Jed opened the door of the Blue Belle and smiled as the scent of melting moments and onion soup enveloped her. It was difficult not to smile when you entered Leafsong’s café.
Three women sat chatting over teacups and carrot cake this morning, their kids happily scrawling on the butcher’s-paper tablecloth. An elderly couple sat eating scones, as they had probably eaten scones through the last fifty years of the café’s history, but now their scones were a soft cloud of deliciousness. And there, in a corner, was Nicholas, head down, reading from a stack of papers. He looked up as Jed entered, and smiled.
Jed hesitated, but it would seem strange to sit by herself. She smiled too, carefully friendly and no more. ‘Okay if I join you? Scarlett’s got therapy this morning. I’m meeting her for lunch.’
‘Sure.’ He put down the page he had been reading.
‘Don’t stop working on my account.’
He shook his head. ‘I needed a break. I should be in the electoral office, but I suddenly couldn’t stand it any more.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just the general Canberra madhouse.’ Nicholas saw she didn’t understand. ‘The budget is due on 17 September. We’ve got inflation gobbling up wages no matter how fast they grow, interest rates rocketing so the people I thought I’d be helping can’t buy a home or afford to pay the mortgage on the one they have; Treasury is warning we need to cut spending, hard and fast, but cabinet has put forward thirty-two billion dollars worth of new projects.’
‘Thirty-two billion!’
‘Yep.’ Nicholas ate a bit of gado gado salad absent-mindedly, as if even the bite of chilli couldn’t get through the miasma of economics. ‘That’s thirty per cent more than last year’s budget, and we had a twenty per cent rise in spending last year. Cabinet’s divided — government spending creates jobs and unemployment is already running at four per cent. Crean and Treasury say if inflation rides any higher, unemployment might double, and we need to cut spending drastically. The rest of cabinet says we need a stimulus package to create jobs with more government spending. But the more we spend, the less the dollar is worth — that’s what’s causing the inflation. That and the rising cost of oil, of course. And we can’t do anything about that.’
‘What do you think?’
‘That I’m not competent to have an informed opinion. And neither are most of my colleagues.’ He took another bite and added, ‘And that goes for half of Treasury too. Or even most of it. But I didn’t say that.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’
He smiled, his face relaxing a little. ‘Economics is mostly a guessing game. The whole western world is in the same mess as Australia, with as little idea of how to get out of it. Do you read the business pages?’
Jed shook her head.
‘Try it for a laugh sometime. The same commentators who urge spending one week are calling for it to be cut the next. Oil is going up, then down, then running out, then lasting till 2020 or for a hundred years. And no one knows. Not really. I didn’t stand for parliament for this.’
‘Why did you stand?’ Jed asked slowly. ‘Mushroom and barley soup, please,’ she added to Leafsong.
Nicholas waited till Leafsong was out of earshot. Leafsong was probably the world’s most discreet listener, but if anyone reported what Nicholas was saying now, it would mean disaster. ‘You know what I stood for. To get us out of Vietnam, out of conscription, to ensure that everyone had access to decent pensions, a fair health system —’
‘But you need money for all of those. And a country’s economy needs to be stable to provide the money. A government has to be responsible for everything, not just the projects it cares about.’
‘Tell that to Rex Connor.’ Nicholas’s voice held more sympathy than bitterness. ‘He’s an incredible old man. He’s had a dream for decades, decent royalties for Australian minerals, proper infrastructure so we can export them efficiently, ports, railways, a gas pipeline right across Australia. But it’s going to cost millions. Billions, perhaps. And he’s dying.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not in the newspapers, but everyone who matters in Canberra knows. He’s killing himself, trying to make his dream become real before he dies. I was looking out the window last week as he walked up the stairs to meet a Japanese delegation, to try to persuade them to change the terms of their contract. He’s guaranteed all existing contracts will be honoured, but this was one of the most unfair . . . Halfway up the stairs he staggered. Lenox Hewitt managed to catch him. Connor just leaned against him, panting. He just made it up the stairs. Then he stood up straight and marched into that meeting like there was nothing wrong. I have never admired a man so much.’
