Silver in the Sun

by Tony Parsons

  ‘So, what did you think of Ian?’ Judy asked, looking in on Rhona as she sat on the side of her bed, brushing her hair.

  ‘Mmm. He’s so pure. I could eat him,’ Rhona looked away dreamily. All the men she had slept with were either incompetent or arrogantly experienced, and it was a revelation to find that such a virginal male could exist. She yearned for a man she could manipulate where it mattered – usually in bed. For Rhona, men were like an itch that had to be scratched, and occasionally she despised herself for allowing lust to override her intelligence.

  ‘Rhona, he’s far too young for you,’ Judy frowned.

  ‘I know. But it doesn’t hurt to dream a little.’

  ‘Perhaps you should opt for a husband, Rhona,’ Judy said, feeling oddly protective towards Ian, ‘or at least a full-time partner. That would be much safer than your casual affairs.’

  ‘You know marriage is not a priority, Mum.’

  Judy sighed, ‘But love should be. Good night, Rhona.’

  Ian went to the study and spread out his papers and books. He had virtually put Rhona out of his head as soon as she’d left the homestead. He’d been impressed by her mind, but not by her pushiness or her flirtatiousness.

  Since beginning his science degree by correspondence, he’d tried to devote at least four hours to it every day – sometimes longer, if he felt fresh enough at night. These hours had become his favourite time of day because the acquisition of knowledge exhilarated him. His brain absorbed information like a sponge and, fortunately for him, his memory allowed him to recall virtually everything he read. Time seemed to fly and he had been working for nearly two hours when he looked up to find Mrs Heatley standing beside him with a glass of milk and a neatly prepared sandwich.

  ‘Mrs Heatley, you don’t have to wait up and make me supper. I’m quite capable of going to the fridge for a glass of milk.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t, Mr Ian. You’d keep going to midnight or later and then go to bed without any supper,’ she scolded.

  ‘Perhaps we can work out a compromise,’ Ian smiled. ‘You could make the supper early and just leave it in the fridge.’

  ‘We could try that, but if I found it there in the morning, I’d be very cross,’ Mrs Heatley said with mock severity. She continued to stand beside him and he sensed there was something more she wished to say.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Heatley?’

  ‘Were you happy with the evening? The dinner was put together in such a hurry and perhaps the wine wasn’t such a good idea …’ she began.

  ‘Everything was fine, thank you,’ Ian reassured her, ‘it really was. The wine was a lovely idea. And I’m glad Rhona the Rebel lived up to her reputation – I would have been disappointed otherwise!’

  ‘Rhona the Rebel!’ Mrs Heatley stifled a giggle. ‘That’s a good one, Mr Ian. She’s very fond of calling people names – I know she calls me “Dragon Lady” behind my back. Now, that’s one in the eye for her!’

  ‘Well don’t let her affect your sleep. She won’t affect mine.’

  The housekeeper smiled with obvious relief.

  ‘And for goodness sake go to bed and leave me to my protozoa,’ Ian said, turning back to his books – and his supper. ‘You’re spoiling me rotten.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was quite a different Rhona Blake who presented herself at Kanimbla soon after nine o’clock two mornings later. Her jeans, blue checked shirt and hint of lipstick made her seem several years younger.

  Ian met her at the front verandah and escorted her into the study. Jim had given him an outline of the extra information that he wanted recorded on the computer, and said he would come at ten o’clock with some new material he’d been working on. In the meantime, Rhona could look over what was already on disk and work out how to add the new material. She figured this out in a matter of minutes and was soon browsing the ram sales and buyers’ details, which were also recorded. Ian noticed her scrutinising the screen with a puzzled expression.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you know that your ram sales have been dropping steadily for the past four years?’

  ‘What? They can’t have!’

  ‘According to this, they have. Not by many the first year, then down a hundred the second, more than two hundred the third, and over four hundred last year. That’s pretty significant, isn’t it? Hasn’t Dad mentioned it?’ Rhona asked.

  ‘No. We’re still breeding from the same number of stud ewes as five years ago,’ Ian said.

