by Tony Parsons
Ian had been well aware that this was the question Sean and the other graziers would ask. Ian had not been able to answer questions about the motel’s profitability at the town meeting back in February, but this time he was armed with much more information.
‘Sean, I’ll be honest with you and say that I doubt there’ll be any great profit in a motel in Murrawee. I think the return on investment would be small, especially in the first couple of years, though I might be wrong. Still, there might be some benefits tax-wise and I’m looking into that, but I’m more interested in the extra business a motel might bring to the town. I don’t want to badmouth the pub because it has been the only accommodation in Murrawee for some time, but the fact of the matter is that most people don’t want their vehicles parked in the street and they don’t want to have to carry luggage a long way. They like their cars outside their doors and they want en suite facilities.
‘Wouldn’t you all like to be able to tell your clients that there’s a motel available for them in Murrawee?’ Ian said. He looked across to where Helen Donovan sat in his big leather sofa. ‘What do you think, Mrs Donovan?’
‘A motel would be just wonderful for Murrawee. I suppose its profitability would depend on how well we promote our town, as well as how much the tariff is. If it’s lower than at the motels in the bigger places, that could be a plus. The “Oasis in the West” slogan could work very well to pull in travellers. But I’d have to think about the breakfast side of things. I’d like the extra business but how would guests take to leaving their rooms for breakfast? We could offer them a real bush breakfast and that might be an inducement.’
Mrs Donovan continued, ‘But of course the big question is whether the district will come up with the money. I dare say if it was a prefabricated job, we could count on some voluntary labour but there’s plumbing and electricity and that has to be done properly.’
‘I’ve done a bit of work on this for Ian,’ Fiona cut in. ‘If we decide to go ahead and build a motel we can use Mr Morton, whether we build it from the ground up or use prefabricated units. We’ve talked to him and he’s been very helpful. Mr Zeller has agreed to do the plumbing and Mr Petersen the electrical work. Mr Greenaway referred us to an architect in Roma, who will draw up the plans for the council,’ Fiona said.
Joe smiled at Fiona, ‘Good work.’ Ian marvelled at her newfound confidence. After all her work on the sheepdog trials, and her interviews for newspaper and television, Fiona had seemed much more self-assured, and he had been pleased when she offered to take on the project management of the motel.
‘So do you have an estimate of what it will cost?’ Will Roper asked. Will ran a big Santa Gertrudis stud and was seriously well off. He conducted an annual stud sale of his cattle, and being able to book some of his buyers into a motel in Murrawee would be a big plus.
‘If we allowed fifty thousand dollars per unit and a hundred thousand overall for furnishings, bedding, TVs and other electrical gear we’d be close to the mark. Of course it depends on how many units we settle on. Our advice is that it would be better to build a twelve-unit motel than a ten. One of those units would be taken up by the caretakers,’ Fiona said.
‘So we’re talking seven hundred thousand?’ Will Roper asked.
‘Not exactly,’ Ian interceded. ‘We’ve already got nearly a third of that amount.’
There was a general swivelling of heads towards Ian after this announcement. He smiled at Fiona who was clearly enjoying herself at this meeting.
‘You mean some people have already promised that much?’ Will Roper asked.
‘More than promised. We’ve got the money in the bank, Mr Roper,’ said the ever-courteous Ian. ‘Actually, we’ve got a great deal more than that, but the government grant wasn’t for the motel. It was to be used for the caravan and bird parks’ amenities block and office, and for the swimming pools. We’ll need about four hundred thousand more for the motel.’
‘We should be able to raise that,’ Roper said.
‘Yep,’ agreed Sean Driscoll.
‘Thank you gentlemen,’ said Ian as he shook hands with each man present, ‘I know you won’t regret it.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Ian sat with Jim in the Kanimbla ram shed. A new client had been impressed with their sheep and left an order for ten rams. This bucked the trend for a downward spiral of ram orders as disenchanted woolgrowers got out of the wool business in favour of either meat breeds or cattle.
