Tiger Men (43 page)

‘Edwin, this is Reginald,’ she’d said. It had felt odd to be introducing her six-year-old son to her brother of the same age.

‘Hello, Reggie,’ Edwin had said. He’d heard Reginald’s mother call him Reggie and he was trying to be friendly.

‘It’s Reginald.’ The voice had been firm, the ice-blue eyes unwavering, and poor little Edwin had been totally flummoxed. Then Reginald had shifted his focus to gaze up at the woman they had told him was his sister. ‘My name is Reginald,’ he’d said in a tone that did not belong to a six-year-old child, and Amy had been as nonplussed as her son.

He is a strange man indeed, she thought, noting that as they talked he paid no attention at all to the surrounding countryside. He never did. They were travelling through the prettiest pastoral lands, where rolling hills and grassy valleys were vibrant with early spring growth, but he might as well have been at home in his own sitting room for all it meant to him. Reginald was a creature of the city.

‘Tell me about your latest trip to Europe,’ she said. ‘Did you go to the Louvre?’

‘Good heavens above, Amy – that was over a year ago.’

‘I haven’t seen you for eighteen months.’

‘That long? Really?’

‘That long, really,’ she said with a smile to assure him no criticism was intended. ‘Now tell me about Europe. I’m always so envious when you travel. Did you get to Florence? Did you visit the Uffizi?’

He wondered what she would say if she knew the truth behind his last trip. He regularly travelled overseas to check on the company’s business interests in London and to meet with the French and Italian agents who handled the sale of Stanford Merino wool to the fashion houses of Europe, but last year’s trip had not been for business purposes. He had fled in order to escape his wife and the madness that threatened to engulf him. After the third miscarriage his anger had been so uncontrollable he’d feared he might kill Evelyn if he was forced to remain in her company. Thank God for Shauna, he thought, remembering the pride he’d felt as he’d flaunted her beauty around Europe, aware of the envy of others, the style of the woman, her easy command of the French language. He’d come back a different man. His anger gone, he’d been able to offer sympathy and support to his wife, and now Evelyn was about to bear his child. Shauna had proved yet again to be his very sanity and he wondered what in the world he would do without her.

‘I saw Stefano in Milan and Jean-Pierre in Paris,’ he said, about to recount his meetings with the wool agents, but Amy cut him off.

‘No, no,’ she said, ‘we can discuss business later – I want to hear about the Louvre. And the Uffizi Gallery, did you get there? And did you see any theatre in London’s West End? Do tell me every detail, Reginald. I rely upon you for my regular dose of culture.’

He obliged happily enough, finding it no hardship for he had a keen interest in the arts. His overseas trips invariably included visits to galleries and a night at the theatre. There had been more outings than ever this time of course, with Shauna as his companion, but that was not a fact he chose to share with his sister.

Amy listened attentively, enjoying the imagery he evoked of another world, but she was enjoying the scenery too. They were approaching Pontville now; up on the rise to their right stood the Catholic church and the cemetery. They travelled over the bridge and past the old military barracks and suddenly there they were in the middle of town with the gathering of stone cottages on the right and, up ahead on the left, the tavern and the general store. Then, just as quickly as they had arrived they were leaving, passing St Mark’s Anglican Church at the top of the hill, the township now behind them.

‘Blink and you’ll miss us,’ Amy always said with a laugh, but she liked Pontville and the village life it offered. Pontville was more than a pretty little town: it was a community of people who shared a love of the land and a loyalty to each other as strong as any family’s. Probably stronger than some, she thought with a wry glance at her brother.

The Stanford property was barely a mile or so north of the village, and the sturdy grey gelding without a touch to the reins made an automatic turn into the drive that led to the family home. Set back just a quarter of a mile from the road, it was a beautiful two-storey stone farmhouse with a front garden that Amy personally tended and which was currently riotous with spring blossom.

‘The garden’s looking nice,’ Reginald said.

‘Thank you.’ Amy smiled to herself. It was the first time during the entire trip that he’d appeared to actually notice something.

