Today he was wearing a stone-coloured light gabardine suit that was fashionably-cut, and he was perfectly groomed from the collar of his deep-blue shirt to the tip of his dark brown loafers that gleamed like highly-polished glass.
‘And so,’ his visitor was saying, ‘that’s the story. And before I put up a couple of million dollars – US dollars that is – I thought I’d better high-tail it over here and get your advice. Shane told me, before I left London, that if I felt the need, I should come and talk things over with you, because you know more about opal mining than anybody else.’
Philip let out a deep chuckle.
‘Not quite, Mr Carlson. I’m afraid my brother-in-law tends to exaggerate, but I’m fairly knowledgeable, yes. We’ve been mining opals for years – among other things. One of our subsidiaries, McGill Mining, was founded by my great-grandfather in 1906, a few years after the famous black opal field at Lightning Ridge was discovered around 1903. But to get back to your situation, from what you’ve told me so far, I don’t believe you’ve been getting the best guidance. If I were you, I’d move with some caution, think twice before putting your money into this syndicate you’ve been telling me about.’
Steve Carlson sat up straighter, gave Philip a questioning look. ‘You don’t think it’s some sort of scam, do you?’ he asked, his voice rising nervously, sudden anxiety filling his eyes.
Philip shook his head. ‘No, no, not at all,’ he answered swiftly and emphatically. ‘But we’ve heard of Jarvis Lanner, and whilst he’s honest enough, as far as we’ve been able to ascertain, he’s hardly the right man to be advising you about opal mining in the outback.’
‘That’s not the way he presents himself, and – ’
‘Maybe not. But he’s a pommy Jackeroo, for God’s sake!’
Carlson looked baffled. ‘Pommy jackeroo. What’s that?’
Philip tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a laugh. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be confusing you by using Australian slang. It means an English immigrant who’s a greenhorn.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Carlson nodded. ‘It did strike me, a few days ago, that Jarvis Lanner didn’t know as much as he professed, that’s why I came running to you, I guess.’
Philip made no comment. He strolled over to his desk, stood behind it, regarding the young man for a moment, feeling sorry for him. Now here was a jackeroo, if ever he’d seen one. Wanting to help him, and also to bring the meeting to a close, Philip now said, ‘I think the best thing I can do for you, Mr Carlson, is to put you in touch with a couple of reputable mining experts and some leading geologists. They’ll be able to steer you in the right direction. Would you like me to do that?’
‘Well, gee, yes, I guess so, and I really appreciate that you’ve taken the time and trouble to see me. But just as a matter of interest, what’s your opinion of Queensland, as far as opals are concerned? Don’t you think it offers as much as I’ve been led to believe?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, no.’
Philip sat down, pulled a pad towards him, reached for his gold pen. ‘A lot of prospectors and miners will tell you that the Queensland fields still have a lot to offer, and I suppose that’s true, in certain ways. But I doubt you’ll find much precious opal there. That’s very rare. Plenty of common opal, of course, in the Queensland fields. Jarvis Lanner was not lying to you, when he told you that. But I do stress common opal. You indicated to me that you want to mine quality stones.’
‘Yes.’ Carlson got up off the sofa, meandered over to the desk, took the chair facing it. ‘Where do you think I should do my mining, Mr Amory?’
‘There are any number of places,’ Philip responded with a light shrug of his shoulders, not wanting to be drawn on this one, or held responsible for making a recommendation that might turn out to be the wrong one for young Carlson. But he had no wish to appear discourteous either, and so he said, ‘Our company’s still mining at Lightning Ridge in New South Wales, and also at Coober Pedy. That’s actually Australia’s largest opal centre where we get our exquisite light opal from. Then there’s Mintabie, in South Australia. Prospectors have been mining there very successfully since about 1976.’
‘So it’s a new field.’
