by Di Morrissey
‘Murray is so thrilled it’s another boy,’ Cindy had confided to Jo. ‘It’s like he’s got an heir and a spare. He’s hinted that another boy wouldn’t go astray to help run things.’
‘Did you want a girl?’ asked Joanna.
‘Maybe next time.’ Cindy smiled. ‘Or maybe three is just right.’
The children grew into adventuresome toddlers and then, so quickly, into delightful and entertaining children who ruled Cindy’s and Murray’s lives. Once, watching them lark about in the garden, Murray looked at Cindy and with a catch in his voice whispered, ‘I never believed this was possible.’ And Cindy felt she would burst with love and pride in her family.
Gordon and Sally, though twins, were very different from each other, not just in looks but also in personality. Gordon was steady and serious, where Sally was gregarious and boisterous. Gordon didn’t like being teased and took things to heart. Sally, if upset, would burst into a storm of tears, stamp her foot and shout, but within moments of being appeased she would be her sunny self again. In similar circumstances, her brother would continue to look pained for a long time, sending everyone wounded glances, even if he had been at fault.
Russell, however, was as even-tempered and calm as the day he was born, and was never any trouble. At four, he ignored Sally’s teasing, tottered after Gordon to watch whatever his big brother was doing and accepted whatever came along.
Cindy loved telling Babs about the children, constantly writing long letters describing their doings, along with photos and some of their clumsy and colourful artwork and school efforts. Cindy still didn’t mention Lawrence in her letters home. As always, she tried to put the dark cloud that was his presence out of her mind. Her happiness in her family outweighed Lawrence’s continued ill-will towards her.
Looking at her children now, fidgeting as the photographer took some final photos, their fresh-pressed clothes moments away from dirt and ruin, she felt a wave of contentment.
The town photographer lowered his camera.
‘That’s it. I think we’ve got some pretty good shots.
I should have them ready for you in about a week.’
‘Why can’t we have a picture with horses or something next year?’ sighed Gordon. ‘I hate wearing these stupid clothes.’
‘This is how Daddy and Grandfather like you to look,’ explained Cindy. ‘Like gentlemen and a little lady, not a gang of tree-climbing ruffians.’
‘Why doesn’t Grandfather come and be in the photo, then?’ said Gordon.
‘No,’ squealed Sally, who had very definite ideas and who liked to be the centre of attention.
‘Because we have a photo with Grandfather on Christmas Day. And these are the pictures I want to put in our Christmas cards to send to Aunt Alice and Auntie Babs. I want to show everyone what nice children I have,’ explained Cindy.
‘Mummy fools everyone every year,’ said Murray with a chuckle, as he picked up Russell and put him on his shoulders.
‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Sally indignantly. ‘We are nice.’
‘You certainly are,’ said Cindy, putting an arm around her daughter.
‘Can we go and take these things off now?’ asked Gordon, plucking at his shirt, after Cindy and Murray had farewelled the photographer and headed into the house.
‘No, darling. There are important people coming to dinner tonight, so Daddy wants you to keep your good clothes on.’
‘Awww, do I have to stay in my dress?’ wailed Sally.
‘You do, darling. Just for a short while. You look lovely. Now, let’s get going.’
The children trailed into the big house, Cindy issuing dire threats about the consequences for them if they did not keep clean and tidy. They would not eat with the family and guests, but Lawrence liked them to be introduced and to spend a few moments speaking to the company. Sally would be expected to pass around to the visitors a plate of hors d’oeuvres Mrs Flowers had prepared, while Gordon would answer questions put to him about school, his future and Kingsley Downs, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and not in his pockets. Russell would hold Cindy’s hand until he was given a biscuit and cheese and told to sit quietly. Eventually, the children would be excused and led away by Mrs Flowers.
Cindy headed down the hallway to freshen up before the guests arrived. She enjoyed having guests visit, especially when they were people she knew and liked, but Murray had told her the guest list that evening would include the Gregsons, whom Cindy had not previously met. They were old friends of Lawrence’s and had not visited for years, as they owned a property in western Queensland. Evidently they would also be bringing another man with them who was important in the wool industry.