Donald, as always, took Reginald on a comprehensive tour, describing in detail each new piece of equipment that had been purchased. Reginald, as always, wished that he wouldn’t. He had little interest in farm machinery and even less in Donald, who was a nice man, but a farmer with whom he had nothing in common. In fact Reginald could not understand what Amy, a well-educated woman, could see in her husband, but then he couldn’t understand what she saw in the countryside either. It was abundantly clear, however, that she loved both. His sister had embraced the life of a farmer’s wife in every possible sense.

Amy Stanford-Balfour did indeed love her husband very much, but upon marrying her father’s overseer she had become far more than a farmer’s wife. She had turned her intellect to the family business, developing a great passion for, and a great knowledge of, Merino breeding. There was no denying Amy had inherited her father’s talents as a producer of fine wool. Little wonder Silas Stanford had been happy to leave his cherished property in the hands of his daughter and the highly capable man who had managed it for years.

Upon the men’s return to the farmhouse Reginald continued to hide his boredom to the best of his ability, but with little success, which Amy as usual found mildly amusing. Her brother was first and foremost a businessman and his sporadic visits to a property that ran like clockwork without any necessity for intervention were either to appease his father or to irritate him – she was never sure which – and in the process he bored himself for no purpose. The relationship between Stanford father and son borders on ludicrous, she thought.

To Reginald’s vast relief, the customary gathering of the clan was not to take place that evening. Edwin, who lived with his family in the comfortable home he’d built on the sub-divided property just a mile or so away, was keen to get back to his wife, who had not long ago given birth to their third child.

‘We won’t be coming over for dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll be getting home to Liz. I hope you don’t mind, Reginald.’

‘Not at all, not at all.’ Reginald accepted the big farmer’s hand Edwin offered. Like father like son, he thought.

‘Wish Evelyn all the best for when her time comes,’ Edwin said. He felt sorry for Reginald, who must surely be worried for his wife. It didn’t seem fair that Evelyn should have such trouble giving birth while his own Liz popped her babies out like peas from a pod. ‘Everything will go well, I’m sure,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Yes, I’m sure it will,’ Reginald replied.

Edwin beat a hasty retreat, grateful for the excuse to leave: he never felt comfortable in Reginald’s company. If the truth be known, he didn’t actually like the man.

Business discussion cropped up over dinner, which was natural enough, there was little else they had in common, but after recounting to his sister and her husband the reports of his meetings with the European wool agents the previous year, talk turned towards the recent acquisition of two new stud rams and Reginald became bored. His mind started to wander.

There was no denying the Stanford-Balfours were good farmers and top breeders and, despite the needling he gave his father (more to irritate the old man than anything), Reginald believed they were correct in keeping the property exclusive to Merino wool production. But his eye was always on the far broader picture. Regardless of quality, the selling of a commodity was never enough, in his opinion. The path to wealth and power lay in total control. He’d told Henry Jones so just the other day.

‘Set your sights on tin mining, Henry,’ he’d said. ‘There’s big money in tin, and you can cut out the middle man in your cannery.’ Jones had been very keen on the idea and would no doubt see it through, for he was an extremely crafty businessman. Indeed
The Mercury
had recently referred to Henry Jones as ‘a tiger of industry’ – a term which had rather annoyed Reginald. Half of Jones’s ideas had come from him, after all, and where would the man be without the initial funds he’d provided? Reginald was aware his irritation was unreasonable for it had been his choice to keep their relationship shrouded in secrecy, but he considered himself far more ‘a tiger of industry’ than Jones. Besides, the term was altogether too grand for Henry. Henry was such a common little man.

Common or not, though, Henry is certainly moving up in the world, Reginald thought as he feigned interest in Donald’s talk about the healthy number of spring lambs the ewes were producing this season.

‘We need to police the births rigorously though,’ Donald was saying, ‘we’ve had a bit of a problem with feral dogs lately . . .’

Reginald nodded, although he hadn’t really heard what was being said at all. Henry understands the importance of control, he thought. Why, Henry Jones’s business was well on the way to becoming The House that Jack Built. He has the fruit that gives the pulp that makes the jam . . . The rhythm of the nonsense poem from his childhood bounced about in Reginald’s brain. He has the mine that yields the tin that makes the cans that store the jam . . . he has the mill that cuts the wood that makes the crates that hold the cans that store the jam . . . Reginald found himself so amusing he nearly laughed out loud. Good God, he thought, all the man needs now are the ships that carry the crates that hold the cans that store the jam across the seas to England.