‘No, it was discovered in 1931, but lack of water, very harsh conditions, and bloody awful equipment made it hard to coax the opal out of the ground, prevented proper mining for many, many years. Today’s modern machinery has opened it up pretty good. In any case, let me give you the names and phone numbers of the experts I mentioned. Go and talk to them. I’m confident they’ll put you on the right track. They’ll also be able to tell you whether or not you should invest in the syndicate Lanner recommended to you.’
‘Do you think that group might be A-Okay then?’
‘I never said there was anything wrong with the syndicate, merely that you should think twice about investing your money with it,’ Philip was swift to remind the other man. ‘And I pointed out that you’d not received the best advice from Lanner.’ Philip smiled faintly, and not giving Carlson a chance to say anything, he murmured, ‘Excuse me,’ picked up the gold pen for the second time, and began to write in his neat, rapid hand.
‘Sure, go ahead,’ Steve Carlson said, somewhat after the fact, and sat back in the chair, his scrutiny keen. He was impressed with this man who had agreed to see him so quickly and without fuss. Admittedly, he’d had the best introduction. On the other hand, tycoons of Amory’s calibre and power were hard to get to personally, even when members of the family opened the door. They were usually too busy, up to their eyeballs in high finance and balance sheets, to be bothered with strangers wanting advice. Invariably they had assistants stand in for them. But not this cowboy, who seemed like a decent enough guy, unaffected, with no bullshit about him. He’d been struck dumb when he’d first met him an hour ago. Philip McGill Amory was so goddamned good looking he ought to be in front of a movie camera in Hollywood, for God’s sake, not behind a desk. That handsome face, those mesmerizing blue eyes, the gleaming teeth, and the very deep tan had to be seen to be believed. And what about the fabulous suit he was wearing and the custom-made voile shirt, not to mention the sapphire cuff links? Why, this guy was larger than life, more like a superstar than a businessman. He hadn’t expected Amory to have a moustache though. He decided it was dashing, gave the tycoon the look of a riverboat gambler…no, a buccaneer.
Steve Carlson suppressed the laughter rising in his throat, thinking that there were surely plenty of pirates around these days – all sailing the waters of Big Business. But Amory didn’t have the reputation for being a predator, one of those modern-day corporate raiders who swooped down on other companies and commandeered them for their own ends. Amory didn’t need to raid anybody, did he? Not with a conglomerate the size of The McGill Corporation to play with, and keep him busy. It was worth millions, no, billions.
Carlson shifted in his chair, gave Philip a glance that was full of speculation. I bet this cowboy has one helluva private life, a real ball, the young American thought with a stab of envy tinged with admiration. With his physique and looks, all that power, all that dough, women probably drool all over him. Boy, oh boy, what I wouldn’t give to be in that pair of handmade Italian loafers just for one night.
Philip flipped the intercom. ‘Maggie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Carlson is about to leave. I’m giving him a list of names. Please affix the appropriate telephone numbers, will you?’
‘Certainly.’
Philip strode around the desk.
Carlson jumped up, took the sheet of paper being offered, walked with him to the door.
Philip shook the young man’s hand firmly. ‘Lots of luck, Mr Carlson. I’m certain it’ll all pan out.’
‘Gee, thanks, Mr Amory. I sure am grateful for your time, and the advice you’ve given me.’
‘My pleasure,’ Philip answered, and motioned to his secretary, who was standing waiting near her desk. ‘Look after Mr Carlson, would you please, Maggie?’ he added be
fore stepping back into his inner sanctum and closing the door firmly behind him.
Alone at last, and glad to be, Philip ambled over to the plate glass window-wall and looked out towards the harbour. It was the beginning of spring and the weather had been glorious all day. Any number of sailboats were out there on the bright water, racing in front of the wind, their multi-coloured spinnakers billowing straight out, the mainsails set out wide over the sides, catching every bit of the wind following behind them.
