‘But it needs capital. Lots of it. You’ve no idea of the conditions up there –’
‘Speak to a lawyer about it. But do not tell him or anyone where it is.’
He spoke with great emphasis and she thought he was right. She knew the lawyer Hoskins would take more notice of a man. Especially in the matter of mining. Especially a man like Mungo. She almost asked him to go with her but did not. In this as in all things she had to stand on her own feet.
In the event she did not go to see Mr Hoskins. She had not taken to the lawyer at their previous meeting. She therefore made enquiries of Mr Moffatt who told her that a new man had recently put up his shingle in Macquarie Street.
‘Abraham Fitch is his name. I hear he is rather young.’ Mr Moffatt sniffed.
Obviously he doubted whether youth was a desirable quality in a lawyer, but Catherine thought a young Mr Fitch might have a better idea about miners and mining than Mr Hoskins and with any luck less of his arrogance too.
She hurried down Macquarie Street, wearing her best day dress with a chatelaine at her waist from which hung an embroidered reticule. It was a windy morning and for the hundredth time she cursed the wide skirts fashion condemned her to wear and which she was grimly aware might fly up in the air if a stronger than expected gust came down the street.
At least during the hellish struggle through the woods with Theophilus Jones she had been able to wear breeches. The way I’m dressed today, she thought, if the wind gets any stronger they’ll be able to tie a rope to me and fly me over the buildings like a kite. There was nothing to be done. Rebelliousness in behaviour might just be acceptable – plenty of ladies had kicked over the traces before this and got away with it – but going to war over fashion was another matter entirely and would ban her forever from polite society. She wasn’t sure it was legal for a woman to wear breeches, in any case.
She walked into the building and up a flight of stairs to the first floor. She walked into an office with a counter beyond which several men were working at tall desks. The youngest of these turned and came to the counter.
‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, miss.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Catherine said pleasantly.
‘This is a lawyer’s office, miss.’ As though that settled the matter.
‘I am aware of that.’
The clerk looked puzzled, clearly uncertain what else he could say to explain to this woman the error of her ways.
‘I wish to see Mr Fitch. If he’s free.’
‘May I ask your business?’
‘That is something I wish to discuss with Mr Fitch.’
‘One moment.’
He went and whispered in the ear of an older man, who lumbered to his feet and walked towards her, a stout man of ponderous dignity. ‘May I help you?’
‘I wish to see Mr Fitch. If he is available.’
Catherine’s voice was very loud and very clear. It was also the way a lady would speak; she was getting the hang of it now.
‘May I know your name, miss?’
‘Miss Catherine Haggard.’
It had become a well-known name. He inclined his head in what was almost but not quite a bow.
‘One moment please.’ And, two minutes later: ‘Mr Fitch will see you now.’
Mr Fitch was tall and thin and pale, a man who lived under stones. Catherine’s heart sank. He looked depressingly conventional and she suspected he might ask if she had brought her husband with her. If he did that, she told herself, she would walk out.
He did not. He smiled and it was a different man looking at her. ‘How can I help you?’
She told him about her trip into the wilds of the north-western forests and the treasure she had found there. She explained she had enough money to begin developing the mine but would need more.
‘A great deal more,’ she said.
Access would be a problem. Enticing men to work in such a remote and inhospitable place would be a problem. The climate, at all seasons of the year but especially in winter, would be a problem. In the winter it might be impossible to get through at all. She needed partners to contribute capital but was determined to retain control of the operation. That she foresaw could be a problem. She needed experts to advise, to develop, to operate the undertaking. Experts she could trust. She needed a team that would be willing to work for a woman.
‘And that, Mr Fitch, is likely to be the biggest problem of all.’
She gave him the chance to deny it. He did not.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Fitch. There is wealth in those forests and I intend to get it, to benefit not only me but the whole Tasmanian community, but there are enormous problems and I don’t know how to overcome them. All I do know is that somehow I shall manage it. I need to know is whether you will join me in what I suspicion will be a long and difficult struggle. If you are, I shall be delighted. If not, I shall take no more of your time but wish you good day.’
She had never spoken in such a way in her life. That was how true leaders spoke, she thought. Those with vision. She had never thought of herself as a leader or a visionary but had meant every word she’d said.
Fitch sat unmoving, face expressionless, blue eyes looking not at her but at images she could not see. By his reaction he might not have heard a word she said.
Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘You went into the forest with Mr Jones but otherwise alone?’
Catherine saw that he was about to criticise what he no doubt considered disgraceful behaviour in a woman. She set her chin at him, fearing that she had wasted her time coming here. A man with imagination, she thought, that’s what I need. But where to find one?
‘That is correct,’ she said.
But he did not criticise. ‘Describe it to me. Tell me what it was like. Tell me how you felt.’
She told him, sparing nothing: the unrelenting hostility of the forest, the weariness, the bogs and dragging gradients that sucked the strength from her legs.