  ‘Then you’re either getting lousy lambings or you’re dicing more rams.’ She scrolled further down. ‘Ah, here’s the answer. You sold two lots of young rams to Charleville meatworks.’

  ‘Did we?’ said a startled Ian.

  ‘I suppose a place this size can wear a $160 000 loss. But if sales keep declining at this rate, I guess you’d need to look at a different strategy for the stud – and for Kanimbla for that matter,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Hmm,’ Ian frowned. He realised that the wool market was ‘sick’ but not that Kanimbla had been so much affected by the downturn in prices. And he couldn’t understand why neither Mr Blake nor Jim Landers had mentioned the declining ram sales. He asked Jim as soon as he arrived.

  ‘I wanted to discuss it with you, but Mr Blake said that I wasn’t to worry you,’ Jim explained. ‘He said you had enough to concern you at the outset and he’d talk to you about the ram sales later.’

  ‘Surely you must be worried by this downturn?’

  ‘I sure am. But it’s not as if we’re the only stud affected. Some of the other studs – and I mean some of the biggest studs in Queensland – are closing down their studs and getting out of sheep altogether. They’re going to run cattle exclusively,’ Jim said.

  ‘Where does that leave Kanimbla?’ Ian asked.

  ‘We’ve still got clients who are going to stick to sheep. I think the answer for us is to reduce the number of stud ewes and concentrate on quality. Maybe have an annual sale of rams and surplus ewes here at Kanimbla. Maybe show sheep farther afield. The thing is that although ram sales have been declining, the quality of the sheep here has improved considerably,’ Landers said.

  ‘I think it’s time to call in Mr Blake. He said he’d be doing the books if I needed him,’ Ian said.

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’ Rhona asked.

  ‘No, I want you to stay,’ Ian said tightly. He was clearly shaken by what he’d learned.

  ‘Got a problem?’ Leo asked when he arrived.

  ‘You could say that. Last year’s ram sales are down by four hundred. That’s a very significant decline. And now Jim tells me that some of the big studs nearby – including Terrick – are going right out of sheep because there’s no market for their rams. When were you going to discuss this with me, Mr Blake?’ Ian asked.

  ‘After your reception, when you’d had time to settle in a bit. It’s not that I tried to conceal it. The big question is whether we retain the stud, albeit in a reduced capacity, or dice it completely. We could run more cattle – while they’re bringing the prices they are now, we’d be okay. Or we could go right out of sheep and replace them with cattle —’

  ‘Or grow some cotton,’ Ian cut in.

  ‘I thought you were against cotton!’ Leo said.

  ‘I’m only joking, Mr Blake. Don’t worry. We won’t be growing cotton on Kanimbla.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Landers said under his breath.

  ‘The bigger picture is that fifteen years ago there were seventeen million sheep in Queensland. Today there are less than five million. This reduced flock leaves a much smaller piece of the pie for everyone. Indeed, the push for finer sheep was probably the last straw for the medium–strong studs. These studs had no market for their rams and no longer regard wool alone as an option. So they’re going to cattle. You can’t blame them. It’s a bad show. And what makes it worse is the effect on the merino sheep and wool infrastructure. For generations the big studs have been the training schools for o
verseers, managers, sheep classers and judges. They’ve been responsible for producing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of our best sheepmen. All of that is falling to pieces,’ Leo said sternly.

  ‘But how could this happen?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Too many morons running the show,’ Rhona cut in.

  ‘Rhona!’ Leo protested.

  ‘Well, who else is responsible? You might blame the dingoes for some reduction but they’ve always been here. Or perhaps you could blame the second-rate politicians – but even they’re not entirely responsible for a downturn of twelve million in sheep. The truth is that wool is one of the best natural fibres in the world but it hasn’t been well promoted and marketed. Even I can see that and I’m not in the wool business,’ Rhona said, looking her father in the eye.

