by C J Brown
CHAPTER 29
Friday July 12th
Dep Chandra closed his office door and sat behind his desk. “Well, this is complicated but I’ll try to explain it as simply as I can.”
“We like simple,” nodded Tess, “don’t we, Ali?”
Dep began…
8pm Monday April 4th 1966 – Pacific Coast Council Chambers, Clowder Bay
Councillor Samuel Rubin rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, you would be aware that last month the Federal Government announced that National Servicemen would be sent to war in Vietnam.” A low murmur filled the room as fellow councillors shared with those around them their various opinions about the decision.
“Regardless of our personal agreement or disagreement with our distinguished federal members, I believe that it behoves us, the elected councillors of this community, to show united support for our young men who are sent off to fight and very possibly die in this war.”
“What exactly are you proposing, Councillor?” asked Mayor Johnson.
Sam Rubin continued. “Pacific Coast families have already had three young men called up to National Service and there may well be more. In some cases these brave fellows are the breadwinners, the providers for their families. In their absence their loved ones may well struggle to pay their bills and even to put a meal on the table.”
“The council is not here to buy groceries!” came an objection.
“I understand that. What I am proposing is that Council suspends all Local Government charges on properties belonging to men who have been conscripted to serve overseas. I further move that this suspension of council charges remain in effect until the serviceman’s deployment ends or until a period of six years has elapsed.”
The Mayor rose and raised his hand to settle the animated discussion that Councillor Rubin had initiated. “Gentlemen, as I understand it, the Councillor is suggesting that as a show of support for our National Servicemen, of which we hope there are very few, we waive all council property charges until they return or for up to a maximum period of six years.”
“That’s correct,” nodded Sam Rubin.
Councillor George McFudgen raised his hand and the mayor nodded to him. The chamber fell quiet. McFudgen was known as man of action who rarely spoke. And when he did it was from the heart, the heart that at times grew unbearably tight and caused him such pain.
“I would like to speak in support of Sam’s motion. Fellow councillors, at sixteen my boy is not yet of the age where he might be ordered by his country to serve in the armed services. But one day he will be, his number might come up and, if it does, he will be sent to war by a government that he is not even old enough to vote for. He may find himself in a trench in a country many here had probably not heard of until a few years ago, fighting a battle that was not of our making. And he may be just one of thousands called to do their duty and put their lives on the line. It would be a great shame if they were to return to an ungrateful community and to debts that they are unable to meet.” He looked around the room.
“What are we? Me, a mechanic. Bob, an accountant. Joe, a grocer. Marcus, a lawyer.”
George McFudgen made his way around the chamber making particular reference to those naysayers he felt sure would not support the motion. “None of us has seen war but there is one thing we all know for certain … it’s the stuff of nightmares. Let’s give our boys the support they need.”
Then he sat back and listened as comments and questions flew around the room.
“Have you calculated the cost?”
“Wonderful idea, Sam!”
“What if we have a dozen men called up? What if we have a hundred?”
“We are not a charity!”
“Well said, George!”
“Is it in the budget? What about the budget!”
Forty minutes later the Mayor again rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, you’ve asked your questions and you’ve heard the answers. It’s time we put it to the vote. All those in favour raise your hands.
“The motion is passed unanimously,” he announced.
At the end of the meeting, the Minutes Secretary, Joan Butler, signed off at the bottom of the page. It was unfortunate that she had suffered a fracture to her right hand, which was her preferred writing hand, and it was heavily bandaged. She had unsuccessfully attempted to find a replacement to attend the meeting to take down the minutes. So Joan soldiered on, as Joan always did. Clearly one-handed typing was out of the question and long-hand writing with her left hand would be too slow and laborious. So Joan, with as much care as she could, and with the pen in her left hand, painstakingly noted every motion, decision and action arising from the meeting in Pitman’s shorthand, a skill she proudly still possessed but rarely used.
As the councillors stood around congratulating themselves on another successful meeting, Joan made her way from the chambers into the Mayor’s outer office. She left the minutes in the in-tray of one of the junior clerks who would render a nicely-typed version and pass copies on to the relevant departments for action.
