Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Yes,’ Olivia agreed, ‘it is certainly very beautiful.’ She turned her attention from the orchard and the river to her friend. ‘You really are remarkable,’ she said, shaking her head with admiration. Heidi had admitted that she was once again pregnant, even as she now rocked an eleven-month-old baby in her arms. ‘I cannot believe you are going through that whole process all over again, and so soon!’

  The bond between Olivia and Heidi had been forged during their pregnancies. Both of them young, not yet twenty at the time, each carrying her first child and fearful of what lay ahead, they had been a great strength to each other. As friends they appeared an unlikely pair, the dark-haired, precisely-spoken young Englishwoman and the blonde, square-faced German with the quaint way of talking, but the two were destined to remain a strength to each other throughout their lives.

  ‘So soon, yes, but this I wish.’ Heidi smiled. ‘Gus says I beg for punishing, but I think is best I get things done and over with soon more than late.’

  Olivia did a quick mental translation. Heidi’s adaptation of Gus’s phrases could be obscure at times, but she’d become quite adept at working them out. ‘You’re a beggar for punishment all right,’ she said. ‘I intend to wait at least two years before I go through all that again.’ In response to her friend’s quizzically raised eyebrow, she hastily added, ‘Well, that is, if I can. Thomas wants at least three sons, but he’s happy to wait a couple of years between each. And there are ways you know.’ The women shared a smile. Olivia glanced down at the baby, who was now squirming restlessly in her arms. ‘They’ll need feeding soon. Shall we go up to the house?’

  As they walked back up to the homestead, the party continued behind them.

  The younger members of the family, having finished scoffing cake, were playing cricket, and Lincoln’s wife was overseeing her wayward son, Gordon. Eighteen-month-old Gordie was trying to ride Falstaff the pig. Falstaff had no objection, he was a most amiable animal, but Gordie kept slithering off his back so, grasping her son firmly by the shirt collar, Margaret held him on board and followed the pig around as it snuffled in the grass seeking the apples that had been especially strewn about for it. There were several pigs that roamed the orchard, eating the rotten apples and generally keeping the place clean, but Falstaff was special. Falstaff was as obedient as any dog and just as loving: he adored the family. The feeling was mutual.

  Everyone else was still gathered around the table, George having refilled the women’s glasses with the Champagne he’d brought in from Hobart especially for the occasion. None of the men much cared for ‘the fancy French stuff’, as they called it, and were sticking to their preferred Cascade Ale.

  ‘To Jefferson.’ It was Doris who proposed the toast. Doris always proposed the toast at the larger family gatherings. When she was present, as a mark of respect, the others made a rule of waiting until Doris chose the moment before they embarked upon the inevitable round of toasts, which always started with Jefferson.

  ‘To Jefferson,’ they said, raising their glasses in a salute.

  Doris sipped her champagne. She would not finish the glass: she did not enjoy the taste. The only time alcohol passed her lips was when she toasted her husband and family.

  ‘A second great-grandson,’ she gave a nod of satisfaction, ‘how very proud he would be.’

  Jefferson had not lived to see the first of his great-grandsons. He had died two years before Gordon’s birth, succumbing to a heart attack at the age of seventy-one. Doris missed him sorely, but she was never maudlin about his passing. The strength of her faith convinced her that Jefferson was watching over his family anyway, just as the strength of her faith convinced her they would all one day be reunited.

  The wheels having been set in motion, a whole series of toasts ensued. Quincy toasted his son and his absentee daughter-in-law, congratulating them on a job well done. ‘And so early in life,’ he said. ‘Childhood sweethearts, just like Charlotte and me.’ He beamed at his wife as he raised his glass. ‘To Thomas and Olivia.’

  ‘To Thomas and Olivia,’ the others chorused obediently.

  Quincy downed a swig of ale and turned to his older brother. ‘Start breeding them young, George: that’s the way to go.’ Quincy was eight years George’s junior and proud to be a grandfather at forty. ‘The younger the better, I say.’

