Land of Golden Wattle

by J. H. Fletcher

  The coffee arrived. Ivy poured. They waited until she’d left the room, the pause as miserable as the weather.

  ‘Who is the buyer?’ Bec said.

  ‘Lemaire Forrest.’

  ‘That man,’ Bec said. ‘He was snooping around after Bessie died. Thought I wouldn’t make a go of it, I suppose.’

  A burst of rain crashed against the window.

  ‘The right weather for a wretched business,’ said Bec. ‘But there’s no point weeping about it.’

  ‘You want me to tell Forrest we accept his offer?’

  ‘I think we must. But I’ll tell you one thing, Maurice,’ Bec said. ‘God knows how we’ll manage it but I am determined that Derwent will survive.’ She managed a defiant smile. ‘And who knows? Perhaps the wool price will surprise us all. As you just said.’

  Although she too doubted it.

  1933–36

  The market was eighty per cent below its peak in early October 1929; neither had the wool price lifted significantly. They had practised every economy they could think of. They’d sold off most of their horses. They’d put off replacing the roof slates that had been damaged in a winter storm. They ate only the plainest food. They spent their evenings in the half-dark to save electricity. Much against Bec’s will they had laid off many of the estate staff.

  ‘I worry how they’ll manage,’ Bec said. ‘If only Derwent was cropping country…’

  Or if the companies were making a profit… But it wasn’t, and they weren’t. It was the depths of the depression with one in four Australians out of work and there were no profits anywhere.

  The farm managers had been obliged to forego their annual bonuses for the first time Bec could remember. They’d considered getting rid of one or other of their two cars but had eventually decided against it; they both needed transport. Also they needed to maintain a delicate balance between appearance and reality; they might be close to ruin but it was important not to appear so to the rest of the world. Pride was part of it but it also made sense. Even a sniff of bankruptcy would bring the vultures circling.

  All these steps only delayed the inevitable. Steadily and inexorably they were going broke. And the bank manager, once again, was on the warpath.

  ‘My directors are verra concairned, Mrs Penrose.’

  She could have strangled him.

  Jonathan was often alone.

  He preferred it that way: when he was by himself he could pretend the shame did not exist. He could walk tall and breathe the air and tell himself he was still a man. In company he could not do that.

  It was four years since the crash, when all the bright castles of his dreams had come tumbling down, but the pain remained. He was frightened too. Bec had always been so good to him yet even the best of women must come finally to accept the need to punish him for the vanity that had damaged them so much. At least he hadn’t committed suicide, as Basil Merton had, leaving a wife and four children to fend for themselves in a penniless world. At least he hadn’t done that yet, but it was fear that drove him to the fishing shack they had on the coast. They’d had it for years. Bec never went there; it was understood that it was his place. They would have sold it after the crash but there were no buyers. The shack had remained, a monument and refuge for the foolish man and his guilt.

  It stood amid marram grass dunes a hundred metres above the high-water mark. There was peace there and the solitude Jonathan craved; there was wind and salt air and the constant crying of gulls. There were gannets far out and there were days when he stood for hours with his binoculars, watching them as they carried out their dagger-swift bombing raids on the shoals of fish that moved up and down the coast.

  At night the sand gleamed white in the moonlight.

  To one side of the shack a padlocked hut sheltered a rubber dinghy, an inflator and oars. There was also a runabout with an outboard motor and fishing gear that Jonathan used when he felt inclined. The fishing was good and often he fired up the barbecue to grill his catch. He didn’t drink much but sat and listened to the waves along the shore.

  At high tide during on-shore gales the spray from the breaking seas blew high above the shack.

  Jonathan would stay there for a week or sometimes two. When he was cleansed he would return to Bec and the world his vanity had destroyed. Even when he was at Derwent he often needed the solitude of the valley called Gimbaloo or the open slopes below Blackman’s Head where he and Bec had first made love in the days before the war when they and their world had been young. He sat on the warm earth while the guns of Pozières rained down their shells in his head; he had come to believe he would never be free of them.

