The Butcherbird

by Geoffrey Cousins

  Crackles and static began to emanate from the doughnut-shaped speakerphone in the middle of the table and finally they heard the unmistakable tones of Mac.

  ‘We have him now, Sir Laurence.’

  ‘Thank you. You may leave us. Good morning, Mac, we have you now, although I must say the line isn’t particularly good, there’s still a great deal of static. Is there stormy weather in the Kimberley?’

  Mac laughed from the gut. ‘Stormy weather? It’s the dry season. It doesn’t rain for months. I’m in the shower, Laurence, that’s the noise you can hear, and a bloody good shower it is, too. Biggest head on it you’ve ever seen. Had it brought over from England. How are you all?’

  The distasteful nature of this exchange caused both corners of the Treadmore mouth to curl-usually a dangerous sign. This constant failure to attend board meetings in person, no doubt a complete absence of any attempt to read the papers and now to attend in a state of undress, even by phone, was beyond any pale Sir Laurence could conjure. How could two such distinctly opposing personalities survive together? The answer, as both were acutely aware, lay in the bonding power of money. It was the Araldyte of their relationship, whose unique properties could cause any two surfaces to adhere, no matter how uneven.

  Mac, wrapped in an outsized white bath towel, sprawled in a massive colonial wicker armchair in the shade of the double-width verandah. Everything at Bellaranga was enormous. You could fly over its million acres in a helicopter for a couple of hours and still be on the property. The views were infinite-from the beginning to the end of the world in time and space was how Mac phrased it when he was in a lyrical mood. Some of the oldest artworks in the world were on this place, painted on the walls of rock caves by peoples unknown; some said the Australian Aborigines, some said not. To Mac it was irrelevant. They were graceful, elegant, tasselled figures with extraordinary headdresses, painted with exceptional skill, as alive on the rock face now as they would have been over twenty thousand years ago. One of Mac’s prized showpieces was a small Matisse oil with dancing figures. He reckoned Matisse must have been to Bellaranga.

  How he wished his old dad could see him now, the lord of this domain and the other world on the end of the telephone. He’d never believe it. One of the European migrants who’d brought their skills to help build the Snowy Mountains Scheme, his father became more proudly Australian than any native born. He named his son after Governor Lachlan Macquarie and added James, as English a name as he could imagine. Mac still saw him sometimes, walking away from him down a Sydney street or cupping his hands to light a cigarette in a pub doorway. He remembered the line into the small church in Auburn and the crowd stretching away under the trees at the graveyard. He’d never seen half these people before, yet they all knew Ja.

  Suddenly he was brought back to the present by some discordant note from the telephone. His mind worked that way. He could half listen to the conversation and hear a clear bell ring in the middle of the hubbub.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chairman. I missed some of that. The line’s not too good. Would you mind summarising for me?’

  Sir Laurence was only too happy to oblige. ‘The chief executive, in the course of presenting his monthly report to the board, was highlighting the wellknown fact that we run a negative profit on our insurance operations with an insurance margin of one hundred and three per cent. While this is common in the industry it is apparently of great concern to him. He was directing his remarks to the twin questions of pricing and costs in addressing this issue. I trust this is an accurate summary?’ Sir Laurence gestured vaguely in Jack’s direction.

  ‘Yes, Mac. I know some insurance companies lose on every policy they write and make their profit on investing shareholders’ funds, but to me it’s a dangerous way to run a business and I’m not comfortable with it. We’ve got to look more closely at how we price risk. There might be a percentage of our book we want to discard because we can never make money on it and some business we want to keep but reprice.’

  Mac’s voice echoed from the doughnut. ‘Hang on, my friend, you’ve got to tread carefully here. The market won’t like us writing less business just because we think we’re going to make more profit somewhere down the track. They want growth. But I thought I heard you talking specifically about the cost side.’