  George shared a surreptitious smile with his sister, Martha – they each knew what the other was thinking. Quincy was incorrigible and always had been. Indeed, George thought, Quince might even be considered by some a larrikin, which was a rather derogatory term, but he was such an engaging fellow you couldn’t find him offensive. Strangely enough, there were times when George, who was governed by a strong sense of propriety, rather envied his younger brother’s lack of inhibition.

  It was time for the next toast, which George rightfully took to be his turn. He looked about at all those gathered. ‘I propose a toast to the new generation of Powells and Müllers,’ he said, ‘to Gordon and David and Eugenia.’ His eyes met Gus Müller’s, and Gus nodded, clearly delighted by the inclusion. George raised his glass. ‘To the new generation,’ he said.

  ‘To the new generation,’ everyone chanted.

  ‘Now there’s an excellent idea,’ Quincy said after he’d taken a swig of his Cascade. ‘David and Jeanie. We’ll marry them off before they’re twenty, what do you say, Gus? A new generation in less than two decades.’ Everyone laughed, although for once Quincy wasn’t actually joking.

  Several more toasts to family and friends followed, and then the talk turned to business. The Powell gatherings invariably led at some stage to a business discussion, before Quincy would call a halt and demand a sing-along. But as the discussion today revolved around Henry Jones, Quincy was more than happy to delay the sing-along. The jam-manufacturing business played a key role in all of their lives and the burgeoning success of Henry Jones was a source of particular interest to Quincy.

  ‘Jones’s new factory premises at Old Wharf will be completed in the next eighteen months or so,’ Martha’s husband, Simon Hawtrey, said. ‘Certainly within two years, I’d say.’ Simon, a skilled accountant, managed the affairs of Powell Channel Transport and was an invaluable ally to the family in general, offering sound financial advice on all their ventures. Furthermore, as he and Martha lived in Hobart, Simon could be relied upon to keep the Huon connection up to date with the latest developments in the city.

  Doris nodded. ‘Jones has acquired half the buildings on Old Wharf now,’ she said. Doris was still very much a part of the business and liked to have her say. ‘Mostly the burnt-out tenements,’ she added, referring to the fire that had swept Wapping five years previously, gutting many of the properties. ‘He’s been buying them up ever since the fire.’

  ‘How convenient,’ Thomas said cheekily. ‘I wonder if he started it.’ Twenty-one-year-old Thomas was a bit of a larrikin like his father, but unlike Quincy who never meant any offence, Thomas actually enjoyed ruffling feathers.

  ‘What a terrible thing to say.’ Martha was truly shocked. ‘Ninety people lost their homes in that fire, Thomas. As if Henry Jones would leave his own workers and their families homeless! That is a shocking and libellous statement!’

  ‘He’s joking, Martha,’ Quincy said.

  ‘Oh.’ Martha looked at Thomas who, mission accomplished, grinned back. ‘I see,’ she said, although she didn’t really. Martha had no sense of irony – she always took people at their word and could never understand her nephew’s sense of humour. ‘I think it is a joke in rather poor taste,’ she said, and she didn’t in the least care if she sounded stuffy. Martha was not one to back down when she considered a person had been unjustly maligned, be it in jest or otherwise.

  ‘Quite a lot of the workers are moving out of Wapping.’ Simon, always the diplomat, came smoothly to the rescue. He was an implacable man, and despite – or perhaps because of – his very blandness, at times impressive in the way he could control a situation. ‘The tramway and
the new urban train system have made the suburbs accessible to the working classes, as they can now travel to and from the city factories. Jones is actually helping them by buying up their properties.’

  Martha flashed a dimpled smile at her husband before giving a stern ‘so there’ nod at her nephew, but Thomas didn’t feel at all chastened. He loved the way he could always get a rise out of his aunt Martha.

  ‘In any event,’ Simon continued, steering them back to the subject at hand, ‘Jones is set to change the face of the industry. There’s been no stopping him ever since he bought out old George Peacock, and when the new factory’s fully operational his output will be phenomenal. He already has the British market and Europe will follow.’

  ‘Which can only be to our advantage,’ Quincy said. ‘He’s a good man, Jones; I like doing business with him. He’s tough, certainly, but he strikes a fair deal, and I must say his processing plant at Franklin has been a godsend.’