  Lemaire Forrest was in his sixties but his avarice was as powerful as ever. His many enemies said that dragging wealth from the carcasses of his victims was as necessary to him as breathing.

  He sat at his mean desk in his mean office and flashed his mean eyes at Hedley Crabbe, whom he had summoned into his presence. ‘You told me on the phone you’ve heard more rumours about that estate called Derwent. Tell me what you know.’

  Hedley was well aware that his client was not only avaricious but unforgiving. So far the schemes he had constructed had all come off but that meant nothing; if anything went wrong he would be blamed for it and, with Lemaire Forrest’s appetite for increasingly audacious operations, going wrong was always on the cards. It was enough to make the coolest man sweat because this time there was heavy money involved.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the minister,’ he said. ‘He’s keen.’

  ‘Of course he’s keen,’ Forrest said. ‘You say they’ve found underwater aquifers?’

  ‘The diviner we sent in says there is a very strong water flow. The permeable substratum –’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Lemaire Forrest had no interest in technical details. ‘Will it support irrigation?’

  ‘He says yes.’

  ‘So cropping is possible?’

  ‘Maybe not on the higher ground. But in the valley bottoms he says he’s sure of it.’

  ‘How did they manage to carry out the exploratory work without the owners finding out?’

  ‘They slipped one of the managers an early Christmas present to look the other way. Bloke called Isaac Slack.’

  ‘That’s a man we’ll fire when we take over. I’ll not have a traitor work for me. If we give them the go ahead how much of Derwent will be affected?’

  ‘About half. Don’t worry, there’ll still be plenty of land to run your cattle.’

  ‘I don’t worry,’ Forrest said. ‘I pay you to do that.’

  From somewhere Hedley quarried a smile. ‘Why should either of us be worrying? If the water’s there you’ll make a killing.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  ‘You’ll have the finest property in the Tasmanian high country.’

  ‘Either way, that scoundrel of a minister will make a fortune,’ Forrest said, scowling. He hated it when anyone else made money.

  ‘We couldn’t mess about with the underground water system without government backing,’ Hedley said. ‘And he might be useful later. We’ll have him in our pocket, won’t we?’

  ‘So we should. He’ll cost us enough, I have no doubt.’ Forrest thought. ‘And you say the owners are bankrupt?’

  ‘Heading that way. Or that’s what our people are saying.’

  ‘Then we’d better make a move before someone else does,’ Forrest said.

  Maurice Miller had turned up unexpectedly.

  Bec was pleased to see him. Maurice was a good friend and she needed someone to cheer her up. The sun was shining but in Bec’s heart it was as dark as night.

  They were drinking coffee; at least they could still afford that, though for how much longer?

  ‘It doesn’t matter which way I turn,’ she told him. ‘I can’t see my way out of it. Without a miracle the next two months will see the end of us.’ She gave him a broken smile. ‘Better send me your bill before we are forced to put Derwent on the market.’

&
nbsp; ‘Will you really do that?’

  ‘If the alternative is Jonathan filing for bankruptcy? He’d be likely to blow his brains out. I worry about him,’ Bec said. ‘He’s always going off to the shack, often for weeks at a time. Even when he’s here he’s out most days. He likes to pretend he’s keeping an eye on things but he’s not really.’

  ‘Perhaps the wool price will take off,’ Maurice said.

  ‘You are always saying that but it never does. It’ll have to go sky high to save us now. Anyway, what brings you here this sunny day?’

  Maurice drained his cup and gave her a lopsided grin. ‘I’ve had an enquiry about Derwent.’

  Bec had been about to lift the coffee pot. Now her hand was still. ‘Somebody wants to make an offer? What did you say?’

  ‘I said we’d get back to them.’

  She stared at him and at the countryside beyond the window, the paddocks heavy with slowly moving flocks.