‘Jim, as you’re well aware, today’s order is unusual. Over-all, our ram sales have dropped quite drastically in line with a statewide decline. In the last twenty years, Queensland’s sheep population has dropped by more than seventy-five per cent. As I told Mr Blake, I don’t propose to keep breeding good rams that end up at the abattoirs. However, I’m not going out of ram breeding entirely. What we’re going to have to do is reduce the number of rams we breed and improve still further the quality of those we do breed.
‘When David MacLeod was here, he spoke about a couple of rams he’d set aside for us to examine. They’re from a special family he’s developed from a New England stud. These sheep push out a lot of wool – so much so that they’d need shearing every eight months. This will increase shearing costs, but we’d produce three clips in two years and that would help to make up for the downturn in ram sales. That’s one avenue open to us and I’m proposing to take it,’ Ian said.
‘It’s a good one, Ian,’ Jim agreed. ‘But you could also consider meat sheep or prime lambs. Of course, it wouldn’t be as simple to implement here as in the cooler country. It would be a real challenge, no doubt about that.’
‘Jim, I want you to take a trip down to Merriwa and have a look at those two rams David MacLeod spoke about. If you like what you see, bring either one or both of them back.’
‘You’ll leave it to me?’ Landers asked.
‘Of course,’ Ian said. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Blake and he’s agreed that I should appoint you Assistant Manager. I’m proposing to increase your salary to go with your new status, Jim – assuming that you’ll stay.’
‘I’m not planning to leave in the short term,’ said Jim, ‘unless perhaps a manager’s job comes up elsewhere.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Ian.
The meeting began at nine o’clock in Ian’s study. Leo, Jim and the three jackaroos were in attendance. Peter Cross, the senior jackaroo, had been promoted to overseer now that Jim was assistant manager.
‘Thanks for coming, gentlemen,’ Ian began. ‘I’ve already spoken to Mr Blake and to Jim Landers about where I think Kanimbla should be headed and now I want you all to understand quite clearly what your roles will be in the future. What I’m hoping is that these roles will provide incentives for you to stay at Kanimbla and also make your lives a lot more interesting.
‘Peter, as overseer your main role will be to look after the stud sheep and to show them. We’ll be reducing the number of rams we breed by fifty per cent, but we’ll still get stuck into showing. I’m hoping you will be taking teams of our sheep to the big shows down south so we’ll be mixing it with the best sheep in the country,’ Ian said.
Peter nodded his assent.
‘As you know, the two MacLeod rams Jim brought back from David’s are from a family he’s been developing that produce a lot of wool. Jim, with Peter’s help, you will be developing this factor using an artificial insemination program. Hopefully, and before very long, we’ll have a line of these sheep which will mean three shearings every two years. The extra returns should help to compensate for the reduced ram sales and additional shearing costs.’
Jim piped up, ‘There’s a big push on to produce merinos with faster growth and more meat. Gerald could take a trip around the country and have a look at this whole situation. He could talk to Roger Fletcher at Dubbo and get a handle on the mutton picture. And there are a few fellows down that way who are big on Dohne sheep.’
‘Good idea, Jim,’ said Ian.
Jim cont
inued, ‘I’ve been thinking that we could mate some of our lesser ewes to Dohnes and then use the half-bred ewes to mate with Texels or some other prime lamb sire.’
‘When would you want me to go?’ Gerald asked Ian.
‘As soon as possible,’ said Ian. ‘You’d better take the new utility. I’ll give you some cash, but keep a record of your costs.’
‘Righto,’ said Gerald.
‘In the first place we must ensure that our young stud sheep are fed right so they’ll grow well. That means oats and lucerne – lucerne because we’ll need hay and chaff We’ll also need a fair area of oats for prime lambs. I’m also concerned that we don’t have enough stored feed for cattle. I want to put down a big quantity of silage which we can use for our best stud cows if things get tough. I believe corn silage is what most dairy farmers use though you can use a range of crops including forage sorghum.’
‘But what about irrigation for all this?’ asked Ted.
