.
‘Fat lot of good that’ll do.’ Roberta made up her mind. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘We’d better decide what we’re going to do about this.’
‘We?’ Anthony’s smile barely tweaked his lips. ‘It’s unfortunate this has happened, of course, but I don’t see there’s anything I can do, Minister.’
She could have slapped the smile off his face, forced
herself to smile, too. She needed this man to win her battle for her. ‘You can help,’ she told him. ‘The question is whether you’re willing to try. I’m betting that you will. When you understand what’s at stake. For yourself.’
Anthony looked polite; nothing more.
‘When’s my first meeting?’
‘Nothing until nine.’
Plenty of time. ‘Fetch the file,’ she instructed him. ‘Let’s see if we can work out what’s going on here.’
Half an hour later Roberta sat back in her chair and surveyed the papers strewn across the desk. ‘It’s obvious,’ she said. ‘We had Peter Sloat crying to us for help. Now he’s done a deal with Maltby behind our backs. We need to find out what the arrangement was.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
An asinine suggestion if she’d ever heard one. She eyed him frostily.
‘Peter Sloat would never have hopped into bed with Don Maltby unless there was something in it for him. Sloat was willing to let us have that land for three hundred thousand, plus or minus. If Maltby’s offered him one cent over three fifty there’s dirt in the water and I intend to find out what it is.’ Energy flowed through her, her very skin tight with resolve. ‘You’ve a simple choice,’ she told him. ‘You can help me sort this nonsense out. Or you can make polite noises and keep out of the flack. Either way I shall remember.’
Hands busy with papers, Anthony stood up. ‘I really don’t think I can —’
‘Sit down,’ Roberta said.
He hesitated.
‘Sit down!’
He hadn’t heard that tone in Roberta’s voice for several weeks but recognised it at once. He blinked. Did what he was told.
Good, Roberta thought.
‘I’ll let you into a secret. I am going to be the next Premier of this State. It’s up to you whether you help me or hinder me.’ She smiled, lips like razors. ‘How old are you?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Thirty-three.’
‘How long would it take you to become personal aide to the Premier, Anthony? By normal channels?’
Silence again but Roberta, senses honed to every nuance, knew that the texture of the silence had changed. She decided to gamble. ‘Got any mates in Maltby’s department?’
He wet his lips. ‘I …’
Roberta held her breath, forcing herself to smile, to look unconcerned.
Anthony took the plunge. ‘I may have.’
Got you!
She indicated the phone. ‘So ask,’ she said.
He stared at her, face white, mouth slightly open. Again she forced herself to say nothing. Anthony had to make up his own mind.
Do it. Silently, she summoned her last ounce of willpower. Just do it.
She saw his shoulders slump. He sat down again and picked up the phone. Roberta exhaled quietly, heart thumping. As he punched out the number she got to her feet, walked a few paces away from the desk. Not to give him privacy but because she couldn’t sit still. Success was so near yet things could still go wrong.
Just be there. Silently she implored Anthony’s unknown mate. If you’re not at your desk he may still change his mind. Softly, Anthony started to speak. Another hurdle passed.
If Maltby had done a deal with Sloat it would be little different from what she’d planned herself but she didn’t give a damn about that. It was the first rule of politics, after all. Of life. Don’t get caught. Now, with luck, Maltby had, and for the second time. He’ll never get away with it twice, she thought. She’d make sure of that. And with any luck she’d bring Cornish down with him. You bastard, she told the Premier savagely. I’ll make you rue the day you messed with me.
Anthony was still murmuring into the phone. She did not eavesdrop; the words were unimportant. What mattered was that he had done it. For now, at least, she could trust him to be on her side.
He put the phone down. ‘He’ll ring back.’
They waited, unmoving. Silence chained them.
The phone rang. Anthony snatched it. ‘Yes?’
Listened. Nodded. Took a paper and pencil. Scrawled a figure.
‘Thanks.’ His voice was amazingly matter-of-fact. ‘I owe you one. Bye.’
He put the phone down. Not daring to breathe, Roberta watched him. He looked at the figure again, then up at her. He smiled like a shark.
‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said.
Euphoria flared. She seized Anthony’s hands, could have kissed him. Don Maltby had been greedy to the last. The moment passed. They sat down again.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Anthony.
How Roberta cherished that we. Now we destroy him, she thought. Both of them. Utterly.
She thought, pondering the odds. There would be a risk in what she wanted Anthony to do but it was the best way.
‘I want you to phone a British businessman,’ she said. ‘Name of Donald Guthrie. I’ll give you his number. I’ve reason to believe that he made an offer to Sloat for the land and that Sloat agreed. I want you to ask him how much.’
