Jed grinned. ‘Your real present isn’t ready. And even when it is we have to convince the motor registry to register it. It might take another six months or even a year.’
‘Motor registry?’
‘It’s a car. Modified so you don’t need to use legs.’
‘Jed!’ The shriek seemed to momentarily silence even the cicadas. ‘A car!’
‘Well, taxis don’t always come when you need them, and you need special taxis to carry a wheelchair. This way you can —’
She stopped, because Scarlett so obviously knew exactly what she could do with a car of her own.
‘You’d better start studying the road rules,’ Jed added. ‘Ow! Don’t strangle me, brat!’
Scarlett leaned back from the hug. ‘If Leafsong can get a driver’s licence, so can I.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ The sergeant’s assumption that driving would teach Leafsong how to manage a car had proved . . . unfounded. Luckily the road to Gibber’s Creek was wide enough to veer Boadicea onto the verge when she saw a green Volkswagen wavering towards her.
‘It is the most wonderful present ever.’
Like her mechanised wheelchair had been, thought Jed, remembering that first Christmas at Overflow, the girl in her new fairy costume crashing into tables, church pews, the dogs’ beds, refusing to relinquish the mobility she couldn’t quite yet control. Jed hoped that Scarlett would be more . . . conservative . . . as she learned to use a car.
Another gift arrived, a week late, a package for Miss Sharon Taylor, care of River View.
Nancy dropped it off, tactfully not waiting to see what it contained, but also knowing Jed would tell her every detail the next day.
Scarlett sat with the package in her hands, turning it over.
‘Well, open it.’
‘It’s to Sharon Taylor,’ said Scarlett shortly. ‘Not me.’
‘It’s a gift,’ said Jed gently. ‘Don’t turn away gifts.’
Scarlett said nothing. She pulled away the sticky tape, and then the Christmas wrapping.
It was a brooch, oval, with what looked like a ruby but was probably a garnet in the middle. Jed wondered if it might have been a Christmas gift to Mrs Taylor, wrapped again to send to her daughter.
But a gift nonetheless.
Scarlett opened the card, a conventional snow scene with robins and fir trees and a candle in the window. ‘Dear Sharon, I hope you are well. It has been quite a year here, blah, blah, blah, blah . . .’
‘Blah what, exactly?’
‘Her husband,’ Jed noticed that Scarlett did not say ‘my father’, ‘had a hernia operation. Their son has begun a motor mechanic’s apprenticeship. The cat had kittens, the weather is nice and the sky is blue.’
‘I don’t believe the last three for a second.’
‘The cat bit is true. Five kittens, three grey, two ginger.’
‘That doesn’t take up two pages,’ pointed out Jed.
‘No. Okay. I hope you can forgive us for sending you to River View. We truly thought it was for the best that you begin a new life there. We hope you are happy. It would mean a great deal if you could write to us sometimes, to tell us how you are. Your loving mother. Ha,’ said Scarlett.
‘Write to her,’ said Jed.
‘Why? I don’t owe her anything. Even a letter.’
‘True. But it’s not about the woman she used to be. It’s about the woman you are now.’
‘You don’t write to Debbie.’
Jed shrugged at the mention of the stepmother who’d had Jed charged as ‘uncontrollable’ after her boyfriend had raped her stepdaughter. ‘Debbie hated me. Probably still does. The woman who wrote that wants to know you.’
‘A bit.’
‘Maybe more than a bit,’ said Jed quietly. ‘Just write to her. Tell her that you’re happy, that you plan to do medicine.’
‘Okay.’
Jed stared. ‘I thought you’d argue.’
Scarlett shrugged. ‘She’s not worth arguing about. I’ll do it because it’s the right thing to do. Finito.’
‘Jim’s called a special directors’ meeting of Thompson’s,’ Jed added abruptly.
‘What’s a special directors’ meeting?’
Jed shook her head. ‘Don’t know. There’s never been one, Matilda says. We’ll find out when Jim tells us. I . . . I’m glad you’re going to write that letter, brat.’
