Hannah was awaiting William’s arrival, and looked concerned. The doctor was already there.
‘He’s in the living room,’ she said.
He kissed her and went to join Fairfax. William could see he was pale and upset.
‘I cancelled all my appointments,’ Fairfax said. ‘I trust we can talk here without being overheard, or interrupted?’
‘What the devil is it, Charles?’ William was feeling more and more uneasy.
‘McCredie. I knew the bloody man was going to be trouble.’ William looked at him, confused. Neither had welcomed the choice of the abrasive Scot, George McCredie to take charge of the plague campaign, and William had lobbied against the appointment. But that was months ago. He had to admit McCredie had tackled the job with enthusiasm, and until this new outbreak, with some success.
‘What’s he done?’
‘You mean you don’t know? It was announced by the Premier in the House late last night.’
‘I wasn’t there last night. I took Elizabeth to the theatre and we dined afterwards. For God’s sake, Charles, what’s this about?’
‘McCredie…’ Fairfax had an irritatingly ponderous manner at times, ‘—McCredie has persuaded the government to issue a register of owners of all quarantined property. Sub-standard housing areas in particular. The Rocks, Wexford Street, the whole Chinatown district.’
William felt a sudden stirring of alarm. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘He can. He’s convinced Lyne, who sees votes in it. Blame the landlords, not their tenants, for the filthy conditions that spread plague. There’s a deal of panic since this resurgence, and they need scapegoats. Already some quite respectable people have been named, and the lists have gone to the newspapers to be published tomorrow.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Ashburton Thompson.’ The city’s Chief Medical Officer had his consulting rooms in the same building as Fairfax. ‘He said names are already being bandied about.’
‘What names?’
‘Hardie and Gorman, the real estate people. Sir Philip Lacon, Anderson, Raine and Home, they’re all listed. And the Regal Property Trust has been identified as the owner of half the houses in Wexford Street.’
William began to feel very cold. The Regal Property Trust was himself, with three minor nominees, of whom Fairfax was one. If these lists were to be published, no journalist worth his salt would fail to look into the public register, to find the directors of a company that held the freehold of so much property in the affected district. It would not be difficult to establish he owned ninety per cent of the Trust, and had bought the Wexford Street tenements at bargain prices two years ago. It would be an easy matter from there to discover he had done so after serving on a Parliamentary Commission which had recommended demolition of the area, with a high figure for compensation as well as a grant for rebuilding. Before the report had been made public, William had formed his Trust Company, appointed Fairfax and two others as nominees, and purchased forty of the derelict houses.
At the time he had considered it a brilliant piece of business opportunism. Although there had been a delay in acting upon the report, he had not at first minded. The longer the period between purchase and eventual compensation, the less likely his link with the Commission or the Regal Trust would be apparent. Meanwhile the houses paid a dividend, rented to Chinese tenants. Rather too many tenants, William reflected uncomfortably, for those more prominent Chinese to whom he had offered the head leases had sub-let to as many of their compatriots as they could cram in. That was out of his control, but there were several occupants to a room, at least a dozen to each squalid house, with no facilities other than a backyard cesspit and an outside water tap. it would not make pleasant newspaper reading.
‘What are we going to do?’ Fairfax asked, and William had no answer. The condition of the houses, he knew, was appalling, and in the past year he had begun to hope for implementation of the report without further delay. If it had been done, and Wexford Street demolished, he could have taken his handsome profit and dissolved the Trust. Instead, the bubonic plague had made this impossible. All funds and resources had been diverted to McCredie’s quarantine plan. Now McCredie, to stave off criticism of this new lack of success, had used his persuasive tongue to convince the Premier that a register of owners would allow them both to deflect the blame.
‘What can we do?’ Fairfax repeated.
‘For Christ’s sake, shut up and let me think.’
He ignored the doctor’s resentful look. It was inconceivable this could happen. He had been so careful, taken every precaution. If he had campaigned actively in Parliament, Wexford Street might be history by now. But he had been cautious not to take too public a stance, in case his personal interest became known. And now it was to be published in tomorrow’s newspapers!
‘It’ll be a scandal,’ Fairfax said. ‘For the others it may mean a slight embarrassment, but the Regal Trust is different. Once the papers get hold of this, you’re gone. Finished. And I don’t intend my career to be ruined with you.’
William did not bother to reply. He tried to repress his sudden dislike of the man. Anger would achieve nothing. He had to solve this. He walked to the window and looked out at the vines and profusion of colour Hannah had planted there. It could all go, he thought, everything I own. This could destroy me.
Outwardly calm, he said, ‘I’m glad you were able to warn me.’
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ Fairfax said. ‘Let’s get one thing clear. I cannot be involved. Not in a shady company exploiting the Chinese, never mind the fraudulent use of your position for financial gain.’
‘What do you propose doing?’
‘Making a statement that I’m innocent. You took advantage of our friendship, persuading me to lend my name to what I believed was an honest venture. I’ve talked to the others. They’ll support me.’
‘I’ll bet they will.’ William did not disguise his bitterness.
‘I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. A matter of survival.’