What a beautiful sight it was…Sydney Harbour Bridge so majestic in the distance, the white racing yachts and their colourful spinnakers, the glittering, sunlit sea, and, off to the side, the Opera House with its unique roof of curved white demi-domes that from this angle looked like the giant sails of a galleon set against the edge of the sea and the powder-blue sky.
A smile touched Philip’s eyes. He had loved this city since he was a boy, and to him there was no sight in the world quite like Sydney Harbour. It never failed to give him pleasure, especially when he surveyed it from this vantage point.
As he turned away from the window, he made a mental note to have the spinnaker on his own racing yacht checked. The big parachute was made of gossamer-thin nylon and attention had to be paid to it and to the other sails. He smiled wryly to himself. Yacht racing was an expensive hobby these days. A full suit of sails, ranging from the light-weather spinnaker to heavyweight Kevlar for a storm mainsail, cost just under a million Australian dollars.
There was a knock on the door. It opened, and Barry Graves, his personal assistant, poked his head around it, grinning. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure,’ Philip said, walking over to his desk.
‘Got kangaroos in his top paddock then, has he?’ Barry asked, a brow lifting eloquently.
The two men exchanged knowing looks and then they both started to laugh.
‘No,’ Philip said, ‘he’s not crazy. Carlson’s just young and inexperienced. He’s been bitten by the adventure bug, I guess. Apparently he heard somewhere that Australia supplies ninety-five per cent of the world’s opals, and he decided to come over here, try his luck, and invest his inheritance in opal mining.’
‘Another jackeroo,’ Barry sighed. ‘Poor sod. Oh, well, I guess there’s one born every minute. What’s he to Shane?’
‘Nothing really. Carlson’s brother-in-law is one of Shane’s top executives at O’Neill International in New York, and Shane was just trying to do the guy a favour. The kid went to see him in London and Shane told him to check with me before he did anything wild.’
‘Good thing he did, too.’ Barry hovered at the side of the desk, went on rapidly. ‘I just came in to say goodnight, Philip. If you don’t need me for anything else, I’d like to push off. Committee meeting at the tennis club tonight.’
‘Go ahead, Barry.’
‘Thanks. Oh, there’s just one thing – do you want me to send a car to pick Paula up at the airport tomorrow morning?’
‘No, thanks anyway, but it’s not necessary. My mother’s taking care of that.’
‘Good-o.’ Barry headed for the door. He paused as he went out, swung to face Philip. ‘Don’t stay too late tonight.’
‘I won’t. I’m driving out to Rose Bay in a little while, to have dinner with my mother.’
‘Give Daisy my best.’
‘I will.’
‘See you tomorrow, Philip.’
Philip nodded, turned to the papers on his desk and began to work. Just before six o’clock he buzzed Maggie on the intercom and told her to go home.
‘Thanks, Philip.’
‘Oh, and Maggie, please call down to the garage and tell Ken to have the car outside at seven.’
‘I will. Good night.’
‘Good night, Maggie.’ He flipped off the intercom, and went on working on his papers with the diligence and dedication that had been instilled in him by his grandmother years before.
From the moment he had taken his first breath, in June of 1946, it had been understood by his mother and father, and everyone else in the family, that Philip McGill Amory would be raised and groomed to run The McGill Corporation in Australia.
Before he had killed himself in 1939, after being partially paralysed in a near-fatal car crash, Paul McGill had drawn a new will. In it he had bequeathed everything he owned to Emma Harte, his common-law wife of sixteen years.
His immense personal fortune, personal real estate and other personal possessions in Australia, England and America he left directly to Emma, to do with as she wished. But the business empire in Australia and his big block of shares in Sitex Oil of America, the company he had founded in Texas, were to be held in trust by Emma for Daisy, the only child they had had together, and any offspring Daisy herself might one day have.
