Whipbird

by Robert Drewe

‘Morning, Rosie. I hope you slept well?’ What a weary gibe it was now, he realised, one he’d been making to her for, what, twenty years? The last he’d seen of her the night before she’d been pawing Richard L’Estrange: arm stroking, chest tapping, bicep squeezing, performing the old Rosie routines. He wondered if she did this unconsciously. Tenderising the meat.

  Dick the Odd, Richard had been called at school. Divorced now, Hugh believed, living on his boat in the Whitsundays and playing the salty-old-bachelor sea-dog. Did women go for salty old sea-dogs with their leathery tans, salt-and-pepper stubble and silvery hair, Hugh wondered. And their twinkly bloodshot eyes? Of course they did.

  ‘Hugh the man,’ Richard boomed in his salty sea-dog voice.

  ‘You. Are. The. Man.’ Dangling from separate ropes on his chest were a marine tool knife and sunglasses. No family T-shirt for Dick the Odd, just his customary yachtie’s garb: navy polo shirt with the collar upturned against the sun (at night, Hugh noted), boat shoes of course. Never mind being miles from the sea and boats. ‘Great job pulling this weekend together.’

  Dick then performed the first stage of a fist bump, his lumpy tanned knuckles hanging in the air for a while until Hugh, slow to cotton on, and feeling slightly ridiculous, eventually reciprocated. Hugh regarded the fist bump as a practice of black American sportsmen and overstimulated Oscar winners, not middle-aged Melbourne lawyers. He’d only recently accepted the existence of high fives.

  Dick looked particularly salty, silvery, twinkly and bloodshot this morning. Hugh presumed they’d slept together last night. Rosie’s hands still patted Dick’s arms and shoulders in a familiar way, but it was an offhand pawing, a perfunctory after-the-action stroking, this morning. Been there, done that. Tick him off the list. Hugh considered Dick’s and her family relationship: second cousins. Not that closer consanguinity would necessarily deter Rosie.

  ‘I’m looking for the missing painting – any ideas?’

  ‘Not a Nolan fan, darling,’ she said. ‘I considered buying one from my dealer in Paddington last year but thought better of it.’

  ‘Your dealer? I didn’t know you were into art.’

  ‘He was trying to get rid of a couple from Nolan’s Antarctic series. A bit bleak for my taste. All that white.’

  An ache was beginning to throb in Hugh’s temples. His eyes felt sandy and scratchy. Magpies yodelled. Crows gagged. A child shrieked. A dog yelped.

  ‘Hughie, how’s my darling Christine weathering the storm? She and I need to have a good long talk this weekend.’

  Bloody hell!

  ‘Your eyes are strangely prominent, sweetie. Thyroid acting up? Really, the QC’s not everything.’

  Fuck off, Rosie.

  Dick the Odd twinkled bloodshot sympathy and gave his shoulder an unwanted matey punch. ‘Rosie told me about your disappointment. Tough luck missing out on the gong.’

  Jesus, Rosie! He flapped a hand to indicate inconsequence, triviality. The QC, a mere frippery. Pfff!

  ‘Have a good one!’ Dick called after him.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  He was still in this agitated mood, edging crabwise from group to group in his Nolan hunt, when a black Mercedes rolled slowly down the driveway and pulled up by the homestead, discharging four Chinese people.

  Oh, God! The Yips. He’d been expecting them later in the afternoon, when things were quieter. With all the weekend arrangements and the painting’s disappearance, the Yips’ presence, arranged a month before by Stanley Zheng, a visiting Hong Kong wine broker, and momentarily forgotten, was unnerving right now. One complication and four Chinese too many.

  Xingfa (Cyril) Yip was a wealthy investor and entrepreneur from Hangzhou. His wife and son were with him. A chauffeur, also Chinese, assisted their egress before returning to sit behind the wheel.

  Stanley Zheng had lunched Hugh at the Flower Drum to inform him of Cyril Yip’s ambition. To keep abreast of the vogue for wine drinking among well-off Chinese, Cyril Yip wanted to buy a stake in a new Australian winemaker.

  ‘Mr Yip is seriously on the up-and-up,’ Stanley Zheng informed Hugh. ‘A wealthy gentleman very much on the ball and the current fashion wavelength. He’s already buying large amounts of Australian wine and wishes to shore up a guaranteed source of supply.’

