by Nevil Shute
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
“I’ll have a banana split,” she said. “I want feeding up. I don’t know if you know it, but I’ve been very ill. Don’t pay, Joe — have it on the house.”
He grinned. “Think I’m the kind of man to take a girl out and let her shout?”
“If you’re feeling like that, I’ll have two. The bananas will be going bad by tomorrow.” She was getting fruit flown in by the Dakota every Wednesday, and she had little difficulty in selling the small quantities she got at prices that would pay for the air freight. Her trouble was that usually she could not keep it for a week.
He came back with the ices and sat down with her. “Now Joe,” she said, “what about that poddy corral?”
He grinned sheepishly, and looked over his shoulder. “That’s crook,” he said. “There’s no poddy corral on Midhurst.”
“There’s something damn like one,” she said, laughing. “Come clean, Joe. What happened to Don Curtis, anyway?”
“He was moseying about on my land where he hadn’t got no right to be,” Joe said carefully. “He found that corral where I’d got some poddys — my own poddys, mind you. I’d put ’em in there to consider things a bit, because they’d been wandering. Well, Don went to steal them off me, and he took down the top bar, but they were pretty wild, those poddys were; they hadn’t had no water for about four days except the rain. Far as I can make out they pushed the second bar out on top of him when he went to loose it, and knocked him over on his back with the pole on top, and then they all ran over him and bust his leg. They ran out on the horse, too; Don had hitched his horse by the rein to something or other, and these poddys, they come charging down on to the horse and he bust the rein and he went too. So there Don was, and serve him bloody well right for going where he hadn’t got no business to be.”
“Whose poddys were they, really, Joe?”
“Mine,” he replied firmly.
She smiled. “Where had they been wandering?”
He grinned. “Windermere. But they were my poddys. He pinched ’em off me. You heard me telling Pete he’s got a poddy corral there.”
“Were these poddys that you had in your corral the same ones that you let out of his corral?” she asked. It seemed to be getting just a little bit involved.
“Most of ’em,” he said. “There might have been one or two with them that we picked up as damages, you might say.” He paused. “Things get a bit mixed up sometimes,” he observed.
“Where are the poddys now?” she asked. “The ones that Don let out?”
“They’ll be on Midhurst,” he said. “They’ll be somewhere round about the bore, I’d say. They won’t stir from the first water that they find, not even in the wet.”
She ate a little of her banana split in silence. Then she said, “Well, anyway, you’re not to go after any of his poddys while he’s in hospital, Joe. That’s not fair. He’ll come out of hospital and find there’s not a poddy left.”
“I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“I bet you would. I don’t know how this game is played, Joe, but I’m quite sure that’s against the rules.”
He grinned. “All right. But he’ll be after mine as soon as he gets back. That’s sure as anything.”
“Why can’t you let each other’s poddys alone?”
“I’ll let his alone, but he won’t let mine alone. You see,” he said simply, “I got about fifty more of his last year than he got of mine.”
This conversation, Jean felt, was not getting them anywhere; where poddys were concerned Joe’s moral standards seemed to be extremely low. She changed the subject, and said, “Joe, about those little dams you were talking about on Green Island. Have you got anyone to build them for you yet?”
He shook his head. “It’s no good thinking about those until the dry.”
“Could a bulldozer build them?”
“Oh my word,” he said. “If anybody had a bulldozer he’d build the lot inside a month. But there’s no bulldozer this side of the Curry.”
“There might be one,” she said. She told him about Rose Sawyer and Billy Wakeling. “He’s coming up to see her anyway,” she said, “and she says he’s looking for that sort of work to do up here. I suppose he’s turning into Rose’s steady. You’d better take him out to Midhurst when he comes, and have a talk to him.”
“My word,” he said. “If we had a joker with a bulldozer in Willstown it’ld make a lot of difference to the stations.”
“It’ld make a lot of difference here in Willstown,” she observed. “Joe, if we had a really decent swimming-pool just by the bore, with little cabins to change in and green lawns to sunbathe on, and diving-boards, and an old man in charge to mow the grass and keep it clean and nice — would people use it, Joe? If we charged, say, a bob a bathe?”
They discussed the swimming-pool for some time, and came to the conclusion that it could never pay upon the basis of a town with a hundred and fifty people. “It’s just a question of how fast this town is going to grow,” he said. “A swimming-pool is just another thing to make it grow. There’s not a town in the whole Gulf country that’s got a pool.”
“The ice-cream parlour’s paying, definitely,” Jean said. “If we can keep up the quality, I feel we’re home on that one. I’d like to try the swimming-pool next, I think, if I can get the money for it out of Noel Strachan.”
He smiled, in curious wonder. “What comes after the swimming-pool?”