He heard her out without comment. When she had finished he said: ‘Not easy then?’
Such a dry voice.
‘Harder than you can imagine.’
‘But you did it.’
‘Yes, I did it.’
‘Good.’ He put his hands together on the desktop. ‘Then I believe I may be able to help you.’
Her heart lurched. ‘You can?’
‘Oh yes. Now I know you are serious about this business. Now I know you have the toughness and the will to succeed.’
He told her it would not be hard to obtain capital. ‘Always provided the samples Mr Jones took have the necessary mineral content, of course.’ His eyes were no longer blue but the colour of slate. ‘You saw him take them? There is no danger he got them anywhere else?’
‘None at all. I was with him the whole time.’
‘And you saw him bag them?’
‘Yes.’
Fitch said that businessmen who had done well in the goldfields were always on the look out for good investments, in mining in particular. He had contacts in the industry; finding the right level of expertise would not be hard.
‘The men I recommend will have a high level not only of skill but integrity.’ His lips quivered: it might have been a smile. ‘There are still some honest men in the world,’ he said.
‘And will they work for a woman?’
He looked grave. ‘That might present a problem. As is the fact that you wish to retain financial control.’
‘I have already pointed out the problems,’ she said. ‘What I want from you, Mr Fitch, are solutions.’
‘And you shall have them, Miss Haggard. The problems exist but are not insoluble. If you will leave this with me?’
‘For how long? I want to move forward as soon as possible.’
‘A month. No more than that.’
‘And you will advise me when you have the answers?’
‘I shall. In the meantime, as a lawyer, may I take the liberty of offering you some adv
ice now?’
‘Of course.’
‘You need to peg your claims straight away. To pre-empt anyone else who might be interested in the area, you understand.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fitch. That is excellent advice. It has already been done.’
A crease in the marble smoothness of his forehead showed that Mr Fitch frowned. ‘How so?’
‘Mr Jones has already measured the site and pegged the claims.’ She delved in her reticule and withdrew a slender package. ‘I have here the forms he has completed.’ She handed them across the desk.
The frown remained. ‘You did not mention this before.’
‘I did not.’ She smiled. ‘You wanted to be sure of me, which is why you asked about my journey through the forest. I similarly wanted to be sure of you.’
Mr Fitch did something Catherine had not expected. He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Miss Haggard, I believe we shall get along famously.’
‘I hope so. I would like you to check the claims and make sure they’re filled in properly. Mr Jones tells me he’s done this many times so I doubt you’ll find anything wrong, but it’s best to be sure. Once you’re satisfied I wish you to register them with the authorities.’
‘In whose name?’
‘As stated on the forms. Mine.’
She had queried that with Jones when he had presented her with the completed documents the previous day.
‘But they are all in my name. Why have you done that?’
He scratched his head. ‘It’s like this, ma’am. Like I said, it’s finding the stuff that interests me. I’m a man likes to keep moving; I’m not much for what comes afterwards, tell you the truth. All that development business is one big headache, far as I’m concerned.’
‘But you surely want something for it?’
‘Give me a thousand quid a year for five years, she’ll be jake.’
‘I’ll give you double.’
‘That’s handsome. I’ll not say no.’
Catherine hesitated. ‘I could cheat you.’
‘But you won’t,’ he had said.
That afternoon she went to the Governor’s House.
‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ Roger Mortimer said. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Last night.’
It was a lie but she didn’t want to say she’d been back three days.
‘How did it go?’
She told him.
‘So there really is tin there?’
‘I would say a million tons of it. Maybe ten times that.’
‘Sir Harry will be delighted.’
‘He should be. It’ll be the making of the colony.’
‘Easily accessible?’
‘Quite the opposite. It was such hard going I think it might have killed me if I hadn’t be so determined to prove I could do it.’
‘So what’s the solution?’
‘I am working on it.’
He waited for her to explain but she said no more. This was her project and would remain so. She sensed it would open doors that until now she had not believed would ever be open. To bring in the Haggard Mine – because that was the name she was determined it would have – would win her the governor’s favour without bribes or theft or obfuscation and with that the acceptance of Tasmanian society. It would make her so famous that all the other incidents in her life, real and suspected, would be, if not forgotten, at least forgiven. Only when everything was settled would she be willing to talk about it, even to Roger or Mungo. Because this was the precious dream she had pursued all her life and she would permit no one to take it from her.
FIFTY-SIX
Joanne
I sat on the pub terrace. I’d had two beers and planned on having more. My brain was idling in neutral. I had a stunned feeling unlike anything I had ever known. I pulled out my phone. With a devil may care flourish I dialled my voicemail. After what had happened already today I had no doubts. Madness, of course, but there it was.
‘Joanne? Where are you? Look, I’m sorry I took off. Text me. Okay?’
Colin. Every muscle in my body relaxed. There were tears on my cheeks. Verily my cup runneth over. As someone must have said some time or other.
