Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I see a great future for you in the hop industry,’ Reginald said. ‘I believe this purchase will be the first of many.’ He smiled conspiratorially. ‘Of course the current transaction will be perceived as an arrangement between H. Jones & Co. and the Commercial Bank, but I take it an ongoing “silent partner” would be a welcome ally in the venture?’

  ‘A silent partner is a most valued partner, Reginald.’ Henry returned the smile.

  Through David Barclay, the Commercial Bank was presumed to be Henry Jones’s principal financier in many an enterprise, which was exactly the way Reginald Stanford liked it. Stanford Colonial Enterprises was not seen to support flashy entrepreneurs like Jones. Stanford Colonial, as the firm was fondly known, was primarily associated with the long-established and reputable export industry of Merino wool and also, more recently, of high quality timber. Furthermore, with the elderly Silas Stanford as its titular head, Stanford Colonial retained its reputation as a company that strongly lent its support to philanthropic works. Upon taking over the management of his family’s business, Reginald had expanded their interests significantly, but he’d been hampered by his father, who was set in his ways. The company, in Reginald Stanford’s opinion, was old-fashioned and outdated, and while he was happy to maintain the public profile demanded of him, indeed very much enjoying the respect his status commanded, he was determined to conquer fresh fields. There were riches ripe for the plucking and if in taking advantage of the opportunities on offer he was occasionally forced to act in a covert fashion, then so be it.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he now said as he stood.

  Henry rose also and accompanied him to the door.

  Reginald took his straw boater from the hat stand. He preferred casual dress when attending a clandestine meeting, the image of a straw boater and Norfolk jacket signalling a gentleman simply out for a stroll. Had he been conducting business on behalf of Stanford Colonial, he would have outfitted himself in a bowler hat and a fine dark wool suit with the obligatory watch chain decorating its waistcoat. Clothes sat well on Reginald and he enjoyed dressing as befitted the occasion. Besides, a change of image was all part of the game.

  ‘Cheerio, Henry.’

  ‘Goodbye, Reginald. I shall be in touch soon, I promise.’

  The two men shook hands.

  Reginald donned his boater, trotted briskly down the stairs and stepped out the front doors into the busyness that was Old Wharf.

  He walked along the dockside, past the newly constructed Victoria Dock and past the Alexander and Dunn Street Piers, heading towards Argyle Street. Up ahead the other five piers pointed out into the water like the fingers of a giant ever-busy hand. Hobart’s harbour had changed over the years, just as Ma Tebbutt had said it would.

  Reginald turned into Argyle Street, enjoying the crispness of the afternoon: spring was his favourite season. Well, spring and autumn. Summer too hot and winter too cold, he preferred the more temperate months. Although one can hardly rely upon the constancy of the seasons in this part of the world, he thought as he rounded the corner into Macquarie Street. Hobart weather was so capricious that spring could become winter in a matter of minutes.

  A tram rattled past, women on its open upper deck clasping their hats to their heads, and Reginald smiled at the ding of its bell. He even gave the driver a wave, as if the bell had been sounded just for him. Reginald very much liked trams.

  Reginald Stanford was in a surprisingly good mood today. He had no idea why – nothing of any great magnitude had occurred. But Reginald’s moods were rather like the Hobart weather, unpredictable and at times even more contrary. Spring could become winter in only seconds.

  He stopped to admire the magnificent stonework of the Town Hall, its grand front portico and its Tuscan columns. Reginald had a great love of fine architecture, of which there was now a great deal to enjoy in Hobart, but the two-storey Town Hall of Italian Renaissance design was, in his opinion, the finest. He walked on past Franklin Square with its grand government buildings, and then a block further past the mighty tower of St David’s Cathedral, admiring each architectural delight along the way. And as he walked he nodded good day and smiled and tipped his hat to any passers-by whom he knew. He was so inexplicably ebullient that even the prospect of a meeting with his father could not dampen his spirits.

  *

  ‘Good afternoon, Father.’

  As he entered the sitting room, Reginald tossed his straw boater on the sofa and joined his father at the table, where Silas was patiently waiting for his tea: Mathilda always delivered it on the dot of four.