  ‘So long as he doesn’t get too big for his boots, Quince,’ George sounded a warning. ‘You orchardists wouldn’t want to see a monopoly come into play. What’d happen to your prices then?’

  ‘No,’ Quincy was instantly dismissive, ‘with Peacock at the New Wharf I’m not worried about a monopoly. He and Jones might be friends, but they’re still rivals. Between the two of them they’ll keep the industry competitive.’

  The friendly rivalry between William Peacock and Henry Jones was a well-known fact. Jones owed a great deal to the Peacock family, having started out as a lad of twelve pasting labels on tins at George Peacock’s jam factory on Old Wharf. So astute was the lad at learning the trade that he’d become factory foreman by the time the old man had retired, and in the early nineties after buying Peacock out he’d taken control of the factory as H. Jones & Co. in partnership with A.W. Palfreyman and George Peacock’s younger son, Ernest. George’s older son, William, had set up a rival jam factory on the opposite side of the harbour, fondly known as New Wharf, where the recently constructed Princes Pier was an impressive addition to the dockside reformation. The Jones and W.D. Peacock jam factories of Old Wharf and New Wharf now faced each other across Sullivan’s Cove like duellists poised for a fight to the death, but there was no real enmity between the men at the helm. Tasmania had entered the world arena on many levels. The island colony already produced the Huon pine that made the strongest ships and the Merino sheep that provided the purest wool. It was now poised to offer to the world the top quality fruit that created the finest jam. Tasmania was a paradise for any tiger of industry. There was room for two jam barons.

  ‘I tend to agree with Quincy,’ Simon said albeit a little warily, ‘Jones and Peacock will maintain the competition. It’s my personal belief that Jones’s sheer ambition will take over at some stage, which could present a problem in the future, but I would say that in the long run he will prove an honourable man . . .’ He tailed off with a shrug, giving the impression of something left unsaid, which was frustrating for the others.

  ‘So what’s the problem then?’ Thomas’s query was belligerent; he found Simon’s diplomacy irritating at times. Martha cast a critical glance at her nephew, but on this occasion, although the family members may have disapproved of his manner, young Thomas was asking the question that was on all their minds. Simon’s innuendo demanded explanation.

  There was a pause as they all waited.

  ‘If I have any concerns, it is not so much with Jones himself, or not at this stage anyway, but rather with the man who has funded him,’ Simon said. He’d been reticent about voicing his feelings, but he decided there was no point in hedging any longer. The family deserved to know about the matter that had been gnawing away at the back of his mind for some time now. ‘Does anyone know who financed Jones in buying out Peacock?’ He looked about the gathering like a mild-mannered teacher testing his students.

  The family shared glances and there was a general shaking of heads.

  ‘Exactly. I’ve made discreet enquiries, no-one knows.’ He again looked about the table before hitting them with the next question. ‘Does any know how Jones survived the worst years of the Depression?’

  Again the family exchanged glances and again they shook their heads, a little guiltily this time, like schoolchildren who hadn’t done their homework. But Simon was not seeking answers, his point being that there were none.

  ‘Our businesses were all firmly established by the early nineties,’ he said, addressing the senior family members, George, Quincy, Doris, and his own wife, Martha, ‘yet we came close to collapse, all of us. In fact without the family’s mutual support we quite possibly would not have survived.’

  There were nods all round. Everyone remembered with fearful clarity the hard years of ’91 to ’93.

  ‘How come Henry Jones avoided financial problems when banks and major businesses across all the colonies of Australia were forced to close down?’ This time Simon did not wait for a response. ‘The truth is, Jones not only survived during that time, he prospered. He had funds enough for his share in buying out George Peacock, whose business was in decline like everyone else’s, and he had funds enough to build that business up. Funds from where?’ No longer did Simon appear the mild-mannered teacher, his normally bland expression now replaced by the fierceness of his desire for answers. ‘Jones was not born a wealthy man, although he is clearly set on that path, particularly now he has the assistance of the Commercial Bank of Tasmania. But who financed him when the banks had no money? Who has been helping him buy up property over the years for his new factory? Who is behind his rise to power?’