  As if divulging a state secret, Stanley Zheng lowered his voice and continued. ‘China is often smoggy, you know. Pollution from highly successful industries and so forth.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Hugh, and Mr Zheng gave an embarrassed giggle.

  ‘It’s just as important to Mr Yip to have a showcase for his business in a country with a clean and green environment. Mr Yip wants to demonstrate to his top-drawer customers his considerable status in owning a picturesque vineyard, one that can open up new levels of business connection.’

  ‘I see his point,’ said Hugh. Stanley Zheng must be aware that the commercial side of his company did considerable business with China, that he’d been to China several times himself, most recently last year. Indeed, over drinks in the office he was even familiar with ‘top-drawer customers’ who were on the ‘current fashion wavelength’. That translated as being hyper-capitalists with minds like steel traps. Masters of the deal, a deal the other side was never quite sure had been settled.

  ‘Plus he likes the historic Ballarat area and his son goes to Geelong Grammar, only one hour away. Ten minutes by helicopter.’

  Play it cagey, thought Hugh. ‘Unfortunately I’m not interested in selling Whipbird. The vineyard is gathering strength and I see it producing excellent pinot noir in the near future. Anyway it’s a lifestyle matter. My plan is to retire there.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Mr Zheng nattered on. ‘What Mr Yip requires is an attractive site, about twenty hectares like yours, near running water, one that satisfies feng shui requirements but mightn’t yet produce wine of significant quality or quantity. Hence is affordable.’

  At this stage Hugh laughed. ‘So, Mr Yip wants to buy a new vineyard that I don’t want to sell, and pay me peanuts?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Cleary. High-net-worth Chinese investors see the Australian wine industry as the cool place to be right now. Some are seeking purchases at bargain-basement prices, sure, why not? But it’s a free market. No one is forcing a vendor to take any offer from any quarter. And Mr Yip is open to accepting a reasonable stake. With a major investment influx you could plant more vines and become a serious player.’

  Hugh had already considered these possibilities. ‘What sort of offer is this on-the-ball gentleman considering?’

  ‘If he and his wife Audrey like what they see, it will be an offer suitable to all concerned. She has a big interest as well. In fact,’ he giggled, ‘I think she might be the determining factor. My strong advice is to strike while the irons are hot, Mr Cleary. Chinese entrepreneurs see a base in Australia as part of a global strategy, balancing their wine portfolios and shifting their focus from Bordeaux and Burgundy and the Napa Valley to Australia. My advice is get in at the birthing stage.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I believe the Yips like even numbers – say a baseball-park figure of one million dollars for every 10 per cent over 30. So three million for 30 per cent of Whipbird, and so on.’

  Three million would indeed take Whipbird to the next step, Hugh thought. So would four million for 40. And he’d still own 70 or 60 per cent. And, most importantly, rely less on the Campbell inheritance, an issue around which hillocks of domestic emotion lately seemed to be developing into mountains. The sort of mountains in Chinese silkscreen paintings that rose from lotus ponds where cranes languidly posed and elegantly tiptoed, and from fields of serene bamboo where tigers crouched: mountains that spurted fountains of lava into thundery clouds.

  ‘It seems fairly reasonable,’ he said guardedly. Generous, he thought. Even with the broker’s cut.

  Stanley Zheng carefully sipped his pinot grigio. ‘Especially in Australia’s current financial climate.’ He glanced around the restaurant as if
it encompassed the whole needy, asset-declining Antipodes. Except this room full of pink and roaring male Caucasian faces bearing down on their Peking duck, beer and wine seemed to deny any economic slowdown whatsoever.

  ‘Incidentally, some high-net-worth individuals wish to find a means by which to secure permanent residency here. That’s the situation. You’ve heard of the Significant Investor Visa scheme.’

  ‘I see.’ Hugh said. ‘Well, Mr Zheng, we’re having a big family gathering at the vineyard in late November. Maybe Mr and Mrs Yip would like to visit?’

  And, Christ, here they were on the premises, the Yips and their podgy teenage son Milton, shuffling awkwardly in the paddock dust. Cyril and Milton Yip were sleekly groomed, polo-shirted, designer-denimed, spotlessly sneakered and baseball-capped in father-and-son outfits.