  Jack’s enthusiasm began to rise. ‘Absolutely. There’s so much we can do there. Not just with internal costs, although I’m convinced already we can take eighty to one hundred million out of those, but on the education side, with our policyholders. If we can teach them how to better secure their homes, we reduce the incidence of burglary. And more, if we can work with local communities and the police on drug rehabilitation, we can help to treat the cause. If we can convince local councils to use our rating information and rezone likely flood areas, or change the building codes for hurricanes and severe storm areas, we can reduce claim costs and help our customers at the same time. Because that’s what insurance is all about, as I see it. Just a spreading of risk across the community so one family’s disaster is shared by everyone else.’

  There was silence in the boardroom and from the speakerphone. Finally, Sir Laurence spoke. ‘Are you still there, Mac?’

  ‘Yes.’ A short cough. ‘Yes, of course, Laurence. Chairman. Just thinking about Jack’s comments. Very commendable sentiments. Very much in line with my own thinking. Of course, you have to balance these long-term aims with the short-term interests of the shareholders. As directors, I think that’s where we have to look, is it not, Chairman?’

  ‘Indeed. The Corporations Act requires us to represent the interests of shareholders at all times.’

  ‘Just so. I’ve heard you say that many times. So, Jack, it’s quite right of you to raise these matters and commendable that you should get on this track so quickly, but we must plan carefully and slowly to strike the right balance of interests. Everyone agree?’

  There were murmurs from around the table of an indeterminate nature, as there usually were when Mac put this question. No vote had ever been taken in this boardroom, no clear dissent ever expressed.

  ‘Excellent. So I think we’re all agreeing with you, Jack, just expressing a note of caution. But didn’t I hear you mention specifics on the cost side?’

  Jack drew a deep breath and coloured slightly. ‘I’m not sure you are agreeing with me, Mac. It’s clear as day to me we need to move ahead on all this immediately and in the absolute interests of the shareholders. Our investment returns have been behind the market lately and I’m still trying to understand how our profits are increasing at such a pace.’

  Now it was very quiet and still in the room. No one shuffled papers or fiddled with pens. Even Shane O’Connell, who was usually prodding at his electronic organiser with a stylus, sat with his palms flat on the table. Jack continued.

  ‘Frankly, I see the cost side as the easy part. For instance, we seem to spend a fortune on consultants. I’m certain we can slash that in half. I don’t even know what they all do yet, but I’ll have a detailed analysis for you by the next meeting. And the other example is this company called Beira. We appear to pay it between thirty-five and forty million dollars a year, yet no one seems to know what it does precisely. So there’s a ton of potential for cost-cutting and I plan to get on with it.’ He paused and counted to ten in his head. ‘In the interests of shareholders.’

  It was really no more than a rock jutting out of the Mediterranean. The vegetation, such as it was, consisted of a few scrawny olive trees struggling for survival in a thin layer of wind-blown soil trapped in the rock’s crevices. There were donkeys to carry supplies from the boat up the hill to the village, chickens in the yards, depression in the air. He only ever went there once with his father. It was enough. Enough to remind him where he came from, more than enough to know he wasn’t going back. He’d searched for it in the index of his atlas but there was no Beira listed among the Bs. But Ja was proud of where he came from and grateful for where he’d landed. They were different i
n that way. Mac felt he’d wrestled what he had from opponents who would have turned him over in a crocodile roll given half a chance. His father saw life with a softer palette.

  He walked stiffly down the verandah steps to the lush green lawn under the poinciana trees, the only expanse of soft green anywhere in the Kimberley in the harsh dry season. When he woke, alone, in the early morning after a day of riding, his body always felt like a rusty old car that needed a grease and oil change. He loved being alone up here. It was strange, because in the city he hated to sleep or eat alone and rarely did, but he’d never brought Bonny or any other girl to Bellaranga and Edith had only come twice. It was too hot for her, too wild, too far from the bridge club. A few times a year he flew major clients or investors in for fishing and shooting but, unlike life on the Honey Bear, this was bloke’s stuff, men’s business. Huntin’, shootin’, drinkin’-but no rooting. And a great tax deduction.