  ‘Good afternoon, Reginald.’ Silas glanced critically from the boater on the sofa to his son’s Norfolk jacket. There were times when he did not at all approve of Reginald’s choice of dress. It was far too flamboyant for a thirty-five-year-old businessman, and a married man at that. What, did the boy think he was twenty? ‘You’ll be taking tea, I presume?’ Although he avoided any specific comment, his tone clearly indicated that Reginald couldn’t possibly be committed to any business appointment, dressed as he was.

  Reginald recognised the inference. He knew every single one of his father’s disapproving nuances, but today nothing could ruffle him.

  ‘That would be very jolly, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Your mother will be pleased. She had thought this might be another of your fleeting visits.’

  ‘No, no. I shall stay. I shall stay and I shall devour every single one of the chicken sandwiches she makes for you. What do you say to that?’

  Was there the flicker of a smile in the faded blue eyes? Reginald found it impossible to tell, and he didn’t care anyway.

  Silas was now ninety years old, and looked every day of it: a fragile, shrunken shell of the man he once had been. But his mind was still sharp, and his will as forceful as ever, and therein lay the problem. Reginald, for all of his dapper style, was a hard man, not one to cross, nor one to frighten easily, but memories of the fear his father had instilled in him throughout his childhood remained in the depths of his psyche. Silas had been fifty-five years of age when Mathilda had borne him a son, and Reginald had grown up with an old man as a father. And not just any old man, but a fearsome one. He detested Silas for the tenacious hold he had on life. The man was decrepit, he should be dead or senile, yet here he was, still playing the tyrant.

  Reginald looked about at the dour Georgian home of his childhood, which had become even gloomier over recent years. Silas’s eyes being affected by glare the drapes these days remained closed for the most part. Nothing about the house had changed in all the years Reginald could remember. The furniture was the furniture from his childhood, as were the rugs and the lamp fittings and the curtains – all was the same. Silas believed in the long-term serviceability of things: new acquisitions were considered an indulgence. Reginald often wondered how his mother could have borne life with such a man, although possessions were probably of little importance to her too. Mathilda, like her husband, was devoted to helping the underprivileged. Reginald couldn’t grasp the philosophy himself. Why should one work hard to achieve success and then give away the proceeds? Indeed, why should the successful and privileged work at all for the profit of others? That was the job of the working classes.

  ‘Reggie.’ Mathilda appeared with the tea tray, and her face lit up with pleasure at the sight of her son. Well into her sixties, her face was lined and her hair steel-grey, but there was nothing fragile about Mathilda. Mathilda remained a strong and capable woman.

  ‘Hello, Mama.’ Reginald jumped to his feet and kissed his mother on the cheek as he took the tray from her. ‘I’ve come to eat all of Father’s chicken sandwiches.’

  She laughed. ‘How lovely,’ she said. ‘Get started right away and I’ll fetch another cup.’

  She disappeared into the kitchen and was gone for a good ten minutes, having decided to make an extra sandwich. By the time she returned her husband and son were in the midst of a heated business discussion, as was invariab
ly the case.

  ‘The upkeep of Merinos is so very costly, Father. Our output would be far greater if we diversified –’

  ‘Stanford Wool has a reputation to uphold, Reginald.’ Silas cut in coldly. They’d had this conversation before and it always annoyed him. Reginald rarely even visited the property at Pontville, showing no interest in it whatsoever apart from its output. Silas himself was beyond making the trip these days, as travelling by train and then trap jarred every bone in his body. He thanked God daily for his daughter and her husband. The property remained in good hands with Amy and Donald Balfour, and there was even a Stanford ready and waiting to take over. Silas loved Amy with all his heart for having named her son Stanford-Balfour. It pained him to admit the fact, but with his life nearing an end, he needed assurance that a Stanford would protect the property and its reputation against the greed of his own son. And that man would be Edwin Stanford-Balfour.

  ‘Quality not quantity has always been our motto, boy,’ he said, making no attempt to mask his disdain. ‘Let the mainlanders provide wool for the masses. Stanford wool will remain the purest Merino.’

