Dust of the Land

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘Breakfast is ready, Mrs Tucker.’

  Annie left the room. Bella sat in the Hepplewhite chair, glancing at the morning paper as she ate and drank. Australia had beaten England in some football match. There was an article about the actor Richard Burton who had died a week ago in Geneva. Seven years younger than I am, Bella thought. And James Mason last month. At least he’d been in his seventies. It made you think, all the same.

  There was a feature about Bella Tucker and her sixty-fifth birthday party. THE NEW ALCHEMIST, the headline read. The woman who is turning iron into gold.

  The significance of the China connection had clearly sunk in. She put the paper aside, swallowed the last of her tea, collected her papers and headed downstairs to the office where nowadays the bulk of her business was conducted. This room was larger and more business-like than the study upstairs, with an adjoining boardroom where bigger meetings were held. The colours of the furnishings were vibrant, reds and yellows predominant. A lot of stainless steel and glass. The desk and chairs were Swedish, their design newer than tomorrow. Telephones provided direct lines to the mine, Miranda Downs and Martin Dexter.

  She looked at the clock; there were three hours before she must get ready for the party. In the meantime she had time to get down to the neat piles of papers on her desk.

  It was all so different from her old life. At Miranda Downs getting down to business had meant hours in the saddle, rounding up cattle and transporting them to the meatworks at Wyndham. It had meant dust, heat and the vastness of the unfenced bush. There were times when she missed the physical challenges of those days but it was impossible to go back; the future was now, and tomorrow, and the rest of her life.

  By a quarter to twelve the sun was shining brightly. The day had warmed up and the guests were strolling around the grounds, suits and party hats much in evidence. There wasn’t much to see in the flowerbeds, although here and there drifts of early-flowering narcissi were beginning to show their faces.

  Bella watched from an upstairs window while Deborah chivvied the guests to their seats inside the marquee. The premier and his wife were there: good. Pete Bathurst, BradMin’s belligerent CEO and Bella’s long-time enemy, had brought Melanie, the young woman he called his executive assistant but whose duties extended beyond normal office routines. Or so said Bella’s spy in BradMin’s offices. Big-breasted Melanie looked thirty years younger than Pete and Bella wondered if she was worth it; she’d heard his last bimbo had cost him a packet.

  The Australian representative of China’s Baoshan smelting works had come alone, as had Mr Hong, the Chinese consul. Both wore well-cut lounge suits – only ten years back it would have been Mao jackets. But ten years back trade with China had been an impossible dream; only with Mao’s death in 1976 had China begun to emerge into the light.

  At last Deborah signalled that the guests were seated, the band ready to strike up. Bella walked downstairs. She paused at the top of the terrace steps. The guests could see her now and there was a murmur of applause but still she waited; she had always known the value of making an entrance.

  She had decided on a Carla Zampatti outfit, striking without flamboyance: ivory silk brocade jacket, thigh length, with sculpted collar and cuffs; black silky pants and high-heeled ankle boots to show off her still-elegant legs. She was wearing the sapphire drop earrings that Garth had given her for their twentieth wedding anniversary and a sapphire and diamond sunburst brooch on her jacket. Her hair – dark, with barely a thread of grey – was glossy and impeccably fashioned, her perfume as fresh as summer roses, as expensive as her wardrobe. She had always believed that smelling good was as important as looking good and that both had to be suited to the occasion and her audience. Today she was looking for style, discreet glamour and an air of competence, and she thought she had pulled it off. Smiling, she walked down the steps to join her applauding guests.

  An hour and a half later people had once again begun to circulate. Insofar as she ever was, Bella was content, knowing the occasion had been a success. Her eyes had been everywhere and she had made sure that her guests had eaten and drunk their fill. The lobsters had taken a caning, and the champagne. The tot who had been detailed to present orchids to the premier’s wife had neither dropped them nor thrown up; Bella’s speech, promising an era of increasing prosperity for the state and the nation, had been rapturously received. The premier had presented her with a plaque naming her the state’s most prominent businesswoman. Everyone had joined in singing ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Pete Bathurst strolled past, Melanie hanging from his muscular arm. Bella gave him a big smile; she and Pete might detest each other, but this was not the place to show it. ‘Glad you could make it,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, Bella, how’re you goin’?’ And continued without waiting for an answer. ‘Great party. I mean it. That lobster… Wow!’ He leered at Melanie. ‘Bit of extra pep just where it’s needed – ain’t that right, sugar?’

  Conversation with Pete Bathurst gave new meaning to the word gross, while Melanie eyed Bella curiously, no doubt wondering how anyone so old could still be alive.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Bella said.

  Pete’s expression became serious. He leant close, suddenly confidential. ‘I don’t want to spoil your party, but you might as well know. We got problems with the agreement, Bella.’

  How sorrowful he looked! Yet Bella thought she detected a glimmer of triumph in the dark eyes. ‘It has all been settled,’ she said coldly.

  He shook his head ruefully. ‘You know these lawyers… I tell you frankly, Bella, I wonder sometimes why we have them.’

  With a cheery wave he strolled on, leaving Bella’s mind in turmoil.