  This last thought brought him back to the subject of the board meeting with an unpleasant jerk. What possessed these people, given a huge salary and the chance to make a fortune from options, to go digging in holes full of snakes? First Buckley, with all his pompous crap about corporate behaviour, and now Jack Beaumont sounding like he was preaching a sermon. He’d have to learn. There were some holes that had big snakes in them with very nasty bites. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Let Renton Healey sort it out. He could confuse anyone in three easy lessons. He’d been promoted to CFO and given a whacking pay increase thanks to his loyalty and ability to show flexible, creative thinking on tricky issues; now was the time to bring those qualities into play.

  Louise entered quietly through the open hatch, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden steps. It was one of Jack’s flights into whimsy, this study in a loft with a narrow staircase and a trapdoor. It was a wonder he hadn’t included a pole to slide down into the bedroom.

  ‘What are you doing, lover boy? It’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s happened to the digger who sleeps under gunfire?’ She was holding his head in both hands now and he was grateful for the warmth and comfort. He nuzzled into her body. ‘This is a worry; you’ve either fallen in love with another woman, in which case tiny parts of your body will be lightly sauteed with onions and garlic, or you’re more concerned than I’ve seen you since your daughter was born breech. Which is it? Be quick lest I ready the pan.’

  Where had his ‘values’ come from, that’s what Jack could never figure out. His mother was a classic snob who revered all things English, all persons of a higher social order, as she saw them. His father’s principles were elusive. But somehow Jack had developed a black and white view of some issues that wouldn’t leave him. His behaviour might wander at the margins but he believed he’d never walk away from his basic principles. On the other hand, he hadn’t really been tested before. And was he being tested now? That’s what was waking him in the night. If he knew for sure something was wrong he’d attack it, but these issues seemed to slip and slide, ripple and flatten like wind on a river. He couldn’t even explain them properly to Louise.

  ‘So are you saying you think they’re running the business inefficiently or recklessly or acting fraudulently or breaking the law or what?’

  ‘God no, not breaking the law. Well, I hope not. I mean, I’m not saying that. I don’t understand enough I suppose. The issues are very complex but I’m trying to make them simple.’

  She rubbed the back of his neck again. ‘And that’s part of your talent and the value of fresh eyes. And part of mine, remember? So simplify them for me.’

  It was like the old days when they’d sit together in their first ramshackle office above the delicatessen, the smells of cheese and salami and fresh bread drifting up the fire escape. He’d explain the brilliant design concept that short-sighted councillors couldn’t fit into the local codes and she’d tear it apart with logical precision, put it back together in almost the same order and make it fit. But she always left it as his idea.

  He tried to lay out the shapes in his head now as lines on a plan, but they weren’t as straight, the corners weren’t as sharp. It had all started brilliantly. Mac had been right, the market loved him. The shares had jumped two per cent in three months despite his lack of major company, not to mention insurance industry, experience. He was a great story, just as Mac had predicted. ‘They love growth, son, and that’s what you represent. You’re a salesman. You know about increasing our share of new homes, forging bonds with property developers, driving the top line. That’s what matters. Let us worry about making the profits, managing the balance sheet, all that stuff that’s unbelievably complex in an insurance company. Leave it to the accountants and the actuaries. That’s what I do. You bring the business in the front door, the profits will fall out the back, I promise you.’

  But would they? That was the part he couldn’t see. When Jack sat through the briefing with his CFO, Renton Healey, and later with the head actuary, he could see the policies marching in the front door in ever greater numbers-but at prices that left no margin for any profits to fall out the back. And when they gave the argument he’d heard so many times now-that most insurance companies don’t make money from their underwriting operations-he’d replied, ‘I know that. But the best ones do. They have insurance margins below one hundred per cent, not at one hundred and three per cent like us. And sure, they make the bulk of their profits by investing policyholders’ funds when the sharemarket’s performing well. But at least they won’t go broke when it isn’t.’