‘Did he get the Japanese delegation to change the contract?’
‘The interpreter just said, “Will you stand by existing contracts?” Connor said, “Yes,” then the Japanese all stood up. The interpreter said, “There is nothing more to discuss.” And they left.’
She watched him for a moment. ‘Do you ever wish you weren’t an MP?’
He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I’ve always felt that.’
‘What? But why did you stand?’
‘Because of Flinty and Matilda and the Rocky Creek branch of the Labor Party and because it was the right thing to do.’ She noticed the order in which he had placed these authorities. He shrugged. ‘So I did my duty. It wasn’t as if I was doing anything else important.’
‘What about your writing?’
‘Going nowhere.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I think you were my muse. It was you who gave me the idea of putting my Vietnam experiences into sci-fi form. And you knew what was wrong with my first draft.’
‘You’ve written a book once. You can do it again.’
‘I think I was too scared the next book would fail to begin another one,’ he said slowly.
Or possibly not be as successful as any one of Flinty’s books, thought Jed.
‘Maybe I also needed someone like you to bounce ideas off. But there’s no time to write now anyway.’
‘Do you miss writing?’
He avoided answering that question. ‘I think the real reason I stood was to be someone worthwhile for Felicity and her family. Not just a cripple helping with the horse stud and a writer with two good reviews and a handful of sales.’
She chose her words carefully. ‘Felicity doesn’t seem too keen on campaigning.’
‘She doesn’t need to be. Lots of politicians’ wives don’t take any part in their husbands’ jobs. They aren’t all Margaret Whitlams. Felicity will have her vet practice and the horses up at Rock Farm.’ He smiled. ‘And kids too, I hope.’
‘Have you chosen a wedding date?’
‘First Saturday in December, next year. You can expect your invitation in March.’
‘That’s more than a year away!’
‘Felicity’s mum wants a big bash. There isn’t time to organise a wedding for this December, and December and January are the only months I know I’ll be free.’
Did she imagine the wistfulness in the word ‘free’?
‘And there’s no point marrying till we can live together. Felicity has to work for a year with another vet before she can have her own practice.’
Jed wondered how often they saw each other. At least uni holidays were long. But how much time did Nicholas have spare then? Who was she to talk though? Maybe she should visit Nimbin. But who’d look after Scarlett? And Matilda was getting frail.
Nor had Sam invited her.
Nicholas glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get back. I have appointments till six. Then a Rotary dinner tonight, a speech at the school tomorrow morning and a meeting with the Cattlemen’s Association when I get back to Canberra.’
‘No cattle women?’
‘A few. But if I suggested the association should change the name, they’d probably lynch me. It’ll be a close thing as it is.’ He shut his eyes, leaning back. Leafsong silently slid Jed’s soup in front of her. Jed smiled her
thanks, then began to spoon, watching the tired face across the table.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Nicholas’s eyes had opened again.
‘Just thinking that I’m happy.’
‘I’m glad.’ His eyes met hers, held them a second too long.
Leafsong placed Jed’s bread and butter on the table.
Nicholas stood. ‘I’d better run.’ He picked up his walking stick. ‘Or at least limp fast. Thanks for listening,’ he added. ‘I . . . I needed to talk.’
‘Anytime.’ She watched him through the window as he limped back up the street.
Chapter 60
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 1 October 1974
Banks Collapse?
The collapse of the Cambridge Credit Corporation has panicked the public into withdrawing their money from finance companies and bank and finance shares, fearing a temporary bank closure as happened in the 1930s Depression. The company’s directors stated that the credit squeeze and difficulty selling land at a time of such high inflation, as well as unemployment at nearly 6%, had badly affected the company’s income . . .
JED
Spring, light glinting through Dribble’s spiderwebs as the birds gathered them to cement their nests, lambs bouncing fat and white in the paddocks while bored ewes chomped grass. The rufous fantails would return to the Dribble garden soon. But Sam hadn’t, though the postcards continued.