‘Are Storry and Maisie coming?’ Cindy had asked Murray. Their local stock and station agent and his wife were often visitors to Kingsley Downs.
‘They’re away in Sydney on business, remember?’
‘Are they still away? I thought they would be back by now. Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Cindy.
‘But Alistair is coming, so you’ll have your old champion to talk to,’ said Murray in a teasing voice.
Cindy was relieved that the dear old family solicitor would be there that night. He had impeccable manners and was always so kind and attentive to her. Alistair Campbell might be semi-retired but he kept tabs not only on local politics but on the rest of the world as well, and he often gave her news about the US that he thought she would be interested in hearing. His secretary, Ngaire Seymour, was also a close friend of the family.
Cindy sprayed herself with perfume and ran a brush through her hair before a squeal from Russell announced the visitors were approaching. With a smile on her face, Cindy went to the door to welcome her guests to her home.
*
As the evening wore on, the talk was all about reforming the wool industry. Cindy thought that Lawrence, Murray and even Alistair were impressed both by the guest who had come with the Gregsons and his views on what needed to be done to bring about change to their industry. Bill Gunn, who sat opposite Cindy, seemed rather rough around the edges, but the authority with which he spoke as he railed against the current prices of wool made her think that he might well be an influential person.
Cindy studied him. He was a large, shambling, bear-like man with a florid complexion, and his hair was parted in the middle, two tufts of streaked silver sticking out on either side. Important and clever he might be, but there was no doubting he was a country boy with rough bush manners who was used to getting his way.
‘The wool industry’s in even worse shape than it was in the late fifties. It’s downright cataclysmic. We have to make sure the Prime Minister understands the crisis we are facing,’ he boomed across the table.
‘Don’t the politicians realise that if they don’t do something right away to make sure the graziers get a consistent return for their wool, the industry will be decimated?’ thundered Lawrence. ‘People will just walk away from their places. The government has an obligation to protect our way of life. The wool industry made this country great. They can’t just ignore the wool grower.’
Gunn nodded and slapped his hand on the table in agreement with Lawrence. ‘I’ve been going to a lot of meetings across the state and there is huge support for the idea of an authority which will not only buy up all of the Australian wool clip, but also set a reserve price for it. If those buyers from overseas want our wool, then they will have to pay the price we decide,’ explained the big man.
‘But what if they won’t pay the price you set?’ asked Alistair softly.
Gunn glared at the old solicitor. ‘Then we’ll just hang on to the wool until they do. The buyers will have to accept our asking price if they want our wool. It’s very simple, Mr Campbell: an authority will buy up all the wool and set the price for it. The banks will fund the purchase and the government will back the whole initiative.’
Mr Gregson l
eaned forward, his enthusiasm clear on his face. ‘This policy will be the making of the industry,’ he said. ‘No more ups and downs in price. No more boom and bust. The wool producer will know exactly what price he’ll be getting, year by year. He’ll be secure in this industry.’
‘And you have plenty of support for this idea?’ asked Alistair Campbell.
‘Some wool producers don’t like the idea that everything will be controlled by one authority, but there is strength in being a monopoly, so they’ll have to come on board,’ Gunn answered.
Alistair looked dubious, but before he could say anything further, Lawrence raised his glass.
‘We are privileged to be party to … shall we say, a small revolution?’
‘Small, be damned.’ The big man threw back his head and roared with laughter.
As soon as Mrs Flowers, in a freshly ironed apron, had cleared away the dessert plates, Lawrence spoke. ‘Excuse us, ladies. Murray, the port, will you please, son.’
Cindy rose from the table and, turning to Mrs Gregson, asked, ‘Would you care for an after-dinner liqueur? Tea, or coffee?’
‘I wouldn’t mind another sherry. The one before dinner was very pleasant,’ the older woman replied.
They settled themselves in the sitting room and made small talk for a short while, then Cindy asked, ‘I suppose you know a lot about the wool industry, coming from the land. It’s a very different world from what I’ve known.’