‘There’s no need for any statement. I’ll make it quite clear that you were just an innocent dupe.’ Fairfax frowned.
‘Dupe? I’m not sure I like that. Dupe makes me sound …’ he fumbled for the right word ‘—unintelligent.’
Which you are, William thought with cold contempt, but merely said, ‘I’ll make it clear you were not a party to any fraud. You had no knowledge of the inside information I possessed. You were nothing more than a nominal director, a name on the notepaper, who stood to make no profits. Satisfied?’
‘Thank you.’ The other smiled. ‘After all, it’s virtually the truth. You were ninety per cent of the company.’
‘Because my cash bought the houses. You stood to receive ten per cent once we made any money, just for the use of your name.’
‘I don’t believe that is in writing,’ Fairfax said.
‘No, we decided on mutual trust. A handshake.’
‘Then I’d be careful about saying I’d receive a payment. It could not be proved, and could only bring you further trouble.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Let’s both agree we don’t want your political foes to know about certain personal matters. You do take my point?’
William nodded. The favour he owed Fairfax for Edith had just been paid off.
FIFTEEN
Stefan felt lost. First the days, now the slowly passing weeks had become interminable. Some of the time he was alone he spent improvising an irrigation system. It was a clumsy but effective way of watering the growing young vines, essential now that such hot spring weather had come after a late and chilly start. He was yoked to this strange device, a wooden bar with drums on either side, the bottoms of them punctured to create a spray. He had seen a market gardener use something like it, in a closely cultivated few acres. This was a great deal more exhausting, the land to be irrigated much larger and terraced all the way down the sloping hillside. Trudging along the vines, he felt the weight lessening as the w
ater diminished. In another two rows, he would return to the well, refill both drums, and resume the tedious process.
In the distance he saw the pony and trap crossing the wooden bridge over the creek, and tried to wave to Gerhardt and Eva-Maria, although the yoke made it difficult. He walked down the trench between the vines towards them hoping that, since they were coming from the direction of the town, they might have brought another letter from Elizabeth. The last one had promised she would arrange her return journey, and expected to be home in late October, or early November. Stefan had written back to say early November would be fine, but late October would be even finer. Not wanting to spoil her visit, he tried to say it carefully — that he missed her and the children desperately, and their home was empty without her.
‘My new invention,’ he called to his friends, as Gerhardt pulled on the reins. ‘The Stefan Muller watering system.’
There was no response.
‘Come and have coffee.’ When there was again no reply, he suddenly realised that Eva-Maria’s face was covered with blood. Stefan dropped the wooden yoke and the drums, and ran to them as Gerhardt was helping her down.
‘What happened?’
‘Someone in town threw a stone.’
Gerhardt was cradling her, agitated, as he tried to stem the flow of blood. ‘Why?’
‘He was drunk,’ Eva-Maria said.
‘The others weren’t drunk. The ones who call us German bastards, and say that Kaiser Wilhelm sends guns to help the Boers kill Australians in South Africa.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t let him make a fuss.’
‘Nothing!’ Gerhardt shouted. Stefan had never seen him so enraged.
‘Some lunatic throws a stone, and you call it nothing? And other people watch and laugh, but we mustn’t make a fuss.’
‘Gerd, please …’ she said, but could not calm him.
Stefan helped her inside. He cleaned her face, found liniment in a first-aid tin, and put a dressing over the cut. Then he made them both sit and rest while he poured coffee.
‘It was just a drunk,’ she repeated.
‘You should have called the police,’ Stefan told them.
‘The police?’ Gerhardt erupted again with anger. ‘The police were standing there — watching.’
‘Is that true?’ Stefan looked at Eva-Maria, hoping she would deny it.
‘Yes.’ She nodded reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry, but it is. They saw it, and they did nothing.’
‘But why?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ Gerhardt said. ‘I told you once before, but you wouldn’t listen. It was a warning, Stefan. I’m sorry — but this is no longer a little war, a long way off.’
He looked at Eva-Maria, and read the same concern in her eyes. They both watched him, knowing something was on his mind. Stefan was silent for a long time.
‘Will you do me a favour, both of you? When Elizabeth comes home, don’t tell her.’
Elizabeth and her father sat late over their coffee in the living room. The nights were still cool, and the remains of a fire flickered in the grate.
‘Please, Lizzie, stay and see me through this.’
‘But, Papa …’
‘I need help. The place will be full of vultures, and it could last for weeks.’
Over dinner he had told her a sanitised version of the trouble confronting him, suddenly realising it could be a means to prolong her stay.
‘Don’t go back until I have this straightened out. I need your help,’ he added, and seeing her quizzical glance, said truthfully: ‘I also can’t bear this house without you and the children.’
‘Papa, I can’t stay here indefinitely.’ She was touched by his admission, but knew her father. She could not allow him to dominate her. ‘I have a husband and a home.’
‘I’m not talking about indefinitely,’ William said. ‘Just while this is hanging over me.’
‘Will there be a fuss in the newspapers?’
‘Bound to be. It’s filthy luck it had to happen like this, to spoil your visit …’ He stopped as she rose abruptly, interrupting him.