From 1939 until 1969, Emma herself had run The McGill Corporation, both at close range in Sydney, and long distance from London. She had managed to do this successfully with the help of trusted appointees, some of whom had worked for Paul McGill until his death. These men, the managing directors of the various companies within the conglomerate, carried out her instructions and were responsible for the day-to-day running of their divisions. These were diverse, ranged from the mining of opals and minerals to coal fields, land development, and commercial real estate, and included the family sheep station at Coonamble.
The McGill family’s vast business enterprises, which were now the responsibility of Philip, had begun with that sheep station, one of the largest in New South Wales. Called Dunoon, it had been founded in 1852 by Philip’s great-great-grandfather, Andrew McGill, a Scottish sea captain, who was a free settler in the Antipodes. The McGill Corporation, as such, had been created by his great-grandfather, Bruce McGill, and later expanded to become one of the most important companies in the world by his grandfather, Paul.
When he was still only a very little boy, Emma had begun to talk to Philip about Australia, telling him of the wonders and beauty and riches of that extraordinary land. And she had filled his head with adventurous yarns about his grandfather, speaking to him about Paul so beautifully, so vividly and with such an enduring love she had brought the man to life for the small child. Certainly Philip sometimes felt as though he had actually known his grandfather.
As he grew older, Emma had explained that one day Paul’s mighty empire, which took her so frequently to Australia, would belong to him and Paula, but that he would run it, as she herself was doing on behalf of their mother and them.
Philip had been six years old when Emma had first taken him out to Sydney with his parents, Daisy and David Amory, and his sister, and he had fallen in love with it from the first moment he had set foot on Australian ground. That love had never waned.
Philip had been educated in England, attending Wellington, his grandfather’s old school, but at seventeen he had rebelled, had told Emma and his parents that he wanted to leave school, that he had no intention of going to university. He had explained, and in no uncertain terms, that the time had come for him to start learning about the business he was supposed to run when he was old enough.
Eventually his father had given in, had shrugged philosophically, knowing he was not going to win the day.
Emma’s attitude had been somewhat similar. She had brought Philip to work with her, hiding a smile on that first day, knowing that her grandson had not the slightest idea of what was in store for him. And so it had begun – Emma’s relentless training programme which demanded complete dedication. She was stern, exacting, and the hardest taskmaster he had ever met. She insisted on excellence in all things, and diligence and concentration, and his life was hers until the time came when he had absorbed the precepts of her business ethos.
But Emma was eminently fair, and Philip had eventually come to understand that his grandmother’s unremitting pounding on himself, his sister, and his cousins was merely her way of ensuring they would be able to hold their own when they were out on their own, and when she was no longer there to guide or protect them.
In 1966, when he was twenty, Emma sent Philip to live permanently in Australia.
She wanted him to learn at first hand about the business empire he would operate and control as chief executive officer and chairman of the board.
At the end of three years, Philip had proved himself to be worthy of Emma’s belief in him.
She had not been unduly surprised, since she knew he had inherited her astuteness, her canny Yorkshire ways, her instinct for making money, and that he had the ability to turn situations to his own advantage, as she had done all her life. Also, quite aside from being the spitting image of his grandfather, Emma was aware that Philip was blessed with Paul’s acumen and financial genius.
Philip was soon well entrenched professionally and socially in Sydney, and he made a good life for himself in Australia. The country of his McGill forefathers, which had so fascinated and intrigued him since those childhood visits, became his true home. He had not the slightest desire to live anywhere else in the world.
Two of Emma’s appointees, Neal Clarke and Tom Patterson, had been instrumental in Philip’s training in Australia, and they had earned his genuine respect and affection. However, it was usually Emma to whom Philip turned for guidance and counsel when he was uncertain, or when he faced a crisis. After his grandmother’s death in 1970, his father took her place, in as much as he became his confidant and sounding board whenever Philip deemed it necessary to seek advice outside his own organization. David Amory’s untimely death in the avalanche at Chamonix in January of 1971 had robbed Philip not only of his beloved father, but of a wise counsellor and guiding hand.
To Be the Best (Emma Harte) Page 15