And therein of course lay the problem that confronted the Tasmanian export market in general. ‘We must turn our attention to shipping,’ he announced.

His comment was so abrupt and unexpected that Donald came to an immediate halt. What does shipping have to do with feral dogs? he wondered. Amy stared at her brother. He hasn’t heard one single word that’s been said, she thought.

‘For some time now the larger shipping lines, particularly P & O and the Clan Line, have been sending fewer and fewer freighters to Hobart.’ Reginald, undeterred by his audience’s confusion, quickly warmed to his theme. ‘With the expansion of the fruit export market, local shipping agents have been competing for growers’ produce and booking more freight space than they can fill. It’s hardly surprisingly the larger lines are refusing to come here when there’s barely sufficient cargo to fill half their vessels’ holds. This is an untenable situation for all of us in the export business. Fruit sits rotting on the harbour –’

‘Wool bales don’t rot,’ Amy interrupted coldly. She was cross with her brother. Boredom was one thing, but it was quite another to be so blatantly rude, and particularly to Donald, who was always so good-natured.

Reginald ignored the interjection: her comment was not worthy of response anyway, and she was only on the defensive because he’d interrupted her husband. ‘In order to ensure regular freight service with the major lines,’ he went on, ‘we need to book large amounts of cargo space and offer firm guarantees that we’ll fill them.’

‘That makes sense,’ Donald said with a nod to his wife. Donald needed no-one to spring to his defence. He was an easy-going man, comfortable within himself, rarely threatened and rarely offended. ‘How do you suggest going about it?’

‘I shall enter into an agreement with several other like-minded businessmen,’ Reginald said – in fact he had already done so with both Henry Jones and W.D. Peacock – ‘and between us we shall act as our own agents and offer our own guarantee. I’m sure there will be others queuing up to tender their cargo, which will pay for the exercise.’

‘There’ll no doubt be a lot of unhappy shipping agents too,’ Amy commented drily.

‘Quite possibly, yes.’

‘Very clever, Reginald.’ Donald gave an approving nod. ‘Very clever indeed.’

‘Thank you, Donald.’ Amy’s husband really isn’t a bad chap at all, Reginald thought. In fact there were times when he quite liked Donald Balfour.

The following morning Amy drove Reginald back to Brighton, dropping him off at the train station.

‘I won’t wait around for the train,’ she said as he was about to step down from the trap, ‘I’ll head off home if you don’t mind. There’s a lot to be done.’

‘Good heavens above, yes, you get back to work.’

She gave him another hearty hug, which he returned as best he could. ‘Don’t leave it so long next time, Reginald,’ she said.

‘I won’t,’ he replied, but they both knew he would.

He climbed from the trap and stood waving to his sister as the sturdy grey gelding trotted off up the dusty road on its way home to Pontville.

A half an hour later, while the train puffed up steam in preparation for the final leg of its journey to Hobart, he leant back in his seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, another stultifying trip to the country was over and he could return to the stimulation of the city.

Reginald returned to far more than stimulation. He returned to the all-too-familiar signs that spelt chaos and disaster.

The moment he entered the house he knew something was wrong. For a start, Clive wasn’t there to take his hat and his coat and his travelling case, and if Clive was engaged in other duties, then where was the maid? Where was the housekeeper? What was going on?

Even as he stood in the front hall wondering, the door that led through to the dining room and beyond that to the kitchen, opened. Young Dot, the maid, appeared carrying a bowl of hot water, fresh towels draped over her shoulder. Reginald dared not ask the question that sprang first and foremost to his mind.

‘Where’s Clive?’ he asked instead.

‘Mr Gillespie took the trap to the station hoping to meet you, sir,’ Dot said as she started up the main staircase.

He followed her. ‘I caught the tram.’ He tried to sound normal, tried not to let his panic show. ‘Why did he go to the station? What’s going on?’