‘I understand how you must feel,’ said Mrs Gregson warmly. ‘Actually, I was a city girl before I got married. I worked in an accountant’s office in Brisbane and that’s where I met Mr Gregson. He was a client of the firm. I moved to the land after we got married, and quickly discovered that sheep were regarded as almost godlike creatures there. Heavens, even the new two-dollar note celebrates the industry,’ she said with a slight smile.
Cindy chuckled. ‘I always thought Merino rams looked rather snooty and silly. A huge mound of compacted wool waddling on silly tiny feet and legs. Like a large lady in a big overcoat tottering on high heels.’
Mrs Gregson laughed. ‘We shouldn’t joke. In good times, those wool clips can make a lot of money, thousands of dollars.’
Cindy was thoughtful. Mrs Gregson had seemed very proper and a little dull at the dining table, saying little, but Cindy could see that she listened intently. Away from the dominating conversation of the men, Cindy was finding her interesting company.
‘What do you think about this reserve price idea?’ Cindy asked.
The older woman studied Cindy. ‘Well, from what I can gather, since Bill Gunn came into the picture there’s been quite a bit happening. Something had to be done – the wool clip price has been erratic for so long. By promising a reserve price, this new authority –
and not the buyers – will be able to control the price of wool so that wool producers will get a fair return for their work and investment in the industry. Sounds good
to me.’
‘But what if people don’t want to pay this reserve price? My aunt has a dress shop in Palm Springs in America and she says that women are already loving and asking for synthetic fabrics. Artificial silk drapes beautifully and is highly favoured. What if the whole world starts to feel that way?’ asked Cindy.
Mrs Gregson raised an eyebrow. ‘My dear, synthetics will be a passing fad. Nothing will ever replace wool.’ She put down her glass and glanced at her marcasite watch. ‘We really should be leaving soon.’ She smiled at Cindy. ‘You’re a lovely hostess. It’s nice to see a woman back at the helm of Kingsley Downs.’
‘I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near the helm,’ said Cindy with a small smile. ‘Lawrence is still very much the master of the ship.’ She paused, seeing an opportunity. ‘Did you know Murray’s mother?’
Mrs Gregson nodded. ‘I did. Not long after I was married, we visited Kingsley Downs. Rose Parnell was very charming and warm to me. She was always a bit on the quiet side, and I don’t think that she socialised a lot, but I do remember that she was a very loving mother. Quite doted on Murray when he was a little chap. Shame what happened later. I don’t know what made her act the way she did. Hard on Lawrence and Murray. Still, you never know what really goes on inside a marriage, do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ replied Cindy cautiously, unsure whether to ask more questions.
Footsteps and voices in the hall announced that the men had left the dining room, so Mrs Gregson rose and picked up her handbag and Cindy walked her out to join her husband.
‘Thank you for a pleasant evening,’ Mrs Gregson said, shaking Cindy’s hand. ‘I do hope our paths cross again.’
*
As she brushed her hair in front of the mirror later that night, Cindy turned to Murray as he drew back the sheets and fell onto the bed.
‘What did you think of this evening?’
‘It was fine, sweetie. The kids and the food were great and you kept Mrs G occupied. I think the night went off well.’ He yawned.
‘That friend of the Gregsons, Bill, was quite forceful in his views.’
‘Yes, he was. Dad certainly supports his plan. Hopefully it will make us more secure financially, and if that happens, who knows, we might even be able to expand our business in the next few seasons.’
Cindy put her brush on the dressing table and turned back to face her husband, who was lying on his back, bare-chested, his pyjama bottoms tied at his waist, his eyes closed, his boots on the floor beside him in handy reach.
‘I thought Mrs Gregson a bit starchy at dinner, but later in the sitting room, I found her to be quite interesting.’ Cindy paused. ‘She mentioned she’d met your mother when she was first married.’
Murray didn’t move. ‘Did she? I wouldn’t know. I guess my parents gave a few dinner parties back in the day.’