Scarlett nodded.
Chapter 62
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 20 January 1975
A Stink-Free Creek
Fishermen and yabby hunters may once more be able to forage in Gibber’s Creek with the unveiling today of the new Gibber’s Creek Sewage Works by local member Nicholas Brewster, ALP. ‘The backyard dunny and the fly-covered dunny man as well as the septic tank will soon be things of the past,’ said Mr Brewster.
Gibber’s Creek Chamber of Commerce president, Mr Graham Flint, responded, ‘Thanks for the sewerage system, mate. But your new highways between the big cities aren’t going to help Gibber’s Creek — and your constituents are the ones who’ll pay for them.’
SCARLETT
Scarlett gazed out at the bowerbirds sitting hawk-like in the apricot branches, as they had been since they’d eaten the fruit then discovered that humans would also, sometimes, put even more food out for them on the bird table.
It had been more than two weeks since her mother’s letter. What did you write to a mother who had abandoned you?
Scarlett thought of Jed’s words: ‘It’s about the woman you are now.’
So who was Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara?
Dr McAlpine had told her that it was unlikely her back, with its incomplete spine, would ever be strong enough to let her stand, unless supported by her arms on the therapy bars either side. He also admitted that as no one had yet found a cause for her deformities, there was no known prognosis.
Scarlett might — with work and determination — become stronger. She might marry, have children, a long career, and die at one hundred and four.
Or whatever caused her condition might reassert itself at any time, weakening her muscles . . .
That was NOT going to happen. She had come so far. She was not going back.
Okay. She knew who she was. She knew what to write too.
Dribble Homestead
via Gibber’s Creek
Dear Mrs Taylor,
I hope you are well. Excuse my not calling you Mum.
You want to know how I am. As you saw in the café, I’m still in a wheelchair, but I can care for myself now, pretty much. I go to school and am top of the class in everything except art.
I am not good at domestic science either, because it is BORING, and I am excused from sport, which is EXCELLENT because I can spend the time in the library.
I am going to study medicine at Sydney Uni next year. I will live in college and Jed is even getting a car specially modified for me so I can get my driver’s licence.
Jed’s name is Jed Kelly. She is my adopted sister and I live with her at Dribble, her property outside Gibber’s Creek. The address on the top of this letter is the best place to write to me.
I go to River View three times a week after school for therapy — we are working on my legs and back now — so I do get any letters sent there.
I’m not sure what else to say about who I am. I love reading, but about things more than stories. My friend Leafsong has the café where we met now, and I help her there often.
I am glad that you wrote to me. I hope you have a very good 1975.
Best wishes,
Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara (Sharon)
There. Done. That was exactly who she was: the girl who had achieved a miracle. And if that were possible, why not another?
One day . . . just maybe . . . she would walk.
Chapter 63
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 20 January 1975
Darwin Rebuilds
Recommendations have already been submitted for ‘cyclone proof’ house
designs to replace those homes demolished by Christmas Eve’s Cyclone Tracy that destroyed most of Darwin.
JED
The dining room smelled of furniture polish and fresh coffee. Jim looked up from the leather folder of papers lying on the table. ‘I now declare this meeting open.’
His secretary, Miss Shaw, scribbled her shorthand in her notebook.
‘Lovely, darling. Would you like a scone?’
‘No, thank you, Mother.’
‘There’s some lovely strawberry jam. More coffee?’
‘Maybe later. Any apologies?’
Matilda gazed at him over the top of her glasses. ‘Unless you or your brother had an indiscretion twenty-one years ago, I can assure you there are no missing family directors.’
‘Mother! Things need to be done properly,’ said Jim.
‘Define “properly”,’ said Jed.
‘In an orderly fashion, according to the rules of —’
‘I was joking,’ said Jed hastily.
The minutes of the previous meeting were read, the auditor’s statement approved. Jed looked at the next item on the agenda: President’s report.
For the first time Jim hesitated. ‘You’ve all read the latest accounts. Or I assume you have.’