  ‘Derwent has been in this family a hundred years… I cannot believe I am having this conversation.’ She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. ‘Leave it with me. Let me think about it.’

  It was not a case of simply selling Derwent; they would be selling the past, everything the family had achieved and failed to achieve. The future too. All would be gone.

  It was impossible, a waking nightmare, a century of history wiped out at the stroke of a pen…

  The faces of the dead watched.

  She tried to talk to Jonathan about it. It did no good. It was fifteen years since the war ended but the traumas of that time still lingered. They, and his sense of guilt, had paralysed his will.

  ‘You must do what you think best,’ he said.

  Two days before she had intercepted a bank letter addressed to her husband. Pay, the letter had said, or face the consequences.

  No need to spell out what the consequences would be.

  Bec lay in her tormented bed. Jonathan was more precious to her than a dozen Derwents. And yet…

  She told herself it was impossible even to think of selling. She mustn’t do it, would never forgive herself…

  Jonathan’s life might depend on her decision.

  She would have wept, had she the tears.

  In the morning, sleepless, she sat and studied the phone. Picked it up. Put it down again.

  Oh God. Face it. Deal with it. Accept it.

  The phone rang.

  She snatched it up, bitterness like vomit in her throat.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maurice,’ the lawyer said.

  Bec’s nerves ripped her patience. ‘Are the vultures in such a rush they won’t give us twenty-four hours to think about it?’

  ‘Something’s cropped up,’ Maurice said. ‘I’m coming to see you right away.’

  It was an electric shock crashing through her. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’

  Bec was left staring at the dead phone.

  Within the hour Maurice was driving up the approach road in his bright red Alpha P3. Nerves ragged, fingernails chewed to her elbows, Bec watched with envious eyes; she’d have had one herself if she could have afforded it.

  You are a lunatic, she told herself. One foot through the door of bankruptcy and you are lusting after a sports car?

  The word irresponsible came to mind but she’d developed an eye for sleek fast cars. And who could say what news Maurice might be bringing? When you were in the depths of despair, she thought, the only way out was up, and Maurice had sounded brighter than she’d heard him for a long time.

  By the time he came through the door the coffee was steaming in the pot.

  Of course he started off by telling her about his smart new car, how he’d had the steering adapted to suit the arm wounded in the war, how it ate the miles, how the roar of its engine set the pulses racing…

  Somehow Bec managed not to scream.

  Finally Maurice said, ‘I’ve been contacted by an old friend of mine in Malaya, a man called Robert Thompson…’

  Bec was giving serious thought to murder.

  ‘His family owns rubber estates in north Malaya. One of their acquaintances is a Chinese planter called Chan. Very wealthy, he tells me. Mr Chan lives in Penang but has family in Shanghai. You may not be aware of it but two years ago the Japanese army took over Manchuria. Ever since they’ve been pushing southwards. Mr Chan’s family is concerned about the situation and is looking to invest some of its wealth outside the country while they still can.’

  Bec was listening intently now.

  ‘It seems they had intended to send it to England but with the Nazis in charge in Germany they have hesitated. Mr Chan has advised them they should look at sending money to Australia.’

  ‘How much money are we talking about?’

  ‘Robert Thompson believes it could be a significant sum. Two hundred thousand pounds, maybe more.’

  Two hundred thousand pounds, maybe more.

  The words had magic but clearly there was a major hurdle.

  ‘Are you suggesting we sell Derwent to a Chinese family? How does that fit in with the White Australia policy?’

  Maurice smiled indulgently. ‘There are always ways around these problems. In any case, I do not believe we are necessarily talking of selling Derwent at all.’

  What?

  ‘If that’s the case, what are we talking about?’

  ‘It is not in my nature to be overly optimistic –’ he drained his cup with a flourish ‘– but it is my belief that the word we are looking for is salvation.’