The budget was passed. It seemed the ‘high spending’ contingent had won. But budgets were big and vague. This one hardly seemed to touch the daily life of Gibber’s Creek, although Jed knew it must.
The days ate themselves, the sun falling behind the ridges, rising above the river the next morning as days merged into months, helping at River View, helping to move the ewes, helping to sell raffle tickets for the bushfire brigade, helping with Halfway to Eternity’s asparagus harvest, or the hours spent with Matilda, helping the old woman relive her life. Jed wondered if her own role in life would forever simply be ‘helper’, but nothing else seemed to fit.
‘Can I help?’ she asked Scarlett one Saturday, watching her bent over her books at the table.
Scarlett glanced up. ‘Not unless you’ve managed to do HSC maths in the last few years. Why didn’t you take maths anyway? You can’t do ANYTHING interesting without maths.’
‘Because Mrs Morrison, our maths teacher, kept giving me nought out of ten when I’d got the correct answer. She’d say, “But you didn’t use the right method,” and I’d say, “But you didn’t say what method you wanted! You should be glad I’ve found a new way to do it!”’
‘You could study maths now.’
Jed shrugged. ‘I still don’t want to do any of the things that need maths. Do you want a lift into town this afternoon, or is Mark picking you up?’
Scarlett bent back to her books. ‘I need to work this weekend.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Mark wanted to kiss me last Saturday. I mean properly.’
It was the first time she had volunteered information about Mark since their quarrel. Jed chose her words carefully. ‘You didn’t want him to?’
‘We’re not friends like that. He’d like to be,’ Scarlett added frankly. ‘That’s why I think I maybe shouldn’t see him as often.’
It was a question disguised as a statement, giving Jed the chance to agree, or offer another point of view. ‘Sounds a good idea. You don’t like being kissed?’ Whatever unknown syndrome had crippled Scarlett’s body might have had a hormonal impact too.
‘Of course I do. But it’s not fair on Mark. He’s older than me and beginning to think “forever” stuff. I’ve never thought of him like that.’ She hesitated again, then added, ‘There’s a new bloke who started at school earlier this year who I thought I DID like that way.’
Jed fought back the words, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘What happened?’ she asked instead.
‘Nothing. I don’t think he’s even noticed me. Just the wheelchair.’
‘I’m sorry —’ began Jed.
To her relief Scarlett grinned. ‘Don’t be. I heard him talking to his mates. He’s got a brain the size of a walnut. There’ll be smart boys at uni.’
Jed had a sudden image of Sam holding the bucket of dung beetles. Longing swept through her, like debris in a flood, too complex to make out the component parts. Christmas, she thought. She forced herself to focus on the girl next to her.
‘Trust me,’ Jed said. ‘People like us have to either hide our intelligence by learning small talk, or find people who also like to let their minds dart and gather.’
‘I like that. Darting and gathering.’ Scarlett’s smile was a true one now. ‘Like I’m a kangaroo, despite being stuck in a chair.’
‘I wouldn’t call a kangaroo one of nature’s great thinkers,’ said Jed dryly.
‘Who knows what deep thoughts a kangaroo thinks? It’s fish pie for lunch,’ she added.
‘You cooked?’
‘I helped mash the potatoes,’ said Scarlett with dignity. ‘Leafsong came by to do some cooking for us before you were up.’
Jed grinned. How could a kid who thought she’d flunked when she only got ninety-eight per cent for chemistry mess up a recipe? ‘It’s a long way to cycle before a day’s work.’
‘Leafsong and Carol have a new car! Well, a third-hand one, a green beetle. And Leafsong got her driver’s licence.’
‘Mmm,’ said Jed. Dear old Sergeant Kilroy’s method of examining driving licence applicants was to make sure they knew the road rules — she supposed Leafsong had written hers out to answer the questions — then say, ‘Well, you won’t learn till you get more experience. Just stay out of traffic for a couple of months.’ She herself had been a serious danger to the Canberra public for the first six months she had Boadicea. She made a mental note to be wary of all green ‘vee-dubs’ for the next twelve months. ‘Carol must be doing okay then.’
