At the top of the stairway was a wide wood-panelled corridor lined with prints from the Maori Wars. A faded blue and green Persian runner, held in place with polished rods, led to a set of tall double doors halfway along. The girl stopped. “This is the library,” she said. “Would you like me to knock, sir?”
“In a minute,” said Walsh. “What’s your name?”
“My name?” She looked around. “It’s Brenda.”
“You’re an attractive wee thing, aren’t you, Brenda.”
“Oh yeah? Mum warned me about fellers like you in the big city. Men of the world. All hands.”
“A wise woman. Where are you from?”
She rolled her eyes. “Otorohanga, I’m embarrassed to say.”
“But you got out. Which shows you have ambition.”
“Ambition! No one’s ever said that to me before!”
“Here’s another thing I bet no one’s said. How would you like to go for a ride in an American motorcar? Bet you’ve never been in one of them.”
“American? Not American. Lots of ordinary ones though. I like going in cars.”
“I bet you do. Tell you what. Be waiting out the front at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll take you for a drive in a Plymouth. That’s a real car.”
“Oh, love to, but can’t, sorry. Working.” She pointed at the floor. “He’s put me in the laundry the whole day. I’m ‘on probation’ according to him.”
“That ponce downstairs? Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not. Have to pay the bills though.”
“How much do you get here?”
“Cheeky!” She paused. “A pound a week with room and board.”
“You live on the premises?”
“Eight girls in the attic. Gets so hot at night.” She fanned herself.
“Tell you what. Come and work for me. I’ll give you thirty bob a week for starters and find you a nice place to live. On your own? With another girl? Whatever you like.”
She was unsure. “What’ll I do? For a job and that?”
“Not sure yet. This is not the place for a girl who wants to get ahead in the world, I know that much.”
She thought about it.
“Nine o’clock?”
“Out the front with your suitcase packed.”
“All right.” She winked. “Sir.”
Good girl.
“Now you can knock.”
They heard a chair scrape, and footsteps.
The door opened. A man about Walsh’s age, wearing a dark suit of some expensive London weave. Tight-mouthed. Rimless glasses. Thinning hair parted well to the side and brushed back with a light layer of Brilliantine. He had the look of the late Prime Minister, Peter Fraser, but with none of Fraser’s warmth.
“Walsh,” said David Henderson.
“Henderson,” said Walsh.
Brenda curtsied.
For a moment both men watched her go, then Henderson showed Walsh into the library, a dark, high-ceilinged room with bookshelves lining one wall, and along the other, large double-hung windows looking out onto an enormous oak at the top of Victoria Street. A large map of the world was open on a wooden stand at the head of a boardroom table, around which sat half a dozen men of a similar ilk to Henderson, though probably not as well-heeled.
Very few New Zealanders were.
Walsh was one of them.
“Gentlemen,” said Henderson. “Allow me to present Fintan Patrick Walsh. The face of responsible unionism in this country.” He smiled. “I think we’re all agreed. If there have to be unions, they might as well be responsible.”
“Well said!” said one of the men to general laughter.
“Right-o,” said Henderson. “Introductions. How do you like to be known? Fintan? Pat? Jack? Quite a choice.”
“Walsh. Or Mr Walsh. I’m not bothered.”
“Walsh it is,” said Henderson. “Good Irish name.”
Good Taig name you mean, you bowler-hatted bastard, thought Walsh.
“Over there, Stuart Hoar,” said Henderson. “The Pacific Steamship Company.”
Hoar nodded graciously.
“To his right, in more ways than one, Sir John Newton. Federated Farmers.”
Newton acknowledged the laughter.
“S.T. Marsh. City Council.”
“We met during the war when I was on the Stabilisation Commission,” said Marsh.
Walsh nodded.
“Bruce Solomon. South British Insurance.”
“D’you do,” said Solomon, scraping the bowl of his pipe with a penknife.
“Keith Petrie. Dominion Brewing.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Petrie.