She stared out at the wet, miry expanse of earth that was the street. “They’ll get their hair wet in the swimming-pool, so we’ll have to have a beauty parlour,” she said. “I think that’s the next thing. And after that, an open-air cinema. And after that, a battery of Home Laundries for the wet wash, and after that a decent dress shop.” She turned to him. “Don’t laugh, Joe. I know it sounds crackers, but just look at the results. I start an ice-cream parlour and put Rose in it, and young Wakeling comes after her with a bulldozer, so you get your dams built.”
“You’re a bit ahead of the game,” he said. “They aren’t built yet.”
“They will be soon.”
He glanced around the ice-cream parlour. “If everything you want to do works out like this,” he said slowly, “you’ll have a town as good as Alice Springs in no time.”
“That’s what I want to have,” she said. “A town like Alice.”
11
ALL THAT HAPPENED nearly three years ago.
I cannot deny that in that time her letters have been a great interest to me, perhaps the greatest interest in my rather barren life. I think that after the affair of Mr. Curtis and the poddy dodging she became more closely integrated into the life of the Gulf country than she had been before, because even before her marriage there was a subtle change in her letters. She ceased to write as an Englishwoman living in a strange, hard, foreign land; she gradually began to write about the people as if she was one of them, about the place as if it was her place. That may be merely my fancy, of course, or it may be that I made such a study of her letters, reading and re-reading them and filing them carefully away in a special set of folders that I keep in my flat, that I found subtleties of meaning in them that a more casual reader would not have noticed.
She married Joe Harman in April after the mustering, as she had promised him. They were married by a travelling Church of England priest, one of the Bush Brothers who had been, queerly enough, a curate at St. John’s in Kingston-on-Thames, not ten miles from where I used to live in Wimbledon. There was, of course, no church in Willstown at that time though one is to be built next year; they were married in the Shire Hall, and all the countryside came to the wedding. They had their honeymoon, or part of it, on Green Island, and I suppose she took her sarong with her, though she did not tell me that.
In the first two years of her married life she made considerable inroads into her capital. She was very good about it; she always started off one thing and got it trading smoothly before starting on
another, after the first effort when she started both the ice-cream parlour and the workshop together. She used to send me accounts of her ventures, too, prepared for her by a young man called Len James who worked in the bank. But all the same, she asked me for three or four thousand pounds every six months or so, till by the time her second son was born, the one that she called Noel after me, she had had over eighteen thousand pounds for her various local businesses. Although they all seemed to be making profits Lester and I were growing, by that time, a little concerned about our duty as trustees, broad though our terms of reference under the Macfadden will might be. Our duty was to keep her capital intact and hand it over to her when she was thirty-five, and I began to worry sometimes about the chances of a slump or some unknown disaster in Australia which would extinguish the thirty per cent of her inheritance that we had let her have. Too many eggs seemed to be going into one basket, and her investments, laudable though they might be, could hardly be classed as trustee stocks.
The climax came in February, when she wrote me a long letter from the hospital at Willstown, soon after she had given birth to Noel. She asked me if I would be one of his godfathers, and of course that pleased me very much although there was very little prospect that I should live long enough to discharge my duties by him. Wakeling was to be the second godfather, and as he had married Rose Sawyer about six months previously and seemed to be settled in the district I felt that she would not be injuring her child by giving him an elderly godfather who lived on the other side of the world. I made a corresponding alteration to my will immediately, of course.
She went on in the same letter to discuss affairs at Midhurst. “You know, Joe’s only manager at present,” she wrote. “He’s done awfully well; there were about eight thousand head of cattle on the place when he went there, but now there are twelve or thirteen thousand. We shall be selling over two thousand head this year, too many to send down to Julia in one herd, so Joe’s got to make two trips. It looks as if there’ll be a steady increase for the next few years, because each year in the dry Bill Wakeling builds a couple more dams for us so we get more and more feed each year.”
She went on to tell me about Mrs. Spears, the owner. “She left the Gulf country after her husband died about ten years ago,” she said, “and now she lives in Brisbane. Joe and I went down and stayed a couple of nights with her last October; I didn’t tell you about it then because I wanted to think it over and we had to find out if we could get a loan, too.”
She told me that Mrs. Spears was getting very old, and she wanted to realise a part of the considerable capital that she had locked up in Midhurst; probably she wanted to give it away during her lifetime to avoid death duties. “She asked if we could buy a half share in the station,” she said. “She would give us an option to buy the other half at a valuation at the time of her death, whenever that might be. It means finding about thirty thousand pounds; that’s about the value of half the stock. The land is rented from the State, of course, and there’s seventeen years to go upon the present lease; it means an alteration to the lease to put Joe’s name into it jointly with hers.”