‘And Leafsong,’ added Scarlett loyally. ‘She made one hundred and ten dollars last week.’
‘Ah.’ Jed tried to find a way to explain the difference between the money the café took and any actual profit — gross takings minus costs — when Scarlett added, ‘That’s profit by the way. INCLUDING depreciation.’
‘Depreciation too? I’m impressed,’ said Jed lightly, trying not to let the fizz of elation show too clearly. Shove that in your balance sheets, Jim Thompson, she thought. My first investment is going to be a success. Not only was the rent more than the bank interest on the money she’d paid for the building, but a successful café would increase the value of the property if she sold. Not that she would sell unless, she realised, Leafsong and Carol asked to buy the building.
Meanwhile, fish pie. And a Scarlett who was slowly discarding Mark, whether she realised it or not, and her last link to the Chosen of the Universe. ‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘You turn on the oven, and I’ll lay the table.’
Chapter 61
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, December 1974
Treasurer Cairns Keeps Morosi
Treasurer Dr Jim Cairns has once again refused the urgings of other cabinet ministers to revoke the appointment of Ms Junie Morosi to his staff. The glamorous Ms Morosi and her husband are the directors of two failed travel agencies, but Dr Cairns stressed that Ms Morosi is ‘a person of integrity, honour and competence’ and that he believed it was impossible to trust someone, as he trusts Ms Morosi, unless you feel a kind of love for them.
JED
Christmas: the cicadas’ song, families gathered for a picnic by the river, the water warm from hot white sand.
Christmas dinner, the top of the table entirely proper while Tom and Clancy ate their meal underneath it with the Doberperson.
Christmas evening at the Blue Belle, with Carol and Leafsong and Broccoli Bill and Susan, and Cheryl from the Gazette, and Raincloud, who had given up his shop and was working on the family property again, and a dozen others who somehow, in the past few years, had become friends, singing ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are’ and ‘Where Have All the Flo
wers Gone’ and ‘The Carnival is Over’. It didn’t matter that Raincloud’s guitar was out of tune and he could only play four chords, not with the violin’s voice soaring above it all.
A Christmas with everything Jed had ever longed for: family, security, friends and laughter. But no Sam, explaining on the phone instead that he couldn’t get away just now, not even to see his parents, not even for Christmas Day.
He and some mates had been selling home-made inverters and pedal-powered washing machines and other gizmos at the markets, and the pre-Christmas markets were their best sale time. There was also ‘this American bloke’ who’d been working on the same kind of things in the USA, and he was only in Australia till the end of January . . .
No Mark either, gone to Sydney to spend Christmas with his mother, to Jed’s relief. Scarlett hadn’t gone to the pictures with him again, though Jed knew they met at the Blue Belle when she helped Leafsong on Saturday mornings. But a morning chaperoned by Leafsong — not to mention a café full of customers, a pile of washing-up and orders to fill — seemed safe.
Sam sent her a batik sarong and a coral necklace and a card with a wombat wearing a Santa hat that said All my love, Sam. She sent him a subscription to The Ecologist, and a book on hand-made houses she had seen reviewed in its pages, The Good Life by Helen and Scott Nearing, and a photo of his mother standing, laughing, looking up at the Blue Belle Café sign, his father grinning at her in the background.
Scarlett gave Jed a garland of dried everlastings to drape around one of her floppy felt hats — because what did you give a young woman who had the money to buy whatever she wanted? — and a teapot shaped like a wombat. Jed handed her a small box in return.
Scarlett rattled it. ‘A ring?’
‘Nope.’
‘Necklace?’
‘Nope again. Open it, brat.’
Scarlett undid the tape, then opened the small box. In it was a Matchbox car, green, anonymously car-like.
‘Thank you . . .’ Scarlett began uncertainly.
If Blood Should Stain the Wattle Page 36