  Deborah, face drawn, was suddenly at her shoulder. Bella felt a flicker of concern. First Bathurst, and now?

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘A letter from the bank came an hour ago. Hand delivered. I had to sign for it.’

  A letter from the bank? On a Sunday? Bella’s concern deepened. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was marked urgent and confidential so I didn’t open it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me at once?’

  ‘I didn’t want to distract you. It was just before you started your speech.’

  ‘When a bank letter has urgent and confidential on the envelope you let me know even if I’m in bed with my lover.’

  Not, sadly, that she had one of those.

  Bella opened the envelope, took out the letter and read it. She felt her lips go numb. Somehow she managed a smile.

  ‘Everything all right, Ms Tucker?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. Why shouldn’t it be?’

  She returned to the party. The momentary wave of weakness had passed. Now was the time to circulate and she did so, smiling, gracious, while inside her head…

  Dear God!

  In phrases so convoluted as to be barely comprehensible, the letter advised that the directors of the bank had decided to rationalise Tuckers’s loan situation. That was the phrase they used: to rationalise. As though there was anything rational about what followed.

  The bank therefore advises that failure, within seven days of this letter, to return all balances to the agreed operating limits will necessitate calling in the entirety of the group’s outstanding loans. Any inconvenience is regretted.

  Inconvenience? Ruin, more like.

  It made no sense. Halliburton, the bank’s regional boss, had known they were way over their limit but had gone along because he had also known the situation would be rectified as soon as the money from the China contracts began to flow in. Now this.

  Still Bella smiled, while congratulations and compliments buzzed about her like bees and questions blazed in her tortured brain.

  Why today, of all days? When they were scheduled to sign the rail agreement tomorrow? All of a sudden both Pete Bathurst and the bank were on her case. It could not be coincidence. What was going on? If the agreement fell through, if the bank fo
reclosed…

  She was ruined, and the family with her.

  Bella checked her watch: half-past two; seven-thirty in the morning in London. She beckoned Deborah to her side.

  ‘Find out whether there will be anything about the group in tomorrow’s overseas papers. Check The Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, Les Echos in Paris, Capital in Hamburg, The Rand Daily Mail in Johannesburg. Be discreet, but I have to know what they’re saying. Get on to it immediately. Okay?’

  Deborah locked herself away in her office. Her phone ran hot. Within the hour she was back, her face a map of concern. She started to speak but Bella hushed her and took her to one side. When they were safe from eavesdroppers she stopped.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The Wall Street Journal will be reporting a leading New York broking firm as cautioning its clients about our shares.’

  ‘A selling signal?’ Bella snapped.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Even so, a caution was bad enough.

  ‘The other papers all have items questioning the group’s viability. Are we all right, Ms Tucker? Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Deborah was less than half Bella’s age yet there were times when their roles seemed to be reversed, with Deborah anxious as always to protect and comfort her.

  Bella laughed out loud for the benefit of the guests and gave Deborah her most radiant smile. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Why lie about it? Bella asked herself as Deborah walked away. Because it made sense to lie. The longer she could put off admitting anything the better, because the news was as bad as could be. Only rumours, admittedly, but rumours could kill. When the markets opened in Europe and the US, there would be a wave of selling. The predators would descend, scenting a victim. Thank goodness the family had a controlling interest.

  Whoever had laid this ambush had done it well. To strike today, when she was surrounded by admirers who would run a mile if they knew what she knew now, when the future had seemed secure… It was a devastating blow that she would revenge when she could, but what mattered now was not so much who had done it but how to control the fallout. Delay would be fatal.

  Owen Freeth, the group’s long-time legal adviser, was talking to another guest. Smiling graciously this way and that, she made her way through the crush towards him.

  ‘A word with you, Owen.’

  He lifted a fastidious eyebrow. ‘Now?’

  Her smile did not falter. ‘When the party winds up.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Standing in the pale sunlight just outside the marquee, Peace Tucker watched her mother talking to Deborah Smith. Bella was holding a piece of paper in her hand, her face animated. Peace heard her laugh and felt the mixture of affection and resentment that had characterised their relationship for as long as Peace could remember.

  Still boss of the sidewalk, Peace thought, and obviously planning to stay there for a long time yet. Which was all very well, but where did that leave Peace?

  Not that she was planning to think about it for long. Not today, anyway. From the moment it began she had been itching for the party to be over so she could get back to work. She was well aware the rest of the world, her family included, called her a workaholic. She didn’t deny it; it was a quality that had helped her get honours at uni and the Macalister gold medal for student of the year at the Camborne School of Mines in England, and on this occasion at least she knew her obsession was justified. New areas had been surveyed with promising results and at the last board meeting they had decided, subject to obtaining adequate finance, to go ahead. She had supported the decision and still did but there were time constraints. Once a company had indicated its intention to develop a claim the state government set a time limit within which extraction of the ore had to begin, so time was a horseman with his spurs set deep in Bella’s flanks. In the circumstances Peace would have preferred not to be at the party at all but with such a big deal being made of her mother’s birthday she had reluctantly accepted that she had no choice.

  At least she had been able to rope in Bernie Thompson to help her out.