  But it was impossible to tell what Audrey Yip looked like. She wore elbow-high gloves, carried a white parasol and sheltered further inside a white veil that covered her head, face and shoulders. Fabric encompassed every inch of her body except her feet and her eyes, the eyes further safeguarded by huge round sunglasses like those once favoured by Jackie Kennedy.

  Thus shaded and garrisoned against the sun but unable to properly see or walk, and taking tiny, unwilling steps, she was led along by each elbow, her husband at one arm, her son at the other, like an empress from an ancient dynasty. From this all-enveloping white ensemble only the toes of her pristine snowy Nikes peeped out.

  As Hugh approached the Yip family, holding out a worried and welcoming hand, a voice behind him called out, ‘Eeek! A ghost!’

  A woman’s voice. Shit! He pretended not to hear it.

  Rosie was well into the champagne now. ‘It’s Casper the Friendly Ghost!’ There was a burst of husky female laughter. And some obedient male chortles from Dick the Odd.

  ‘Too funny!’ Rosie went on. She and Dick were downing more champagne. Rosie raised her glass in a toasting gesture. ‘To Casper!’

  Hugh daren’t look in their direction. Rosie’s precious homilies came to mind, those along the lines of When We Judge We Leave No Room For Love, and Eliminate Your Need to Criticise and Illuminate Your Desire to Accept. Where were her gooey aphorisms today?

  He ushered the Yips into the homestead with the intention of settling them on the verandah. Out of earshot. Where was Christine? He needed to curb her mysterious bloody vanishing acts and stop Rosie from creating havoc.

  ‘Welcome to Whipbird,’ he said. His brain was panicking. Maybe he could leave the Chinese here on the verandah while he man-handled Rosie away. And locked her in the laundry or somewhere.

  He flapped a hand towards the uncomfortable Adirondacks. Christine’s choice of outdoor chair; he hated them. If she had her way she’d turn Ballarat into the bloody Hamptons. ‘Please sit down, relax, and have a drink after your journey. Then I’ll show you around.’

  The male Yips gazed, stony-faced, beyond the paddocks of noisy Caucasians, over the dry stunted vines, towards the trees over the creek. Beyond the verandah, Australia swirled with birdsong, cricket chirps, warm dust and inebriated laughter.

  Audrey Yip rustled and swooshed inside her mantle. A crow cawed nearby, and was answered by the strangled gargles of another. No one spoke or sat.

  ‘It mightn’t look like much at the moment,’ Hugh said, ‘but you’re looking at the first stage of a prize-winning vineyard.’

  ‘So you have these birds here?’ Mrs Yip asked suddenly. ‘The whipping ones?’

  ‘The what? Oh, no, not any longer,’ said Hugh. ‘Whipbird is named after them, in their honour, but their species is extinct.’

  She frowned, uncomprehending.

  ‘Dead,’ said Milton Yip.

  5

  After his twelve months in Afghanistan, Father Ryan wondered What was that all about? Australia’s longest-ever war – twelve years. A conflict that trailed to a dismal conclusion, neither victory nor loss, and which changed very little. Was bittersweet the word for sticking to the fight? For doing a professional job regardless? Did that count as a moral victory? What was a moral victory these days, anyway? Tricky territory, moral victories.

  He wasn’t keen to stay on in Defence but he was in no hurry to return home. It was too soon to face teaching again and he felt too militarised, too acculturated, to fit into suburban Australia. How would he serve God, and live, now when he had the Hindu Kush as well as the four vows looming over him?

  He could still manage vows of poverty, chastity, obedience to Jesus Christ, and also to the Pope, couldn’t he? Well, the poverty part for a little while only, with his service back pay. But the poverty part was a worry. In his mind, his mother’s house stood as a blurry last-ditch measure in Camberwell. Beyond that, what?

  He hitched a ride with the Irish contingent to Shannon. He’d chummed up with them in Tarin Kowt. There were only seven of them, all non-combat: five planning and administration officers and two explosive-technical advisers. The Irish being there was just a token gesture to NATO. There was plenty of room on the aircraft.

  He needed to arrange his thinking, order his thoughts, line them up in precedence. Of course the Irish did bittersweet thinking better than most, and drinking, too, but he needed a reason in front of him while he was industriously regrouping. Family research fitted the bill. A longstanding aim.

  So with a month to spare he decided to check out the town his great-great-grandparents had come from, Templemore in County Tipperary. He wanted to learn about Conor and Bridget Cleary. To see what they’d left behind them to become Australians, and where his bloodline and Catholicism came from.