Unfortunately, although a competent typist, the junior clerk was only vaguely familiar with shorthand and had to keep referring to a dusty manual she found in a storeroom. Ultimately her lack of familiarity with Pitman’s system, compounded by the Joan’s struggle to correctly form the symbols with her left hand, meant that a significant portion of the clerk’s transcription was the result of guesswork, and possibly some plain old laziness.
Dep Chandra referred to his notes and roughly drew two symbols on a scrap of paper.
“The first one,” he explained, “is shorthand for the numeral six, which is what the secretary was supposed to write. The second is shorthand for sixty.”
Dep then showed them a copy of the original shorthand minutes scribed by Joan Butler. He pointed to a symbol.
“That is what she actually did write and obviously, when the notes were typed up following the meeting, it was misinterpreted. And that, I believe, is how the council’s decision to support the National Servicemen for six years became sixty.
“That mistake,” continued Dep, “went unchallenged until five years ago when a university student approached the Council with a request for access to its historical records. She was researching the impact of war at a local government level. Council granted her access to the minutes and associated records of all meetings held during the time of both world wars and the Vietnam War. She was obviously a very thorough researcher because she noticed the discrepancy between the written version and the final typed version.”
“So what does all that mean for the property?” asked Alison.
“It means that your mother owes no rates or taxes on the properties. You’re lucky because it could have amounted to hundreds of thousands. However, once the council realised the mistake they took action. But as Charlie had not left a will and the council was unable to locate any family, they assumed ownership. That’s why the industrial land near the state forest and the housing land down past the post office has all been sold off and developed. So, Tess, you don’t own the large amount of property that we initially thought. However, in selling it, the council made a fortune. Our solicitor should be able to show that the money they made is rightfully yours.”
“The money is not the important thing,” said Tess. “What about the post office itself? I don’t want to see that destroyed.”
Dep Chandra continued. “This is where it moves from being interesting to intriguing. When Council claimed control of the post office, the mayor was, guess who? Mrs Doris Lowman. In a council meeting a vote was held to take the building off the Heritage Register. The councillors vote was four in favour of de-registration and four against. The Mayor then used her casting vote to pass the motion for de-registration.”
“Why would they do that, de-register that beautiful building?”
“Well, one word answers that: bribery. You see three of those who voted for de-registration have accounts with this bank. I’ve looked at their records. A week before
the vote, two of the accounts each shows a cash deposit of twenty-thousand dollars.”
“Oh, so you think someone paid them to vote that way. Who?”
“Wait for it. The third account belongs to DL Investments. That account shows a cash withdrawal of eighty-thousand dollars.”
“Who is DL Investments?” Tess and Alison asked at the same time.
As if to emphasise the gravity of his discovery Dep lowered his head and peered over his reading glasses. “DL Investments is a company owned by ex-Mayor Doris Lowman. The other councillors that voted for de-registration don’t bank with PCCB but I’ll bet my softail that their accounts show similar deposits.”
“It’s almost too much to take,” said Tess. “Doris Lowman paid the councillors to vote for de-registration.” She shook her head. “I knew as soon as I met her that she and I would never be friends, but I never thought for a moment she was a snollygoster.”
“Well, whatever she is, I’ve already sent this information to the proper authorities. There is enough evidence here to cause all those involved considerable heart burn. But the wheels of justice turn slowly. It will take time.”
“Well, what do we do now?” asked Alison. “We can’t just let that auction go ahead. Even if she doesn’t win, somebody will.”
“I agree,” Dep nodded, “and that’s what our solicitor is working on. I’m meeting with him in the morning. Tomorrow is our last chance to stop it.”
A light afternoon shower of rain was tapping against the window as Alison sat on the chair with her head resting on the bed. She had already retold Mia the events of the past few days including the revelations from the meeting with Dep Chandra earlier that day. Now she was telling her how much she loved her, how much she missed her voice and her cheekiness and how, when she eventually woke up, she could have anything she wanted. She stroked Mia’s hand.
“Anything?”
Alison jerked her head up from the bed. Mia smiled weakly.