  By now it was understood that the questions were rhetorical and no-one made any attempt to reply.

  ‘Someone recognised the potential in Jones and decided to champion him. That someone is rich and powerful, probably with interests in many areas, and he wants to expand his domain without his identity being known. There lies the unseen worry in my opinion, for a man like that would be ruled by greed.’

  There was silence around the table. Simon Hawtrey rarely spoke with such force, and his unaccustomed vigour had had an unsettling effect upon the family.

  ‘It’s time for the sing-along,’ Quincy said finally and he picked up his piano accordion. This was a party after all.

  ‘First rate, Henry,’ Reginald Stanford gazed at the open pages of The Mercury that Henry Jones had set down on the desk before him, ‘a fine piece of advertising, very elegant indeed.’ Reginald actually found the new advertising campaign a little gaudy with its overly busy pictures of flowers and fruit dominated by the bold letters IXL. In his opinion it was anything but elegant, although he was certainly not about to argue the point. Jones knew his business, and Reginald never argued with a man who knew his business. He simply put up the money and took his share of the profits. His own astuteness lay primarily in recognising the market and the need, and, on occasions, recognising the right man to back. Jones and his jam factory fitted the bill in all categories.

  The two men were seated in Henry’s upstairs office at H. Jones & Co. on the Old Wharf. They presented an odd pair. Henry, at thirty three, was short and stocky and looked rather like a generously moustachioed pugilist, while Reginald, two years his senior, was tall and somewhat dapper with the neatest moustache and a trimly cut beard. Despite the fact that both were successful, their appearances, for those who recognised the signs – and most would – denoted their backgrounds. One came from the poorer classes, and one did not.

  ‘Excellent effort all round,’ Reginald said. ‘In fact you’ve excelled yourself, Henry, you really have.’

  ‘Why thank you, Reginald.’

  They shared a brief laugh, enjoying the joke. It had been only a year or so ago that Reginald had said those very same words.

  ‘You’ve excelled yourself, Henry,’ he’d said. He’d long since forgotten exactly what he’d been congratulating Henry Jones upon, but it was a favourite catchphrase of his when he wished to encourage a business partner’s efforts. Men needed
compliments. Appealing to a man’s ego spurred him on to greater heights. ‘You’ve excelled yourself yet again,’ he’d said.

  ‘That’s it.’ Henry Jones had grabbed at the word. He’d spelt out a phrase, emphasising each syllable with the utmost care. ‘I-excel-in-all-I-do.’

  ‘True, true indeed,’ Reginald had agreed. The appeal to the man’s ego certainly worked, he’d thought, although it wasn’t really surprising – Henry Jones was a cocky little chap at the best of times.

  ‘No, no, we use that as my motto, don’t you see? I excel in all the products I make,’ Henry had said, once again with pedantic emphasis. ‘And that motto becomes the company’s brand name, the letters I-X-L. It’s perfect, absolutely perfect.’

  Reginald had found the use of the personal pronoun rather egotistical himself. The man did, after all, have two partners. But then Achalen Palfreyman and Ernest Peacock had agreed to the partnership being known as H. Jones & Co., so they would no doubt embrace the suggestion. Besides, if Henry was stimulated by the brand name then Henry would make it work, for that was the sort of businessman Henry Jones was.

  ‘It’s a stroke of genius, Henry,’ he’d said expansively, ‘a stroke of pure genius.’

  Henry Jones had since adopted the brand name for each and every one of his factory products. Every label and every piece of advertising now bore the proud banner ‘IXL’. Reginald had congratulated himself on picking another winner in Henry Jones.

  ‘I must be off,’ he now said. ‘We’ll keep in touch about the purchase of the hop estate in the Derwent Valley. It’s a project I’m most interested in.’

  H. Jones & Co. was broadening its horizons. Henry had been personally approached by his good friend and financier David Barclay of the Commercial Bank of Tasmania, enquiring whether he might be interested in taking over the Shoobridge Brothers Estate at Bushy Park. The bank was concerned about the survival of its investment in the hundred-and-fifty-acre commercial hop-growing property, which had fallen upon hard times.