“Last but not least, Roger Hall. A working stiff, much like yourself.” Henderson paused. “Bank of New South Wales.”
The banker coughed out a polite laugh.
“Gents,” said Walsh, taking a seat. He nodded towards a young man in a navy blue suit, one arm resting on the mantelpiece. “And who’s the sharp-looking fella holding up the fireplace?” he said. “The butler?”
“That’s Olivier,” said Henderson. “He’s with the Prime Minister’s Department. Reason I asked you to join us. He addressed a small gathering last night regarding the present trouble on the waterfront. He was decent enough to delay his return to Wellington to talk to us here today.”
“The trouble on the waterfront,” said Walsh. “That’s a grave topic. Is there whisky in the room?”
“You know, I think there is,” said Henderson, looking at his wristwatch. “Keith?”
Petrie got a decanter and glasses from a cabinet.
“Right-o,” said Henderson. “This is an informal meeting, no minutes, myself as chairman. Any objections?” There were none. “Carried. Now, I hardly need to tell you chaps that we have a very dangerous situation brewing on the wharves. Tons of goods piling up, mutton and butter and God knows what else, food for Britain—”
“Poor beggars,” said Hoar.
“—and Jock Barnes and his cobbers threatening to shut down the whole show.” Henderson glared. “Over my dead body.”
“Hear, hear,” said Marsh.
“Which is the ideal point to hand the floor to Olivier.” Henderson leaned back in his seat. “Over to you, son.”
Olivier straightened up and walked over to the map, buttoning his suit coat. Here he was, in the sanctum sanctorum, the library of the Northern Club, with the fabled Kelly Gang itself. A good performance in front of these fellows, a word from them in the right ear? My God, the possibilities. He wondered what his old Collegiate Housemaster would say if he could see him. Not such a ding-dong after all, eh, sir?
He placed his briefcase by the table, squared his glasses, picked up a wooden pointer, turned to the map, and tapped China.
CHAPTER SIX
“Gentlemen,” said Olivier. “Last week I had the honour of attending a meeting in Wellington at which President Truman’s personal representative, Mr John Foster Dulles, addressed the Cabinet on matters concerning the conflict in Korea and its links to the spread of Communism in the Free World.”
He paused, and gave his audience what he hoped was a charming and self-deprecating smile. “Sitting quietly at the back of the room taking notes, I hasten to add.”
The men chuckled. Good lad.
Olivier circled the Pacific with the pointer.
“Over the past several months there has been a series of strikes in ports from San Francisco to Singapore to Sydney.”
He turned to the group. “It is the American view that these strikes have been engineered by local Communist-dominated waterfront unions acting on the orders of their political masters in Moscow, whose sole purpose” — he tapped the map — “is Soviet world domination.
“The Americans believe that these actions are designed to place a stranglehold on the flow of war matériel to United Nations forces fighting the Reds on the Korean Peninsula. Why? Because without supplies and ammunition, how can Korea hold? And if Korea falls, what�
��s to stop the Reds from turning to Indo-China?”
Olivier’s pointer zigzagged across the map. “Then Borneo. And the Philippines. Java. On and on, one country after another. Toppling like dominoes, as Mr Dulles said.”
He traced the pointer down the Indonesian archipelago, across the Timor Sea, hesitating at Darwin. “Will they stop here, does anyone imagine?”
“Darwin?” said Henderson, winking at Walsh. “Hell’s bells, I shouldn’t think so.”
“And from Darwin?” Olivier’s baton continued its relentless journey south, tip grating on the parchment, the sound now a tear in the fabric of all that these men held dear, around Australia’s east coast, marching south, overrunning the brave but outgunned defenders of Melbourne, across the Tasman, up the Waitemata, charging ashore at Queens Wharf.
There was silence. Olivier laid the pointer gently on the table.
“My God, what a thought,” said Newton with a shudder, “Queen Street, teeming with Chinamen.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” said Hoar. “The Japs in 1942. No sooner put those Orientals to bed and here comes the next lot.”