  Bec’s hands were clenched in her lap. Hope, recently so unfamiliar, was bad for the nerves. ‘You wouldn’t mess me about, would you, Maurice?’

  ‘No, my dear, I would not.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t by any chance have any more of that excellent coffee?’

  Her nervous fingers rattled the pot against his cup rim. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘I believe the next step is to talk to Mr Chan.’

  ‘You want me to go to Malaya?’

  ‘There will be no need for that. At this moment Mr Chan is sitting in my car outside your door.’

  Bec’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘I explained to him it might be best if I had a word with you first.’

  The mixture of fear and joy – of something going wrong and the prospect of what Maurice had termed salvation – was hard to bear. She ordered her nerves to be still. She stood up and sat down again, her thoughts in turmoil. Could it be? Was it possible?

  ‘Be quiet,’ she told herself. This was the time to be cold, collected, calm. Mr Chan would want a deal. She must think what she was willing to give, unwilling to give.

  To keep Derwent in the family she would give anything.

  The door opened. An elderly man with oriental features came in. He was a generation older than Bec had expected. He looked frail but was probably tougher than the oldest rope in the Derwent stables. Maurice Miller came in behind him and closed the door. Bec drew a deep breath and stood up.

  ‘Welcome to Derwent,’ she said.

  ‘This,’ Maurice said to her, ‘is Mr Chan Seng Kee. He hopes with our assistance to get some of his family’s wealth out of China. Wealth which might otherwise be lost to the Japanese.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ Bec said. ‘I have ordered coffee. Perhaps you would like to sit down?’

  They drank coffee. They chatted amiably about the weather and the beauty of the rolling countryside. The tension in Bec’s stomach was almost beyond bearing when Mr Chan at last got down to business.

  ‘Conditions in China very bad,’ he said, his English fluent but idiosyncratic and strongly accented.

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Japanese seeking take over all country,’ he said.

  ‘China will surely not allow that to happen,’ Bec said.

  ‘Not if they can help it, I agree. But can they? That is the question. There is much fighting already in China be
tween the government soldiers and a guerrilla army led by a man whose name may be unfamiliar to you, a peasant called Mao Zedong. While they fight each other the Japanese army takes more and more of China. Aiyoh!’

  ‘A difficult situation,’ Bec said.

  ‘All things pass,’ Mr Chan said. ‘China will recover but for the present those with wealth do not wish to be impoverished.’

  ‘They look to protect their money,’ Bec said. ‘That is wise. So how can I help you, Mr Chan?’

  ‘My family has many business interests. In China, Malaya, Singapore… In the way of business we hear many things.’

  Bec drank her coffee.

  ‘Hear Derwent has troubles.’

  Bec smiled. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Chan family looking for favours. One good turn deserves another, no? In return may be able to help Derwent.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Chan family wishes to make investment in land in Tasmania.’

  ‘Australian government policy prohibits this,’ Bec said. ‘What they call the White Australia policy.’

  ‘That we understand. But solution simple, no? Chan family needs a trustworthy Australian person to own land on its behalf. Also to operate land, earn good profit.’

  ‘Not easy. It could be dangerous to go against government policy,’ Bec said. ‘Could cause huge trouble.’

  ‘Therefore huge favour must be offered in return. This only fair, yes? Big favours each way.’

  Bec’s throat was dry. ‘What favour does the Chan family offer?’

  ‘Family provide two hundred thousand pounds, Mrs Penrose buy good property in Tasmanian high country. Can?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Further one hundred thousand pounds, stock with best quality sheep, best equipment, proper shearing sheds. Can?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Run property on behalf of Chan family. Can?’

  ‘It would mean employing extra staff, new managers…’

  ‘Can?’ Mr Chan said again.

  ‘Can. Certainly. There would be great risk but it could be done. If a suitable agreement were reached.’

  ‘Of course. But Mrs Penrose could arrange these things for the family?’

  ‘Yes. But why would you trust me?’