She told me that they had been to the bank. The bank would advance two-thirds of the thirty thousand pounds that they would have to find. “They sent an inspector up who knows the cattle business, and he came out to Midhurst,” she wrote. “Joe’s got a good name in the Gulf country and I think he thought that we were doing all right with the property. That leaves us with ten thousand pounds to find in cash, and that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”
She digressed a little. “Midhurst’s a good station,” she said, “and we’re very happy here. If we can’t take it over Mrs. Spears will probably sell it and we’d have to go somewhere else and start again. I’d hate to do that and it would be a great disappointment to Joe after all the work he’s put into Midhurst. I’d be miserable leaving Willstown now, because it’s turning into quite a fair-sized place, and it’s a happy little town to live in, too. I do want to stay here if we can.”
She went on, “I know a cattle station isn’t a trustee investment, Noel, any more than any of the other things you’ve let me put my money into. Will you think it over, and tell me if we can have it? If we can’t, I’ll have to think again; perhaps I could sell or mortgage some of the businesses I’ve started since I got here. I should hate to do that, because they might get into bad hands and go downhill. This town’s like a young baby — I know something about those, Noel! It needs nursing all the time, till it’s a bit bigger.”
Another ten thousand pounds, of course, would mean that we should have allowed her to invest half of her inheritance in highly speculative businesses in one district, which was by no means the intention of Mr. Macfadden when he made his will. Legally, of course, we were probably safe from any action for a breach of trust by reason of the broad wording of the discretionary clause that I had slipped into the will. I spent a day or two thinking about this before I showed her letter to Lester, and it came to me in the end that our duty was to do what Mr. Macfadden would himself have done in similar circumstances.
What would that queer recluse in Ayr have done if he had had to settle this point? He was an invalid, of course, but I did not think he was an unkind or an unreasonable man. He had not made that long trust because he distrusted Jean Paget; he did not even know her. He had made it for her good, because he thought that an unmarried girl in her twenties who was mistress of a large sum of money would be liable to be imposed upon. In that he may well have been right. But Jean Paget was a married woman of thirty with two children now, and married to a sensible and steady sort of man, whatever his ideas on poddy-dodging might be. Would Mr. Macfadden, in these circumstances, still have insisted on the trust being maintained in its original form?
I thought not. He was a kindly man — I felt sure of that — and he would have wanted her to have her Midhurst station, since that was where her home and all her present interests were. He was a careful, Scottish man, however; I thought he would have turned his mind more to the details of her investment in Midhurst to ensure that she got good value for this ten thousand pounds. Looking at it from this point of view I was disturbed at the short tenure of the lease. Seventeen years was a short time for Joe Harman to regain the value of the dams that he was building on the property and all the other improvements that he was making; he could not possibly go on with capital improvements until a very much longer lease had been negotiated.
I showed her letter to my partner then, and we had a long talk about it. He took the same view that I did, that the lease was the kernel of the matter. “I can’t say that I take a very serious view of this trust, Noel,” he said. “I think your approach is the right one, to try and put yourself in the testator’s shoes when looking at this thing. He was quite content to leave the money to his sister without any question of a trust, while her husband was alive to help her. It was only after the husband’s death that he wanted the trust. Well, now the daughter’s got a husband to help her. If he was disposing of his money now, presumably he wouldn’t bother about any trust at all.”
“That’s a point,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that one.”
“I don’t suggest we disregard the trust,” he said. “I think we ought to use it as a lever to get this lease put right for her. Tell all and sundry that we won’t release her money till the leasehold is adjusted to our satisfaction. Then, so far as I’m concerned, she can have all she wants.”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t tell her that.”
I sat down next day and drafted a letter to her in reply. “I do not think it is impossible to release a further ten thousand pounds,” I wrote, “but I should be very sorry to do so until this matter of the lease had been adjusted to our satisfaction. As the thing stands at the moment, you could lose your home in seventeen years’ time and lose with it all the money that you and Mrs. Spears have expended on improvements such as dams and other water conservation schemes, which would pass to the State without any payment wh
atsoever, so far as my present information goes.” I learned later that that was incorrect.
I came to the main point of my letter next. “No doubt you have a solicitor that you can trust, but if it would assist you I would very gladly come and visit you in Queensland for a few weeks and see this matter of the lease put into satisfactory order before you invest this money in Midhurst. It is many years since I left England and I have regretted that; I cannot expect to have many more years left in which to travel and to see the world. I would like to take a long holiday and travel a little before I get too feeble, and if I could help you in this matter of the lease I should be only too glad to come and do so.” I added, “I need hardly say that I should travel at my own expense.”
The answer came in a night letter telegram about ten days later. She urged me to come to them, and suggested that I should come out by air about the end of April, since their winter was approaching then and the weather would be just like an English summer. She said that she was writing with a list of clothes that I should have and medicines and things that I might need upon the journey. I was a little touched by that.
I saw Kennedy, my doctor, at his place in Wimpole Street next day. “Is there any particular reason why I shouldn’t fly out to Queensland?” I asked.
He looked at me quizzically. “It’s not exactly what I should advise for you, you know. Have you got to go to Queensland?”
“I want to go, very much,” I said. “I want to go and stay out there about a month. There’s business I should like to see to personally.”