‘I am not in the habit of signing off on any account I haven’t read.’ Matilda might have been talking to a recalcitrant editor on the Gibber’s Creek Gazette, not her son.
‘I never thought you would, Mum,’ said Jim gently. ‘But the accounts tell the story better than I can. That’s why I have called this special meeting.’ He gazed at each of them around the table. ‘We’re going broke.’
‘But we made a profit!’ said Jed.
‘Eighty per cent down on last year. Look at the graphs. We made money this year. We may just manage to do so next year. But not after that. Our products can’t compete with imports any more. The tariffs that made Thompson’s Industries possible no longer exist. You can pay someone in a factory in China or India four cents an hour. Thompson’s can’t compete with that.’
‘But we still made a profit!’ said Jed stubbornly. ‘People want to buy Thompson’s because they are good products.’
‘People bought Thompson’s out of habit this year. Next year, or the one after, they’ll notice they can buy what they want at half the price. Loyalty or not, customers will eventually go for value for money.’
Jim looked around the table. ‘We need to face facts. Wages rose twenty-eight per cent in the past year alone. Consumer prices have risen sixteen per cent in the same time, and inflation is getting worse, not better, yet the government has increased the value of the Australian dollar by twenty-five per cent. That’s in one year! Who knows what we’ll face next year? Businesses like ours are closing across the country. Good efficient businesses that can’t keep up with rising wages, a rising dollar and falling tariffs.’
‘You want to close the factories,’ said Jed flatly.
‘No. Of course not. Dad spent his life building up Thompson’s. I’m not going to let him down now.’
‘But —’ began Jed.
‘Jim means he plans to close the Australian factories and reopen them overseas, where he too can pay four cents an hour,’ said Matilda coolly.
Silence sat upon the room. Finally Jed asked, ‘Do you?’
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that. We’ll keep our main offices here. And some of the assembly.’
‘So you can still say Made in Australia,’ stated Matilda.
‘So they are made in Australia, Mum. I’ll leave everything I can here.’
‘The Gibber’s Creek factory?’
He looked at her steadily. ‘It has to go.’
‘But half the town depends on it. Especially with the biscuit factory shutting down.’
‘Is it?’ demanded Jed.
Matilda nodded. ‘It’s not general knowledge yet. Blue told me. She’s heartbroken. But the new owners will keep their promise. It won’t close till at least two years after the sale date. Blue never thought to ask for longer.’
‘Thompson’s does not employ half the town,’ said Jim calmly. ‘Maybe a tenth at the most.’
Jed stared at him. ‘You can’t do this!’
‘No, I can’t. I need you to vote with me. One of you, at least.’ Jim looked at each of them in turn. ‘We have to move operations overseas, or go bust within three years. If we leave it too long, even the factories will be almost worthless, with so many other businesses closing or moving offshore.’
‘We can work out something else!’ insisted Jed. ‘Cut costs.’
‘They’re already cut to the bone,’ said Jim wearily. ‘You think I want this? I’ve been working night and day, trying to come up with an alternative. I can’t.’
‘Advertise!’
Jim kept his voice patient. ‘It costs money to advertise, nor would it be cost effective. Do you really think advertising will make someone buy a radio for twice the price of the next one on the shelf?’
‘Can’t we . . .’ Jed hunted for the word ‘. . . diversify? Make something else? Something that will mean no one has to lose their jobs?’
‘Make what? Can you think of any product that can’t be made more cheaply overseas? Because I have spent the last six months trying to find another solution, and I can’t. The factories are set up for specific products. We don’t have the money to completely refit them, nor do we have the expertise. And most Australian industry is in the same boat, now tariffs have removed their protection.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Shall we put it to the vote?’
‘Yes!’ said Jed.
‘May I say something first?’ asked Matilda.
‘Of course, Mum,’ said Michael. Jim nodded.