  On the Sunday morning of a bank-holiday weekend he arrived at Shannon Airport. A bitter day, with the grey army blanket of an Irish sky lying low on the fields. Yellow gorse blazed over the highway verges as he drove his hire car south-east through the countryside to Tipperary.

  Crows crisscrossed the highway. Sheep and cows stood stolidly in the fields like miniatures in a toy farmyard. Yellow gorse, green fields, black crows, brown cows, sheep with black heads and black legs. All the sheep either standing up in their field, or all lying down; no sheep diverting from the accepted flock decision. Crows blew in the wind before him all the way to Tipperary. And in just over an hour he reached Templemore as the town’s families, bending into the wind, were making their way from the church to the pub.

  Back home in Melbourne there was an elaborate family tree lovingly kept by one of the great-aunts, Aunty Eileen Casey, she of the gentle watery eyes and facial tic. She’d long researched it, kept it updated and proudly presented it to the family two Christmases before. Like a Moreton Bay fig tree, it branched skywards from Conor the soldier to descendants with what seemed to be ancient and arcane jobs: a cobbler, a cooper, a stonemason, a tanner and a bookbinder. A generation higher, the branches held clerks and publicans and Labor councillors, and two plumber-and-gasfitter brothers, Barry and Colin Cleary, famed in Richmond and family lore as footballers.

  The branches rose verdantly heavenwards to support estate agents, builders, bank employees (Mick and Doug) and company managers. A state Liberal politician sat on a middle bough with a ‘garden consultant’ (Steve Duvnjak), a musician (Simon) and members of various professions: an architect, two lawyers (Hugh was one) and two doctors – one of whom was Thea.

  As the tree branched out further, female occupations beyond ‘home duties’ started appearing. By the 21st century its farthest twigs held business analysts, graphic designers and IT personnel. By the time it was a metre wide and high, and took up six sheets of A4, the tree displayed jobs he’d never heard of: a kinesiologist, a bespoke florist, a nanotechnologist, a respiratory therapist and a holistic hair stylist.

  There was an environmental consultant (Craig), a petrophysical engineer, an artisan brewer (Warren Opie) and two investment bankers. Ryan knew of an urban planner, a psychotherapist and four Commonwealth bureaucrats (communications, social services, veterans’ affairs and border protection). There was also a Greens poli
tician and an actor from Home and Away. And a priest.

  All those Catholics, Ryan thought, and only one priest.

  Spending her eighties in constant thrall to findmypast.com, familyhistory.net.au, yesterdaygenealogy.com and ancestor.com, Aunty Eily had tracked down the 1850s address of Conor Cleary’s father Daniel and mother Maureen to 28 New Way, Templemore. The street still existed, and the Avis car’s GPS took Ryan there.

  He’d expected New Way to be a line of old terraces, two centuries past ‘new’ but typical Irish pebbled stucco worker’s cottages, one of which would identify itself as number 28, his ancestral home. But the street was even drearier than he anticipated. Number 28 and its neighbours no longer existed as separate residences but were subsumed into a warehouse with a faded sign for O’Hare Removalists. Outside, drab birds pecked at chip wrappers on the curb.

  One end of New Way comprised a tyre retreader and a collection of deserted tin sheds. The other end concluded in a Garda football field and an ancient overstocked and untended cemetery. Crumbling Virgins lay tumbled beside ashen grounded crosses. Thistles grew over broken graves, wingless fallen angels and generations of his ancestors. The family dead settled close to home in those days. It began to rain.

  At once he found three Cleary graves side by side: Irene Mary (1821–44), Michael Xavier (1840–44) and Clara Eugenia (1842–44), and was too smacked by the melancholy mathematics to investigate any further. His damp and shivering body was present but his head was somewhere between Afghanistan and Tipperary. The drizzle increased, litter blew between the graves, and suddenly it was a huge effort to be in Ireland.

  Back in the car, he forced himself to go one more step. OK, what else would Aunty Eily expect him to investigate? Nearby was Richmond Barracks, where young Conor became a soldier. Now it was the Garda training college, the dormitory of Ireland’s police force. Wind blustered and twirled around the deserted parade ground as he imagined his teenage ancestor parading here, training to subdue miners in far-off antipodean goldfields. Being a source of his own genes was an imaginative stretch too far and he drove to the local pub.