To hell with the extra beers. I piled into the hire boat and headed for the mainland and home.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Nothing to tell pending the diagnosis.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘You think I’d done a runner?’
I hated indulgently. ‘I didn’t think about it one way or the other.’
Liar, liar, pants on fire…
‘Tell me now,’ I said.
‘I told you I had to have a medical.’
‘You told me it was a formality.’
‘I thought it was. But then the PSA test came up with an eight.’
PSA? Eight? Urdu would have been easier.
‘Eight is bad?’
‘High but marginal. The powers that be decided they should check me out. I knew a specialist in Brisbane. I decided to get him to do it.’
All this mumbo jumbo was infuriating me. ‘Do you mind telling me in layman’s language what we’re talking about?’
He was taken aback. ‘I thought you knew everything.’
I gave him my demure smile. ‘I like to check on you from time to time.’
‘PSA means prostate specific antigen. They carry out tests to find out if it’s too high.’
‘And if it is?’
‘It means you’ve got prostate cancer.’
‘And eight?’
‘Is marginal.’
I was fed up with all this pussy-footing around. ‘Have you got it or not?’
‘Not.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. They do a biopsy and then a pathological evaluation –’
‘Spare me.’
‘Anyway, they assured me that all was well.’
‘Pity you’re impotent,’ I said.
‘Of course I’m not impotent!’
I gave him Joanne’s come-hither smile, famous from coast to coast. ‘Prove it.’
And he did.
Later…
‘Have you been away too?’
‘When the cat is away…’
‘Should I be jealous?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously a man offered to share my bed. Said it might ease my obvious loneliness.’
‘And did he?’
‘I decided one bad man in my life was enough.’
‘More fool you. But what were you doing?’
‘Treasure hunting up north.’
‘And?’
‘Let me show you.’
I hopped out of bed. In a twinkle of boobs and bum I crossed the room and brought my overnight case back to the bed. I opened the lid.
‘Tara tara!’
A look of awe crossed his face. ‘Oh my God.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
Catherine
Twelve months to the day after she had emerged from the formidable forests of Tasmania’s north-west, Cat Haggard sat in the office she had created out of what had been Mrs Morgan’s sewing room at the rear of Aberystwyth and looked at the man seated on the other side of her desk.
Trefor Griffiths was in his late thirties, a sturdy man with a heavy beard, big shoulders and a no-nonsense face. A Welshman with mining in his blood – Cat liked to imagine dear Mrs Morgan smiling with approval – he liked to say he had been born in a mine and never left. Mr Fitch had found him on the Victorian goldfields and had suggested that Cat should hire him as resident manager of the Haggard Mine.
At first Cat had been dubious. ‘A man who’s been a gold miner? Won’t he think it’s a bit of a comedown to operate a tin mine?’
But on enquiry Trefor Griffiths had denied it would be a problem. ‘A mine is a mine, ma’am,’ he had said. ‘Each has its own character, its own challenges and problems, but that is the fascination of it, you see. The minerals the mine produces are merel
y a by-product.’
Now, eight months after development had started, Mr Griffiths was there to make his monthly report.
‘The contractor’s been making good progress on the tram way,’ he said. ‘Most of the culverts are in so we should have no problem with the streams. And the bridges are more than halfway done. It’ll take a while yet, of course, but once the fine weather returns we should see it reach the wharf at Emu Bay in a month or two.’
‘Accommodation for the miners?’
‘Basic at the moment, ma’am, but these are experienced men. They knew how it would be at first and I have a contractor lined up to start building proper houses as soon as the weather clears.’
‘I wasn’t aware the weather ever cleared in that part of the world,’ Cat said.
‘Clear is a relative term, ma’am. But we are progressing in spite of everything.’
‘And the production?’
‘You have seen the figures, ma’am. At this rate the Haggard Mine is set to become one of the wonders of the world. And it is all open cut at present. I have never seen more keenly ground. When we start opening up the mountain we could become one of the richest producers of all time. It’ll be the making of this island, ma’am.’
‘Yet Theophilus Jones walked away from it.’
Griffiths shrugged. ‘It’s the nature of men like Jones. For your true prospector the discovery is all. What comes afterwards doesn’t interest him. But do you really intend to pay him two thousand pounds a year for five years? It seems an awful waste of resources to me.’
‘I gave him my word.’
‘Anything in writing, ma’am?’
‘Nothing, Mr Griffiths.’ Her eyes were blue sparks as she stared at the manager. ‘But my word is good.’
Mr Griffiths, nobody’s fool, backed off at once. ‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’
After Mr Griffiths had left she thought about what he’d said. The making of the island? That would be wonderful if true. But how would that fit in with her life with Mungo Jackson, a man who still yearned for the outlaw way? The truth was it would not.
Mungo had warned her that biology would eventually have its way, that in time she would want a settled life with a husband, children, and the place in society that she had always longed to have.
‘The Governor’s House,’ he had told her. ‘You have set your heart on that.’
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