‘Thompson’s Industries is not just about money. It never was.’ Matilda looked at each of them along the table. ‘The dream of well-run, efficient factories that could and would pay fair wages was born in the slums of Sydney, when your father was a boy who was good with his hands, who could mend a machine as well as stoke the boiler. Thompson’s Industries is part of our heritage. Your father was proud that Australia led the world in aircraft design, motorcar manufacture, the first refrigeration, movie-making long before Hollywood, ship building and new wireless techniques.’ Matilda glanced at Jed. ‘Without Australian ingenuity, humans would never have gone to the moon and back. This is the heritage you’d move from our shores now?’
‘Mum,’ said Jim gently, ‘history is all very well. But Hollywood eclipsed Australian movies decades ago. Times change. We’re no longer riding on the sheep’s back, nor are we a leading industrial nation. We can’t be. Not when two-thirds of the world can make whatever we use cheaper than it can be made here.’
‘Then what will Australia be?’ asked Matilda fiercely. ‘Who are we if we lose our industry? A series of holes in the ground for foreigners to take our iron or bauxite for a pittance and make them into metal elsewhere — and then make cars or . . . or saucepans elsewhere too that we then need to buy from them?’
‘Mum, I know all that. Better than you do.’ Jim held up a hand. ‘This isn’t about respecting Dad’s memory. No one respects him more than I do. That’s why I don’t want to see what he created vanish within a decade. Times change, and Thompson’s Industries needs to change with them. It doesn’t mean I want that change. I would like nothing more than to keep our industries on Australian soil. Where will we be when the next war comes if we don’t have the skills or experience to build a warship or an aircraft, or even a refrigerator? But Australia’s future isn’t my concern.’
‘It’s all of our concerns,’ interjected Jed.
‘All right. I accept that. But saving Thompson’s Industries means more to me. We move production, or we go under. Mum, do you want to say any more?’
‘There is nothing more to be said.’ Matilda met Jed’s eye, Michael’s, then Jim’s. ‘This is the future of our nation, not just a business. Let us vote.’
‘All in favour of moving whatever
production is necessary overseas, with all due consideration given to retaining as much as possible in Australia. Who says aye?’ Jim raised his hand.
Jed kept hers in her lap. Matilda glanced up at the portrait of Tommy on the wall, then met Jim’s eyes with a small smile of triumph.
‘Aye,’ said Michael quietly. He raised his hand.
‘Michael!’ cried Jed.
Matilda said nothing.
Michael looked at his mother with sympathy, but no apology. Michael knew we were going to be asked to vote on this, thought Jed. Jim has convinced him already. Just as Jim knew she would vote with Matilda, and what Matilda’s vote would be, and that there was no point in trying to convince his mother to vote ‘yes’.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, Jed. But the income from Overflow and Drinkwater can’t pay for River View. Not any more, with oil prices and other farm costs rising, and the export market crashing with the rise in the dollar. Those kids matter. So do their wheelchairs and other technical aids for the disabled. If Thompson’s goes under, they go too.’
‘I’ll pay,’ began Jed, then realised even her million dollars would not keep River View going for long. She might manage to pay River View’s costs with her income from Thompson’s. But if that went . . .
The Thompsons had been rich. But factories lost money, cost money, far more than any of the family had.
But surely, somehow, there must be another way . . .
‘Any other business?’ asked Jim quietly.
Matilda stood. ‘I suggest we suspend this meeting for a fortnight.’
‘Of course, Mum.’ Jim reached over and took her hand, then stood and kissed her.
She clung to him briefly. ‘You’re doing what you think is best,’ she said.
‘I’m doing what Dad would have had to do too.’
The words, ‘Your father would never have got into this mess . . .’ whispered about the room. But no one spoke them. And perhaps, thought Jed, they were not even true. Tommy Thompson’s fortune had been based on Australia’s strong protectionism, making foreign-owned companies’ goods cost twice as much as Australian made. Protectionism had created a strong industrial base for the nation. And ordinary Australians had paid higher prices and had well-paid jobs because of it.
If Blood Should Stain the Wattle Page 37