  ‘I’m afraid Rhona’s right and it’s a damnable situation. It’s not the stud breeder or what I might term the professional woolgrower who’s letting the industry down. There’s wool available that has a one hundred per cent comfort factor – it’s beautifully crimped with great elasticity. But who knows about it? Even with the downturn, many growers are still paying big money for rams to maintain or improve their wool. There are plenty of growers who still have faith in wool, but they’re not being supported by top-class promotion,’ Leo said.

  ‘The question is: where does all of that leave us?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Well, we’ve refashioned the stud along the lines of Uardry in Rowand Jameson’s day. We’ve got special, double and single stud ewes. As things are shaping we could probably reduce our stud ewes, but before we actually do that I’d be inclined to use some of the finer ewes to set up a fine-medium family. If we could produce fine-medium wool on good-sized sheep, maybe we’d pull in some new clients.’

  ‘You’ve just about echoed my thinking, Mr Blake. I’d say it’s either a total commitment to producing very high-class sheep or getting out of the business altogether. I doubt there’s a middle road. It’s tough for me to contemplate dicing stud sheep and I hope we don’t take that road,’ Ian said solemnly.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the finish of Kanimbla because you could run a heap of cattle here, but it would be the end of the place as we know it. We’ve made a lot of progress with the sheep and I’d hate to see all that tossed away. But I guess the decision is between you and Ian, Mr Blake,’ Jim said.

  ‘Thanks, Jim,’ said Leo. ‘You’ve put the position very clearly. I agree it’s either–or. And I also reckon that in the final analysis it’s Ian who has to decide which way we go. It’s a lot to put on your shoulders, Ian. There’s hard-headed rural men who are pulling out of sheep and there are other hardheads who are staying with them. But breeding stud sheep is different to breeding flock sheep. You can only survive as a stud operation if you can sell your rams. The big question is whether we can still sell our rams. We can take certain steps to improve our selling situation but we’ve got to hope that merino sheep numbers don’t shrink any further. And that, to a great extent, will depend on how well we promote wool in the future,’ Leo said.

  Poor bloody Ian, thought Rhona. He’ll be criticised if he closes down the stud and he’ll be criticised if he spends money to improve it and still can’t sell Kanimbla rams. Talk about having no way out.

  Ian himself felt a little shaky after these revelations, but knew that he was expected to take the lead.

  ‘I suggest that we work out what we need on the basis that we’re going to carry on with the stud,’ he said. ‘That way, Rhona can continue with the new program while she’s here. You could go back to your books if you like, Mr Blake, while we nut out what we want to put into the computer.’

  So, until lunchtime, when Jim had to leave, the three of them sat around the computer and looked at numbers. It was exhausting, but they were all intelligent people with different areas of expertise, and after the initial shock of the situation, Ian began to enjoy the process. He ended up feeling quite grateful to Rhona, and invited her to stay for lunch, in the hope that Mrs Heatley wouldn’t mind too much.

  Ian looked at Rhona as she sat sipping an orange juice on the verandah. She had the habit of licking the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. He had never seen anyone do it in quite the same way. She was an eye-catching woman – very attractive in a slightly harder sort of way than her mother. Perhaps it was her steely grey eyes – just like Leo’s – that suggested an inner toughness. Rhona came across as a woman who knew where she wanted to go.

  ‘So, you’re getting on well with Leigh Metcalfe?’ Rhona asked to get the conversation going.

  ‘He’s an interesting person,’ Ian said.

  ‘He’s certainly opinionated,’ Rhona agreed. ‘Has he shared his views on the fairer sex?’

  ‘Well … ’ Ian began.

  Rhona smiled mischievously, hoping Ian might be encouraged to continue.

  ‘I didn’t prolong that part of our conversation and it isn’t something I want to discuss now, if you don’t mind,’ Ian said, looking away.

  ‘Hmm.’ Rhona was disappointed, but decided that she liked him too much to push him further. ‘So what are your plans while you’re here?’