‘I see. Was your mom involved in other social events, besides dinner parties?’
Murray opened his eyes. ‘Why are you asking? I don’t know. It’s late. I’m tired.’
Cindy walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s just that I know so little about your mom.’
‘Cindy, when Mum left, I was away at school. She just packed a bag and went. I don’t know more than that. Come to bed. It’s late.’ He closed his eyes.
Cindy climbed into bed and lay beside her husband, reaching for him and putting her arm across his chest. He muttered incoherently and turned on his side, sleep quickly claiming him. Cindy felt the gentle rise and fall of breathing and was comforted. It wasn’t long before she too drifted off to sleep.
*
When the children woke Cindy and Murray very early on Christmas morning, the birds had barely started their dawn calls and the day promised to be hot.
Amidst squeals of excitement, the children found their stockings from Santa and pulled out all the little presents Cindy had enjoyed packing inside.
After everything had been examined and played with, they all trooped into the kitchen. Mrs Flowers never made breakfast on Christmas morning, as she was too busy organising the lunch and, knowing how big that would be, Cindy made just a light meal of fruit and cereal.
Breakfast was quickly eaten so they could gather around the Christmas tree in the lounge room to open family presents – except for those from Lawrence, who made the children wait till after Christmas dinner for his gifts.
As usual, Murray played Santa, and everyone watched as each child opened a gift in turn. They all had a beautiful piece of clothing from Babs and Joey that Babs had made. Cindy was not sure that her children really appreciated the workmanship that had gone into the clothes, but she certainly did, and she couldn’t wait to see them all in their lovely outfits. The gifts from Alice were a good deal less interesting, being useful rather than fun.
Cindy smiled to herself as she remembered how she and Babs had always had a pact between them to open their gifts from Alice on
Christmas Eve, so as not to spoil Christmas morning. There had been the year of silver raincoats with gold medallion buttons, a look that never took off, which had been discounted in the store and still hadn’t sold and so had ended up as gifts. And then there was the mock Pucci handbag that had spent so long in the shop window that one side had faded. When Babs had pointed this out, Alice had cheerfully replied, ‘If you hold the faded side against you, no one will ever notice.’ And there was the year of the tennis bracelet of faux diamonds whose clasps never worked. But as Babs always said, it was the thought that counted.
‘Why are you smiling, Mummy?’ asked Gordon.
‘I’m just pleased to see that you like the cricket set Daddy and I gave you.’ She turned to help Sally unwrap a large doll and a little bracelet with a gold teddy bear charm and Russell his huge set of Lego, which the little boy immediately wanted to put together. Cindy had also given them games, puzzles and books. She was pleased they all liked to read, or be read to, and she encouraged their reading. Murray seemed happy with his crocodile belt and new shirts and Cindy loved the pretty gold locket set with a small diamond he had bought for her.
‘I’ll wear it at lunch,’ she said, as she gave him a kiss.
After the children had had a chance to play with their toys and burn off some energy came the ritual of dressing for Christmas lunch.
Sally always wore a dress. The boys had to suffer in jackets until the meal was over and Lawrence allowed them to take them off.
‘You’ll be all right,’ Cindy said when Gordon complained. ‘It’s only for a couple of hours and your grandfather likes to see you nicely dressed on these special occasions. Besides, you’re going to have your photo taken.’
Before Christmas lunch was served, Mrs Flowers came out of the kitchen long enough to take a family photograph with Lawrence included, as she did every year. Everyone lined up stiffly in the drawing room in front of the fireplace. Cindy had decorated it with branches of gumleaves, while the children had added paper chains and paper snowflakes they’d made.
Then the family all sat down to Mrs Flowers’s traditional Christmas dinner of baked ham and roast chicken, in spite of the heat of the day. Cindy had put Christmas bon bons on the table and there was a lot of noise and fun in pulling them, then wearing the paper hats and reading out the silly jokes they contained. Cindy was not at all sure that Lawrence approved of the noisy frivolity, but he said nothing. Cindy did notice that he was swift to remove his paper hat.