“This is worse,” said Newton. “Say what you like about the Jap. A brute no question, but at heart he was a soldier. With a code of honour. Bushido. You could reason with him.” He reached for the decanter. “Your Red, on the other hand?” He shook his head. Res ipsa loquitor.
“This is happening already,” said Henderson, waving a hand at the map. “Korea, of course, papers are full of it. You’ve got the French in Tonkin up there. You’ve got the British in Malaya. Dominoes is right.”
“Barnes and Hill, the wharfies’ bosses, both as red as they come,” said Petrie.
“Whole damn lot of them,” said Solomon.
“Taking their marching orders from Moscow,” said Hall. “The swine.”
“Shouldn’t have stopped at Berlin,” said Petrie. “That was the mistake. On to Moscow. Finished the damn thing then and there.”
Hall nodded. “Bolshevism. Churchill was right. It’s a bacillus.”
“Right-o, gentlemen,” said Henderson. “Any questions for Mr Olivier?”
“What’s the American plan?” said Solomon.
“More important, what’s our plan?” said Henderson, determined to keep the conversation local. “We’re on the front line of this thing. Where’s the Prime Minister stand?”
Olivier poked the bridge of his tortoise-shell glasses. “Well, Mr Holland is most concerned, of course,” he said.
“Oh yes, I bet he is,” said Henderson. “Soviet world domination and the possibility of a by-election in Whangarei. He’s got a lot on his plate.” He leaned forward. “But there are elements in Wellington — and I’ve got this right, haven’t I, Olivier — who would applaud an initiative taken by responsible citizens?”
“Mr Dulles used a quote from Julius Caesar—” Olivier began.
“‘Et tu, Brute?’ you mean?” said Petrie, who could be a bit arch for Henderson’s liking. “Good God, man. You’re not suggesting a coup d’état, I hope? Daggers in the Forum, that sort of thing?”
“No, he’s not,” said Walsh. “‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, when grabbed by the gonads, leads on to fortune.’ That’s the bit, isn’t it, son? Words to that effect?”
“Well, along those lines, Mr Walsh,” said Olivier.
Henderson stood. “Very good, young man,” he said. “Te salutant! Most impressive presentation.”
There was a round of applause.
“I’ll take over from here, son,” said Henderson.
“But . . .” said Olivier. He indicated his briefcase. There were Special Branch reports. Diplomatic memoranda. Veiled evidence of foreign entanglements. He had barely begun!
“Be sure to give my best to your CO,” said Henderson, putting a hand on Olivier’s shoulder, indicating the library doors. “Spent the war in an office in Bowen Street with Mac.” He turned to the others. “Alister McIntosh, that is. Big Chief of the Prime Minister’s Department these days.” He turned back to Olivier. “Still struggling with his rhododendrons?”
“Rhododendrons?” said Olivier, bewildered. “I’m really not—”
“Used to say to him, ‘Karori’s too damn windy for Ericaceae, Mac’,” said Henderson. “But he’d be out there, every weekend, with his stakes and fertiliser and whatnot.”
“Well. The southerly, I suppose,” said Olivier, trying to keep up but knowing his cause was lost.
Henderson took Olivier by the elbow. “Have a spot of lunch downstairs,” he said. “They’ll take care of you. Then I’ll get my chap to run you down to the station.”
“I am a bit peckish, actually,” said Olivier, in a small voice, as the doors closed in his face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Well, Walsh,” said Henderson, returning to his seat. “What did you make of that?”
Walsh reached for the decanter and removed the stopper. “What did I make of it?” He poured a finger into his glass, returned the stopper, leaned back in his chair.
“What that young fella’s saying, if I’ve got this right, is that Moscow is working with its flunkies in waterfront unions round the Pacific to help ensure a Chinese victory in Korea, and that’ll lead to the spread of communism throughout the region. And the impending rumpus here in New Zealand’s all part of it. That about sum it up?”