‘We’ve got a licence to pump more water than we’ve ever utilised,’ Ian replied. ‘In the future we’re going to make the most of whatever water we’re entitled to. When Gerald gets back from his trip I want you to look into the silage business to see whether it’s better for us to cut and manage the silage or, alternatively, bring in a contractor.’
‘Okay,’ said Ted.
‘I want you to be responsible for all the farming. That will be your number one priority. You’ll put in the crops and look after the irrigation. How does that suit you?’ Ian asked.
‘It sounds like a challenge,’ Ted smiled.
Ian felt confident that he had helped put Kanimbla on the right path to maintain its future profitability. He knew it would take some time to implement these changes, but he had a great deal of faith in Jim Landers, and in his three young jackaroos – they’d do a fine job.
Chapter Twenty-six
Trish Claydon, who initially had not exhibited any great interest in the Murrawee developments, pricked up her ears when she heard that the construction of a motel had been approved. It seemed to Trish, who had some experience of assignations in motel rooms, that a motel in Murrawee offered some definite advantages hitherto unavailable in the township.
When Trish noticed that work had well and truly begun on the units, she called Ian to tell him that she’d be happy to be involved with any aspect of planning for the motel, especially the selection of bathroom fittings, electrical goods and furnishings – after all, she was an expert at spending other people’s money.
Ian discussed Trish’s offer with Helen Donovan as the chairperson of the Murrawee and District Development Association.
‘I’d give her a list of what you need and let her get some quotes, Ian. Trish has got good fashion sense even though she wears those outrageous outfits from time to time,’ said the ever-practical Helen Donovan. ‘There are some good places in Toowoomba where you can buy sheeting and furniture fairly inexpensively,’ she added.
So Trish, who was never reluctant to have an outing, drove to Toowoomba to get some quotes, and to select some sample linen. It was a drive of several hours, and she planned to spend the night there. It would probably take all day to do the rounds of the shops, with time off for a nice lunch, and she wasn’t going to return late in the day, as it would mean driving in the dark. So she planned to skip breakfast in Toowoomba and get away early on the second day. And this is exactly what she did – the car stacked with curtains, towels and other linen, some of which she’d bought for Bahreenah because they’d been on special.
When she reached Murrawee, she decided to inspect the developments in River Road. She drove across the railway line and headed down towards the stretch of river that had so captivated Ian when he saw it for the first time. As she passed by the caravan park, she noticed Leigh Metcalfe’s four-wheel drive out the front.
Leigh and Luke had been working hard on the bird park. It had taken a long time to set up each of the cages in readiness for their new occupants, and on this day they were celebrating the arrival of a pair of princess parrots with their distinctive long tail feathers. This wasn’t an endangered species, but was considered vulnerable, and its habitat ranged across the west of South Australia’s western region, and easternmost Western Australia. This pair had come from a bird fancier who happened to be a mate of Leigh Metcalfe.
The men were sitting outside Luke’s van enjoying a game of poker. Trish couldn’t resist the opportunity for a flirt with her old flame, so she stopped her car and joined them.
‘G’day, Trish. Fancy a hand?’ Leigh asked in high good humour. ‘You’ve met Luke, haven’t you?’
Trish hesitated. She noticed an empty wine bottle under the table and another on the table top. She liked poker and she liked red wine, but drinking and playing poker with two men in a caravan park in Murrawee wasn’t what a grazier’s wife was supposed to do.
Leigh pushed a glass of red wine towards her. ‘That’s a great drop, Trish. Won a gold medal some damn place.’
Trish picked up the glass, sniffed the wine and then took a swallow. It was very smooth and it did lovely things inside her. Two glasses later Trish was playing poker.
After a few games, the last of which she won, and several more glasses of red wine, Trish decided she’d better head back home. She wasn’t feeling the best, so she put one of the sample towels on the front seat. It would come in handy if she were sick.
‘Are you all right to drive, Trish?’ Leigh asked. It seemed that the wine had had very little effect on him or Luke. But Trish, in her determination to retain her figure, had had very little to eat before she left Toowoomba. Leigh and Luke had eaten good breakfasts.
‘I could drive back to Bahreenah with my eyes closed,’ Trish boasted.