Anthony opened his mouth to object; Roberta’s raised hand shut him up. ‘Just do it, okay?’ She wrote the number on a scrap of paper and pushed it across the desk to him. ‘Use my private phone,’ she said.
They needed no switchboard gossip, now of all times.
They waited while twelve thousand miles away the phone rang. It’ll be the middle of the night there, Roberta thought. Too bad.
She heard the click. Anthony started speaking. After a minute he held out the phone silently.
She took it. ‘Roberta Hudson speaking.’
‘What’s going on?’ Donald sounded cross, as well he might.
Carefully she chose her words. ‘Mr Guthrie, good morning. You will recall that some months ago I asked you to act as agent for the South Australian government in making a bid for some land we were interested in acquiring?’
‘Is this a private line?’ Donald demanded.
‘I understand you approached Mr Sloat with an offer. Is that correct?’
‘You know damn fine it’s correct. Look Roberta, it’s the middle of the night here. Gey late for playing games.’
‘I wonder if I could ask you to explain the situation to my assistant Mr Adam. The price and the fact that Mr Sloat agreed to it.’
‘Only by fax. There was never any formal agreement, you know that. You never gave me the authority to sign.’
‘The price and the fact that Mr Sloat agreed.’ Blithely Roberta talked through his objections. ‘If you wouldn’t mind confirming them to Mr Adam?’
‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’
‘Not at all. Quite the reverse, in fact.’
He thought about it. ‘Okay. Put him on.’
‘Mr Guthrie? Anthony Adam here.’ A pause. ‘I see. Thank you.’ The pencil scratched. Again he held out the phone to Roberta. ‘Hullo?’
‘I assume you’ll eventually let me know what’s going on?’
‘Certainly. And it’ll be good news. I promise you that.’
‘It had better be.’
She put down the phone, beamed her triumph at Anthony. ‘Well?’
‘Three hundred and twenty-five thousand.’
‘And Sloat said yes?’
‘Guthrie said he’ll send us a copy of Sloat’s fax.’ Anthony looked at her with new respect. With awe, almost. Roberta gloried in it. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Watch me.’
Mrs Auricht could read the signs as well as the next or thought she could. Deftly she tried to head Roberta off. ‘I’m so sorry, Ms Hudson. I’m afraid the Premier’s very busy at the moment.’
But Mrs Auricht, like the Premier himself, was not abreast of developments. Ruth smiled brilliantly at her.
‘I’m sure he’ll spare me a few minutes.’ She brushed her aside, threw open the door to the inner office. ‘Gavin,’ she said. Deliberately, she let her pleasure show. ‘A word with you.’
After the broadcast Ruth phoned her. ‘I suppose thi
s will make lunch a bit of a problem …’
Roberta laughed. It had been the busiest day of her life but she was not at all tired. She would never be tired again. ‘Don’t sound so enthusiastic.’
‘It’s just that I can’t imagine anyone wanting such a dreadful job. But you always have, haven’t you?’
‘All my life.’
‘I thought things were going badly. One day you must tell how you managed it.’
‘I shall.’ But knew she would not.
‘That other business … I take it that’s on hold now?’
‘What other business?’
‘Yes. Well.’
Roberta looked up at the clock on the wall across the room from her desk. My big new desk, she thought. To go with my big new job. ‘You’re writing. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
‘No point in having rules if you can’t break them.’
‘You could have phoned tomorrow. I would have understood.’
‘It wouldn’t have been the same. I know how important all this is to you. I had to speak to you tonight. To give you my love. I’m very proud of you, you know.’
Momentarily Roberta closed her eyes. Felt them sting. ‘Thank you, Mummy.’ For years she had called her Ruth. Just this once the childish name seemed more appropriate.
‘There’s something I want you to do for me,’ Ruth said. ‘There’s an American journalist. Barbara Getz —’
‘She’s already tried to get hold of me.’
‘Do you think you could spare the time to see her? Just for a few minutes?’
Later Roberta phoned Donald in Edinburgh, gave him her news.
He whistled. ‘Premier? So that’s what it was all about. Congratulations. How did you manage it?’
She told him.
‘You mean Maltby offered him over double?’
‘For a percentage.’
‘The man’s a fool.’
‘He’d got away with it once, thought he was bulletproof.’
‘And Cornish?’
‘They were so close the scandal would have brought him down, too, so he decided to get out before he was kicked out.’
‘Leaving the way clear for you. What will you do about Maltby?’