  ‘I made an extra chicken sandwich, Reggie,’ Mathilda said brightly, placing the dish and the fresh cup and saucer on the table, ‘just to keep the peace,’ she added, her message abundantly clear. She sat, looking meaningfully from one to the other, but her warning was addressed principally to her husband.

  ‘Thank you, Mama.’ Reginald smiled; he adored his mother. Her freedom in using the diminutive form of address was proof of the fact. Reginald was Reginald to all who knew him, family or otherwise, and should anyone, in a fit of bonhomie, attempt a ‘Reg’ or a ‘Reggie’ they met with very short shrift. ‘Reggie’ was the special preserve of the woman who had provided the one source of warmth throughout the coldness of his childhood.

  ‘There you are, you see, Father,’ Reginald turned his smile upon Silas, ‘saved by the woman who loves you.’ He picked up a sandwich and took a large bite to prove his good humour. He would not allow his father to annoy him today. He would retain his cheerful mood at all costs.

  ‘Indeed, Reginald, I am a fortunate man.’ Silas returned the vestige of a smile. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He nodded apologetically to his wife, aware that he had become unnecessarily heated. Why did he allow the boy to rile him so? The fact that he still thought of his thirty-five-year-old son as ‘the boy’ was perhaps part of the problem, but he simply couldn’t help himself. Somewhere along the line Reginald had proved a disappointment. He had not become the man Silas had wished his son to be.

  ‘The lad has no moral fibre,’ he’d long ago complained to his wife. ‘He’s received the best education money can buy, he leads a life of privilege and yet he seems to accept it all as his God-given right. He’s a selfish boy who takes and does not give.’

  ‘You’re too critical, Silas,’ Mathilda had said. ‘You expect too much of him. If you set your standards so high this early in his life, he is destined to disappoint you.’

  Perhaps she was right, he thought. He’d been so excited by the birth of a son that his expectations had possibly been unreasonable. And Reginald had, after all, fulfilled the most important duty required of a son and heir.

  Silas took a sandwich from the dish, signalling a truce. ‘How is Evelyn?’ he asked, although he already knew. Mathilda visited their daughter-in-law daily at Stanford House, the mansion Reginald called home in nearby Davey Street.

  ‘She is doing splendidly, thank you, Father. Doctor Harvey tends her regularly and is most satisfied with her condition. He sees no cause for concern.’

  ‘That is excellent news.’

  Reginald’s wife, Evelyn, was due to give birth in less than a month. The delivery of a healthy baby was eagerly awaited by the couple for in the five years of their marriage Evelyn had had three miscarriages and it had been feared she was unable to carry a child to full term.

  ‘Excellent news indeed,’ Silas said, and he bit into his sandwich. Dear God, how he prayed the child would be a boy. He wanted so desperately to die with the knowledge that his direct line would continue.

  They drank their tea and the conversation progressed along safer lines, the men taking care not to aggravate one other, although business as always was the topic of the day. Business after all was their only common interest.

  Silas enquired after the new steam-driven ketch commissioned by Stanford and Hazeldene Timber.

  ‘She’s a fine vessel, Father,’ Reginald said. He’d returned only two days previously from his trip to the timber mill at Kermandie in the Huon Valley to take delivery of the SS Lady Evelyn. ‘George Powell is without a doubt one of the finest master shipwrights the colony has to offer.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Silas said. ‘I shall look forward very much to seeing the vessel when she makes her first delivery to the Hobart docks. You must keep me informed, Reginald.’

  ‘I shall, I promise. Evelyn, too, is of course eager to see her namesake.’

  Reginald had made a most fortuitous connection when he’d married Evelyn Hazeldene, the only daughter of a wealthy timber merchant. The new business partnership of Stanford and Hazeldene had prospered and Silas Stanford had finally been forced to broaden his horizons, even agreeing to the formation of Stanford Colonial Enterprises. Silas had found the name a little grandiose himself, but he’d been outvoted by the members of the Board.

  ‘When the baby is born we’ll make a special family trip to the harbour,’ Reginald said. ‘All of us,’ he added, with a smile to his mother. We will watch the SS Evelyn arrive in all her splendour.’ Reginald would far rather have named the vessel Mathilda in honour of his mother, but he’d decided it politic to keep his wife and old man Hazeldene happy.