Henderson nodded.
“All right.” Walsh scratched his chin. “What he says may well be true, though I have to say I don’t share his faith in the Soviet Union. In my experience — and I’ve had a bit, I’ve dealt with the bastards — they couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. I’m going to speak frankly. Forget the map and the dominoes and that other business. That’s the march of history. What we need to be concerned about is the goods sitting on the wharves. And when I say goods, I mean wool.”
He leaned forward.
“Do you really think the Yanks are going to let an army of coolies chase them out of Korea? The chances of the Reds prevailing are non-existent. Non-existent. They’ll drop an atom bomb on China before you can say Charlie Chan. Rather than Thailand and Malaya and the rest capitulating to communism the opposite will happen. The Yanks will go all the way to Peking. And they mightn’t stop there. They might decide to go on to the Soviet Union and finish the job, who knows? And that’s not going to happen overnight. It could take years. There’s a lot of snow in that part of the world. And that means uniforms and blankets to keep their soldiers warm and dry. Those poor beggars are going to find out exactly why they’re calling it the Cold War. Think about it. Millions of uniforms and blankets. Made from wool. Our wool. This is New Zealand’s biggest opportunity since the gold rush.”
He pointed to each man in turn, his finger underlying the importance of his words.
“With the Yanks paying record prices for every scrap, with the amount of money that’s going to be sloshing around in this country soon, we, the fellas in this room, and the interests we represent, are faced with the sort of financial opportunity that comes along once in a lifetime.”
He sipped his whisky.
“Which brings me to Jock Barnes and the Waterside Workers’ Union. Those red wreckers cannot be allowed to close New Zealand’s ports. Because if they do, and the wool can’t be sent overseas, then our good friend Mr Dulles will pack up his dominoes and go somewhere else without so much as a backward glance. That’s the way the Yanks are. I’ve dealt with those bastards too. It’s hard to imagine how they could be less interested in this country were it not for our sheep.”
He turned to Henderson. “You know this, Henderson. You’ve had dealings with them, I’m sure. The rest of you blokes too, for all I know.” He looked around the table. “Let me repeat. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Not just for us, but for New Zealand. Something else old Brutus told Cassius. ‘We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.’”
He turned his glass slowly on the table. It made a grinding, i
ndustrial sound in the captivated stillness of the room. The men were transfixed. Here was a muscularity with which they were largely unfamiliar.
“Do you have a proposal, Walsh?” said Marsh.
Walsh looked at him. “I do. If the wharfies don’t pull their heads in, the Government will have to act. And if it won’t act it’ll have to be made to act. To come down on the Waterside Workers’ Union like a ton of bricks. And if that means getting soldiers and sailors in to ensure the ports stay open and working, then so be it.”
Hoar spoke for them all. “By God,” he said, looking around. “Now this is responsible unionism.”
“Quite agree,” said Newton. “Quite agree.”
“So you’re saying, what?” Henderson said, stirring the pot. “That in the face of this anarchy we may need to force the Government’s hand in some way?”
“Pretty much,” said Walsh.
“Barnes and his red friends, now,” said Hall. “Are they, shall we say, biddable?”
“Will they take a backhander, do you mean?” said Walsh. “Not a dog’s show. Barnes is an honourable man. So are they all, all honourable men. They’re not interested in money. They want to tear the whole show down.”
“Then force the Government’s hand how, exactly?” said Solomon.
Walsh looked at him. “You can leave that to me,” he said.
The others paused.
Oh?
These were not men used to leaving things to someone else, especially to a roughneck like Walsh who deliberately threw such coarse locutions as “gonads” and “piss-up” and “bastards” into formal conversation.
“I see. We can leave that to you, can we?” said Solomon. He looked at the others and back at Walsh. “What’s your game, Walsh? It’s common knowledge you were a Red once yourself.”
“I used to wear short pants,” said Walsh. “But I grew out of them, too.”
Red Herring Page 3