‘I may be able to stay until the end of November,’ she said, taking their coffee cups and kissing him as she wished him goodnight.
He remained there a long time after she had gone to bed, gazing into the embers of the fire. The end of November. It was a reprieve. In that time a lot could happen. But first of all, he had to survive the week ahead.
The four of them were in the parliamentary bar, waiting for him. George Roland was drinking his usual whisky; the other three men had schooners of beer. They were puzzled by his summons, and rather wary, for they had heard the rumours. There had been a story in the morning newspapers listing owners of the city’s slum properties, and talk had been circulating in the parliamentary building for much of the day. The list was not specific. While it named the Regal Trust, no one had yet named William Patterson. But these men knew; and they believed he was done for, his political career finished. Within days he would have to resign. Why then, they wondered, did they feel uneasy?
‘Anyone care for another?’ he asked them, but no one did. The four were not his type; they had little use for him, nor he for them. But today he was fighting for his life, and whether they knew it or not, they were going to help him. From outside there came the sound of carriages driving towards Hyde Park, where a new statue of Queen Victoria had been unveiled outside the Supreme Court. It was a sight familiar to the four, and they were all indifferent to it, absorbed in watching William as he began to speak.
‘I’ve seen Lyne. I told him I have no intention of resigning.’
‘You’ll have to — or he’ll be forced to sack you.’
‘I’m staying put. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You’ve done a few things wrong, Patterson,’ George Roland said with more than a hint of malice. ‘For a start you made the cardinal mistake, and got caught.’
‘Politically you’re dead,’ one of the others said.
‘So why wait to be kicked out? If you had any decency, you’d resign like a gentleman.’
‘But I’m not a gentleman,’ William said, ‘never have been.
So let’s have no fucking bullshit about that.’ He laughed at the expressions on their faces, and his laughter disturbed them, as he intended it should.
They gazed uneasily around, to see who might be in the bar to witness the meeting. Roland was a wealthy bookmaker. Of the others, Edgar Shrewsbury and Harold Cartwright were property agents. Leslie Ross had come from Lancashire to inherit a relative’s thriving lumber business. All four were influential party members. William intended to convince them he spoke from a position of strength.
‘Got caught, did I? Do you really think so?’
He watched their cautious faces, as they tried to assess his tactics. These were men who understood the abuse of power.
‘I bought houses in Wexford Street. So what? Yes, I was on the Committee that recommended the area be demolished. If that had happened — the houses pulled down and the owners compensated — it could be fairly said I’d profited. That I’d used my position to make an illegal gain. Did it happen? You know bloody well it didn’t. I’m stuck with forty lousy tenement cottages, falling to pieces, and damn all profit. So tell me what I’ve done wrong.’
There was a pause while they thought about it. ‘You’ve got the place full of chinks,’ Ross said. Roland was swift to agree. ‘Crammed with Asiatics.’
‘I rent the houses,’ William shrugged. ‘Nothing I can do if they fill the places by sub-letting to their friends and relatives.’ The property agents both said they could not see much wrong with this, uncomfortably aware their own firms did likewise.
‘I’m no prude,’ George Roland said sententiously, ‘but the Chinese gamble, smoke opium, and fuck white women.’
William thought there was little point in reminding him he was a bookmaker, one whose fortune had been made from gambling. He would be antagonisin
g Roland soon enough.
‘Let’s get back to the point,’ he said. ‘I’m not resigning. If it comes to a censure motion, I have enough personal votes to win.’
‘Rubbish,’ Ross said. ‘Reid and North and the Free Traders would give their balls to get rid of you, since you crossed the floor.’
‘I’d say you’re history.’ Roland’s malice was unmistakable. ‘And I’d say you can’t count, George. I have the numbers.’
‘Impossible.’
‘On the contrary,’ he smiled. ‘I have more than enough votes, with you four backing me.’
‘Us back you. Don’t be stupid.’
‘Why do you think you’d get support or sympathy from us?’
‘Because if I don’t, you’ll all go to prison.’
They stared at him. They glanced at each other. He enjoyed prolonging the moment, certain that he had them now. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Roland asked.
‘It’s simple,’ William said. ‘The tramway contract.’ There was an intake of breath, then a shocked silence.
‘You fine, upstanding citizens were the transport committee that awarded the new cable tram extension to Ferris Bros. Ferris is your wife’s cousin, George, and all of you are unlisted shareholders. I have a wad of documents to prove it.’
‘You dirty bastard,’ George Roland said.
‘This is blackmail.’ Ross was outraged.
‘Don’t get upset. Nobody is going to blackmail anyone.’
‘As long as we back you — you mongrel.’
‘That’s right, George.’
They made love again after tea, and Hannah was excited and then finally exhausted by the voracity of his passion. Afterwards they bathed together and dressed reluctantly, like young lovers. Then he told her about the events of the day.
‘It’s far from over yet,’ he said, ‘but at least I have a fighting chance now. This morning I was cooked.’
‘That fighting spirit,’ she leaned against him, laughing as her hand found and fondled the start of another bulge forming inside his trousers, ‘has produced a very surprising and interesting reaction.’
A Bitter Harvest Page 14