  ‘We most certainly shall,’ Silas agreed. ‘I very much look forward to it.’

  Mathilda poured them all a second cup of tea and Reginald decided that, as he and his father were getting along so well, he would test the waters.

  ‘Do you remember when I personally invested in the new electric tram system, Father? You wouldn’t have a bar of it. Do you recall how you laughed at me?’

  ‘Yes, yes?’ Silas’s tone clearly demanded to know where this was leading.

  ‘Well, I currently stand to make a great deal of money, for as you will have witnessed yourself, the people of Hobart have taken the trams to their hearts. Yet at the time you told me electricity was the tool of the devil. Those were your words, Father – your very words!’

  ‘And I’m not at all sure I wasn’t right,’ Silas muttered rebelliously.

  ‘With the greatest respect, sir, a new century beckons. Scientific advances are being made every day.’ Reginald took his father’s mutterings to be purely defensive. ‘What about that William Davidson fellow from New Zealand? In the ’80s when wool prices fell by a third, what does he do? He builds a slaughterhouse at Oamaru, refits the Dunedin with a compression refrigeration unit and ships frozen lamb to Europe! Refrigerated shipping! What a dashed clever notion. Now there’s a man who moves with the times.’

  Silas’s expression was a baleful glare, but as it usually was and as he’d made no further attempt to halt his son’s flow, Reginald decided to follow through with his test.

  ‘I believe our own Henry Jones is cut from the same cloth,’ he said. ‘Jones is gaining momentum each day with his IXL exports –’

  But by now Silas had had quite enough. ‘Don’t talk to me of Jones. It was men like Jones who brought the colonies to their knees barely three years ago. Have you forgotten the Great Banking Crisis?’

  ‘No, Father, I have not, but –’

  ‘Well I’ll tell you here and now it was brought about by the likes of Jones and his IXL. Yes, yes, and your New Zealand fellow and his refrigeration. Rash young entrepreneurial types creating a false economy, encouraging a flood of foreign investment to choke our financial system.’ Silas was angry now. ‘The banks collapsed! Half the companies in the country suspended trading!’

 
‘You’re exaggerating, Father –’

  ‘I most certainly am not! We have only recently recovered from the worst financial depression this country has experienced and impatient young men like your Mr Jones will lead us straight into another one! Let me tell you, boy,’ Silas shook his gnarled fist, ‘it will be over my dead body!’

  How Reginald wished he could arrange that.

  ‘Calm down, Silas.’ Mathilda was concerned. ‘Please dear, please calm down.’ She cast a look of appeal at her son.

  ‘Yes, do calm down, Father,’ Reginald responded obediently, ‘you mustn’t get yourself so worked up.’ Perhaps, he thought, there might come a day when one of his father’s temper tantrums would lead to a heart attack. God he wished the old man would die: it was positively obscene he should have lived this long. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you so. Drink your tea, Father, do.’

  At least I know where I stand with regard to Henry Jones, Reginald thought. He was not in the least surprised, but good God, if the mention of IXL Jam elicited a response like this, just imagine the reaction he’d get if he suggested investment in the hops industry? The Stanford name associated with the production of liquor? Never! Oh well, he and Nigel would manage. They always did. He and Nigel were masters of subterfuge.

  Nigel Lyttleton of Lyttleton Holdings & Investment was ten years older than Reginald, but their families had had business connections for years. Nigel had been six years old and his sister eleven when their father Geoffrey had committed suicide, but their mother Phyllis had soldiered bravely on, appointing experts to run the company until her son was of an age to assume his rightful place at its head. Nigel, with virtually no memory of his father, had remained quite dispassionate about the suicide. Indeed he appeared to rather relish the fact that he worked in the same office where his father had blown his brains out. ‘In that very chair,’ he would say, pointing to the Queen Anne walnut elbow chair. He’d kept the chair when he’d modernised the office. A damned uncomfortable thing, he never used it, but being a collector’s item it was worth a fortune – besides which it made such an interesting talking point. ‘And to this day no-one has any idea why he did it,’ he would say with a shrug.