  ‘I’d sooner it was you going to Mother’s birthday bash than me,’ she had told her assistant earlier that morning. ‘But if I don’t show my face I’ll never hear the last of it.’

  Bernie was young and enthusiastic. He had been invited to the party too but for the moment was happy to put work ahead of the dubious pleasure of socialising with his ultimate boss. He was also ambitious so Peace knew he might not always feel that way but that was a problem for another day and she had enough on her plate as it was.

  ‘We’ll need to construct a spur to connect with the main rail line,’ she said. ‘Otherwise we won’t be able to get the ore out.’

  ‘Judging by the contours that may mean some blasting,’ Bernie said. ‘Either that or go the long way round that incline. I’ll look into it.’

  ‘While I’m getting sloshed on vintage champagne,’ Peace said.

  ‘A tough job,’ Bernie said, ‘but somebody has to do it.’

  Peace had promised she would be back with him as soon as she could make it and now, seeing Bella engulfed by well-wishers, she slipped away. Hopefully her departure would go unnoticed by anyone who mattered.

  Bernie raised his eyebrows as she came into the office. ‘I thought you’d be hours yet. What happened to the champagne?’

  ‘It was domestic,’ Peace said. ‘How’s it going?’

  They discussed the work Bernie had been doing in her absence.

  ‘It’s like I thought,’ he said. ‘The gradient’s too steep to go directly over that incline.’

  ‘Then we shall have to blast,’ Peace said. ‘It’s too far to go round.’

  ‘I’ve got some figures here.’

  An hour passed before they took a five-minute break for a coffee and a chat about how things were going.

  ‘Finance fixed up?’ Bernie asked.

  ‘It had better be,’ Peace said. ‘Or we stand to lose the claim. But that’s Martin’s baby, not mine.’

  ‘One thing you can guarantee,’ Bernie said. ‘It’ll always come in over budget.’

  ‘In the mega-millions, too,’ Peace said. ‘You’re right. I’ll have a word when I see him.’

  They carried on with what they had been doing: good, productive work that warmed Peace’s heart.

  It was getting dark when the telephone rang. Peace, standing by it, picked it up.

  ‘Peace Tucker…’ She listened with dawning astonishment. Concern, too, although she took care to let none of her feelings show in her face. ‘Can’t it wait? We’re flat out here.’

  She waited, listening. ‘Very well,’ she said eventually. ‘We’ll get onto it straight away.’

  Bernie watched her enquiringly as she put the phone down. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I hope not. But Bella wants some figures and she wants them tonight.’

  ‘On a Sunday evening? Must be something pretty important.’

  ‘I guess we’ll soon know,’ said Peace.

  ‘Interesting times,’ Bernie said.

  ‘They’d better not be too interesting,’ Peace said.

  It was late afternoon by the time Su-Ying and Richard got home from the party.

  Richard said he had some work to do and went into his study while Su-Ying paid the babysitter. Adam, her number one son, was staying with friends but she settled down to spend what the stupid so-called experts called quality time with younger son James, aged seven. As if any time spent with your children could be anything but quality time, Su-Ying thought.

  She should know if anyone did, because in her case she had often not seen her father for weeks on end. Of course things had been very different in Beijing in those days. Her father had been a high official in the communist party, an aide to Minister Deng Xiao-Ping, no less, and his responsibilities had meant that he had little time to spend with his family. Nevertheless it had been her choice as well as her filial duty to respect him highly and she still did, although i
t was a long time since she had last seen him.

  Because of his position in the party she had been one of those sent to a school for the children of top officials. She had excelled at her studies and with Minister Deng’s approval had been selected to go to Australia to improve her English and to learn the foreigners’ ways in the hope that her knowledge might be used for China’s benefit.

  It had been a great honour to be selected to serve the party in this way but she had been horrified. All her life she had been taught that the people in the west were poor as well as ignorant and that starvation was rife – that living standards generally were far below those of China, which under the inspired guidance of Great Helmsman Mao enjoyed the highest quality of life in the world. She had also been taught that westerners hated the Chinese out of innate wickedness and because of their envy of China’s great achievements.

  She had pleaded with her father to be excused this responsibility. She had wept, offering to work as a labourer or a street cleaner if only she could be permitted to stay in China, but it had done no good. Her father had been adamant. She must obey or be driven out from the family, which was the most terrible punishment in the world. So she had come to Australia accompanied by men to instruct her and keep her safe and keep her father informed of her progress. She had discovered, first with surprise but later with a sense of betrayal, that things in the west were not as she had been taught. Living standards in Australia were far higher than in China, while the Australians she met did not hate Chinese people at all.

  She had become friendly with a fellow student named Richard Tucker, but cautiously, knowing that her father would disapprove. Then had come the Cultural Revolution and the question of whether she should return to China to face the Red Guards or remain in Australia.

  Su-Ying sighed, remembering those dangerous times. To distract herself from her memories she encouraged James to show her his latest drawings. The boy had talent and his teachers had spoken highly of his potential. She exclaimed over the work he showed her and then read to him until suppertime. After that she made him read to her, knowing how important study was and how his ability to read was vital to the success in life that she craved for him.