It may have been that Trish was testing this boast or it might have been that she was driving a shade too fast for her condition. Drowsy from too much wine, she didn’t see the big red roo as it left a patch of scrub and hopped across the road. Trish slammed on the brakes and the Fairlane spun sideways, hit the roo, jumped the gutter and slammed into a small ironbark. The roo jerked convulsively a couple of times and then lay still.
Ian, on his way in to Murrawee to meet Luke and Leigh, was the first car along the road and he saw the big dead roo before he saw the stationary Fairlane. He slowed to a stop and saw Trish Claydon sitting on the ground with her back against the right front wheel. She had a cut on her forehead and a lot of blood had run down her face onto her blouse.
Trish put her hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun so she could look up when she heard Ian approach. She essayed a weak smile as Ian stood over her. ‘It’s the lovely Ian come to the rescue,’ she giggled.
Ian thought at first that she might be concussed, but moving closer realised she was drunk. ‘Where are you hurt, Mrs Claydon?’ he asked.
‘I’m Trish. Trish, Trish, Trish,’ she burbled.
‘All right, you’re Trish,’ Ian said to humour her. ‘Where are you hurt?’ he repeated.
‘My head hurts and I’ve got a pain here,’ she said and pointed to her rib region. ‘Ouch!’
Ian decided she was probably both concussed, drunk and may even have fractured ribs. ‘Do you think you could get up?’
‘If you help me,’ she said weakly.
Ian took her hands in his and pulled her slowly to her feet. She wanted to fall against him, but the pain in her ribs was excruciating, so she had to settle for his strong arms encircling her shoulders as he steered her gently to the front seat of the Fairlane. He used the towel from the front seat to wipe the blood from Trish’s face, then he stood back from her and assembled his thoughts. Ian Richardson dealt with problems in sequential layers. The first priority was to get Trish attended to, so he used his mobile to ring Jim Landers. He explained the situation to Jim and asked him to get the plane ready so he could fly Trish to Roma Hospital. He then tried to ring Alec, but couldn’t get an answer – mobile phones were notoriously unreliable in this area.
Ian wal
ked to the dead roo and pulled it off the road by its thick tail. It was huge and took some effort to shift. He knew he couldn’t have left it on the road because it might have caused another accident.
He went back to Trish and helped her into the Mercedes. She groaned in pain as she settled into the front seat. He called Helen Donovan and asked her to get a message to Luke and Leigh that he’d have to skip their bird park meeting.
Trish looked very pale. ‘Feeling any better?’ Ian asked.
‘I think I need to be sick.’ Ian pulled the car over so Trish could lean out the window. It must have hurt her ribs, but she didn’t cry out.
‘We’ll get you to a doctor before you know it,’ said Ian.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Ian drove up to the manager’s residence in the Mercedes and collected Judy. Trish was out of hospital and he wanted to take Judy to visit her at Bahreenah.
Mrs Heatley had been critical of Ian’s decision to visit Trish Claydon. She had a low opinion of Trish, quite apart from the fact that she believed her accident had been self-induced. Of course, an accident could happen to anyone, especially in roo country, but it had been clear to Glenda as she helped Trish on to the Kanimbla plane that the woman had been drinking. She’d been sick on her clothes and there was an unmistakable smell of wine.
‘I can’t not visit her, Mrs H,’ Ian had said. ‘It’s the neighbourly thing to do. Alec buys Kanimbla rams, and he’s spent a lot of money here. He’s still committed to merinos and I want him to keep buying Kanimbla rams.’
‘I suppose it would be difficult to keep Alec onside if you ignore Trish,’ agreed Mrs Heatley. ‘She is his wife, even if she has been unfaithful to him. Perhaps the pottery classes will give her a new interest, and keep her at home more.’ Mrs Heatley sincerely hoped so. For now, she had to admit that Ian’s decision to visit Trish at Bahreenah was typical of his behaviour generally. And while Alec and the girls were with Trish this time, she couldn’t help feeling relieved when she heard that Judy Blake was accompanying Ian.