  Ian refused to meet her eye. Despite his intelligence, he wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

  ‘I mean, as far as Kanimbla goes,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I’m worried about the wool situation. We’re producing a beautiful product, and there’s hundreds of millions of people in the Northern Hemisphere who have to endure awfully cold winters, yet the wool prices are lousy. I keep racking my brains, asking myself why. There must be a remedy,’ Ian said.

  ‘Look, this isn’t my area of expertise, but I suspect that a lot of mistakes have been made in the promotion and marketing of wool. I was always against the reserve price – it encouraged more producers to grow more but not necessarily better wool. That stockpile was like a sword of Damocles hanging over the wool producers. In the finish, financing the purchases was too much for the government. I think a product has to stand on its merits and not rely on a subsidy, which the reserve price really was. We criticise the Americans and the Europeans for their subsidies yet the federal government sanctioned the reserve price.

  ‘There are two things essential to selling any product. First, there’s the product and its uniqueness or attractiveness. Second, you need to promote these features so people will want to buy it. Never mind the old “Throw another shrimp on the barbie” line. The advertisements should be saying, “Now that it’s getting colder, throw on a super-soft, warm Aussie jumper.” As the daughter of a station manager, surrounded by wool talk from the day I could walk, I’ve taken some interest in the subject. For years you couldn’t buy woollen articles because the top end of the market was all that mattered – woollen blends were discouraged. Every generation needs to be told about wool and why they should wear it. I mean, why do companies selling other products spend so much on promotion? Because they’re worried about losing market share! Years ago, in a hearing before the old Prices Justification Tribunal, a major manufacturer of breakfast foods was asked why they needed to spend so much on promotion. If less was spent in this area, surely the price of the product could be reduced? The company’s answer was that if they spent less on promotion, a lot of people would go back to eating bacon and eggs!’ Rhona finished with a smile.

  ‘So what do you think we should be doing?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Wool needs to be promoted better – here and overseas. Growers have contributed a lot of wool-tax money and they’re asking what they’ve got for it. There’s enough talent in Australia to produce really worthwhile promotional campaigns, but it hasn’t been utilised. The pig industry turned the image of pork around with its new cuts and a striking sales pitch – that’s what we need for wool. And woolgrowers aren’t the best people to do it; we need top marketers and advertising people,’ Rhona said.

  ‘But aren’t the lower prices a part of the problem?’ argued Ian. ‘We could accept lower wool prices if our costs were lowe
r, but they’re not.’

  ‘Granted. But don’t forget that the fibre business is characterised by substitutability. The wool price is measured against the price of cotton and synthetics. Overseas fibre manufacturers don’t concern themselves with Australia’s production costs, only with what our wool costs against the price of the other fibres. And we’re losing market share,’ Rhona said.

  Ian looked at her with a new respect. He hadn’t expected her to be so switched on about issues in agribusiness.

  ‘Is there an answer?’ he asked.

  ‘For you? Sell Kanimbla and go back to Cambridge,’ she said with a laugh. ‘There are plenty of people with dirt on the brain who’ll battle on with sheep and wool for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘The Richardson name would be mud if I sold Kanimbla.’ Ian frowned.

  ‘Properties get sold all the time, even the top properties. Someone else would buy Kanimbla and life would go on and you could be doing whatever you fancy,’ Rhona said.

  Ian stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Look, I don’t like the idea of selling Kanimbla. It’s been in the Richardson family for a long time. What about China? They’re buying more wool now. Surely there are good prospects for wool there.’

  ‘China is a great potential market. It has far cheaper manufacturing costs and a huge population that’s generally enjoying a higher standard of living. But how well we promote wool in the future will play a big part in determining how much China takes,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Mmm. I take your point.’ Although Rhona was not in the wool game, what she’d told Ian seemed to make a lot of sense.

  ‘I’m at your disposal while I’m here,’ Rhona said and again the tip of her tongue licked the right side of her mouth.

  ‘Hang on a moment,’ Ian said and disappeared into the homestead. When he reappeared he handed Rhona a bottle of wine. ‘This is from my uncle’s collection; it’s a small gift to show my appreciation for all your help. You might like to share it with someone special when you go back to Sydney,’ he said.