  Renton Healey had just remained calm and grimaced, you couldn’t call it a smile, not in that squashed pumpkin of a face with a shock of pumpkin red hair above it, and looked at him in that paternalistic, slightly pitying way adults do with children who are struggling in their lessons.

  ‘Jack, isn’t it a bit early in the learning curve to be trying to reconstruct the entire insurance industry? We’ve been doing things this way for quite a while. The market fully understands the nature of the insurance cycle, the concept of the smoothing of profits, the orderly flow of releases from reserves. They’re fully aware of the swings and roundabouts of investment returns and the sophisticated systems of collars and caps we implement to assist in smoothing. And of course the very effective but complex reinsurance arrangements we have in place to limit risk and, to some degree, to protect financial returns. I think it’s fair to say, without wishing to be patronising in any way, this is an area you are still grappling with.’ Here the pumpkin crumpled again. ‘The point is, Jack, unless you have a clear overview of how all these factors come together, how all the levers are pulled, you can’t be expected to understand how the bottom line is derived. Or how the balance sheet fits together. They’re very difficult concepts for anyone from outside the industry, I grant you, but we’ll do our best to explain.’

  He shifted his sizeable posterior in the expensive Italian chair.

  Exercise and Renton Healey were not as close friends as cannelloni and a Margaret River pinot noir. Possibly a little cheese. At lunch. Despite the new CEO’s edict, banning alcohol for the management team during working hours. The new CEO had a great deal to learn, and not just about reinsurance contracts. Healey chuckled to himself. Indeed, he was unable to learn anything on that subject.

  As Jack tried to explain now to Louise, if HOA was losing money on underwriting its policies, and their investment returns were below those of the previous year, how could they keep announcing record profits?

  ‘Well, maybe they’re right, darling. You said yourself this business is more complicated by a mile than anything you’ve done before. As much as one is loath to suggest that the boy genius is incapable of getting his Scouts badge for insurance basics, maybe you just don’t understand. Yet.’

  He’d thought about that a lot, wondering if he wasn’t up to this challenge intellectually, but as he discovered more about the business his confidence was growing, not diminishing in awe at the majesty of it all. It wasn’t that difficult. He believed in h
is simple analysis-just people sharing risk to protect one another. All the rest was gobbledygook. But maybe this was something Louise couldn’t help him with. Maybe he needed an expert this time.

  chapter five

  The beds of red canna lilies waved softly as the nor’easter gradually picked up its afternoon velocity. It was Wednesday, so shortly the eighteen-foot skiffs would come rocketing out of Careening Cove and the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron’s more dignified fleet would be gearing up at Kirribilli for a sunset race. Men with knobbly legs, white football shorts and salt-encrusted boat shoes would be rubbing their chests and peering aimlessly at their expensive boats, while younger crew members skipped about being genuinely useful. In the Royal Botanic Gardens, joggers, lovers, derelicts, old male backgammon players of vaguely European origin, gay boys suntanning, public servants in navy suit trousers with white belts and synthetic shirts, businessmen in earnest conversation about events of shattering importance walking very purposefully, politicians from nearby Parliament House walking more purposefully, old ladies in wheelchairs, gardeners in khaki with leather pouches on their belts hiding in the shrubbery, more lovers loving on rubber-backed blankets-all this gallery of Sydney’s humanity presented itself to the lunchtime spring sunshine. The harbour sparkled and jazzed as a few whitecaps flecked the deep blue and the sails of the Opera House stood stiffly against the breeze.

  Jack found the seat as described (under the Moreton Bay fig, opposite the Bronwyn Oliver sculpture), set down his brown paper bag and waited. It was peaceful beneath the massive spread of the old ficus with its gnarled aerial roots snaking down to the earth like some tropical growth from a rainforest or a Tallahassee swampland. He watched the carefree throngs jogging and pacing by and wondered if anyone was ‘carefree’. It sounded like something from an Enid Blyton novel or a shampoo commercial. But he had been, pretty much. And now he was in the swamp, without any roots.