A Bitter Harvest Read online

  ‘Malt?’

  ‘Splendid.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  William poured the drinks, one discreetly more generous than the others. He handed this to the Premier, and they raised their glasses to each other.

  ‘Handsome house,’ Reid said.

  He tasted his drink, and nodded his approval. It was not everyone who served whisky of this quality. He looked up at the painting that dominated and enlivened the room.

  ‘Damned pretty girl.’

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Magnificent picture.’

  ‘By Tom Roberts — of the Heidelberg school. One of his rare portraits,’ North said, slyly aware that the Premier had never heard of Roberts, or the Heidelberg school.

  ‘A great compliment to Elizabeth.’ William looked fondly at the brush work which captured her beauty, and was so admired by everyone who visited here. ‘I miss her very much.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Reid asked.

  ‘Travelling in England and central Europe. Completing her Grand Tour, accompanied by her mother.’

  Reid finished his drink. He thought there had been enough polite small talk, and when William obligingly took his glass to refill it, he said, ‘North tells me you’re interested in politics.’ William nodded, and waited for the Premier to continue. ‘James said we might have things to talk about. Matters best not discussed at Parliament House. Which is why I’m here.’

  ‘It’s a privilege to have you in my home, Mr Reid.’

  ‘Aye, but let’s cut the bullshit, shall we, and get down to cases.

  What matters could we possibly have to talk about, you and me?’

  ‘I want a seat in the Legislative Assembly,’ William said.

  ‘Do you, by Christ?’

  The Premier swallowed enough of his drink to suggest it might soon be time to leave. The bluntness of the request had clearly shocked him. In his world things were done more delicately than this.

  ‘Marcus Sway is resigning. It’s a safe seat.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that. And being safe, a great many loyal supporters have their eyes on it.’

  ‘No one supports you more strongly than I do,’ William said. ‘I’m for Free Trade, as you are. I also want to make a donation to party funds.’

  ‘Very kind.’ Reid was about to put down his empty glass, and signal his departure. ‘But donations are made through normal channels. I’m sure James would have told you that.’

  ‘This donation,’ William said, carefully watching the flushed face of the Premier, ‘is for ten thousand pounds.’

  George Reid was startled. William sensed that even North was surprised. The amount was double what he had intended.

  ‘Ten thousand … that’s extraordinarily generous.’

  ‘The money is to be put to whatever use you think fit.’

  The silence was eloquent.

  William allowed it to continue, until he felt sure of his man. ‘It will be paid in two stages. Half now — today, before you leave here — in cash.’ Reid moistened his lips. ‘The balance,’ William continued, ‘the day after I take my seat in the House.’

  ‘You devious bastard.’

  The Premier was staring at him, and William had a moment of alarm and uncertainty. Had he misjudged his man?

  ‘Several people warned me you were a conniving prick — and they were right. “Don’t shake his hand,” they told me. “You don’t know where it’s been.’” He chortled at his own wit.

  I’d like to shake you firmly by the throat, William thought. Silly, pompous old bugger.

  But Reid smiled and held out his glass to be replenished.

  ‘On the other hand, I never listen to gossip. And we need new blood. An infusion of energy — young men with ideas and public spirit — that’s what will make this country great.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ North said, as William refilled the Premier’s glass.

  They stood on the front steps, hands raised in a farewell as the carriage drove away. North had elected to remain, as he lived only a block away, while Reid had urgent matters awaiting his attention in his office. Before leaving he had accepted custody of the money — a large envelope bulging with cash — strictly as a donation on behalf of the party, as he was at great pains to point out.

  ‘You handled the old goat perfectly,’ James complimented him as they went inside.

  ‘How long do I have to wait?’

  ‘Marcus will step down tomorrow. You can count on being nominated, as long as you convince the party hierarchy you support our policy to oppose Federation. After that it’s a mere formality.’

  William offered him another malt whisky, but James said he would rather have a beer. They took a chilled bottle of Resch’s to the side garden, to where there were chairs on a terrace that overlooked the tennis court. Last year it had been filled with his daughter’s circle of friends, the sound of their play and frequent laughter.

  ‘The place feels empty without Elizabeth,’ William said.

  ‘When does she arrive back?’ North asked.

  ‘Three months. Via Suez, then India and Singapore.’

  ‘You’ll be an Honourable Member by the time she’s home. You can write and tell her — and Edith, too,’ he remembered tactfully, ‘that you’re on your way.’

  ‘On my way?’

  ‘Come on, William,’ North said smiling, ‘you don’t expect me to believe the back bench of the Legislative Assembly is your ultimate goal. You’re after something a lot bigger than that.’

  When North had gone, William strolled in the grounds. The shrubs had matured greatly in the eight years they had lived here, and the lawns were always kept immaculate. It was a prize garden, an elegant estate and the envy of the neighbourhood.

  So James North guessed he was after a larger prize. James thought he knew William, but he did not know the half of it.

  It had taken time. He had forced himself to be patient, despite his ambition, delaying this move into public gaze until he felt fully secure. Now, at last, it was time to take the next step in his life.

  He had a brief discussion with the head gardener about pruning the roses and putting in the spring bedding plants, then told Mrs Forbes he would be dining out, and did not require the carriage. He had to share his news, and there was only one person in whom he could confide.

  He knew she would be expecting him.

  The parliamentary chamber was rowdy with abuse. It was not without good reason that it had become widely known as the bearpit.

  ‘Mr Speaker,’ James North shouted, his voice almost drowned out by jeers from the Opposition benches. ‘Mr Speaker, it gives me great pleasure to introduce the new Member for the electorate of Curt is, the Right Honourable William Foster Patterson.’

  William rose to rousing cheers from his own side of the house, and a robust booing from the coalition of forces opposite. He stood tall and composed, allowing the noise to slowly die down, while he glanced carefully up towards the public gallery. He knew she would be there; they had previously arranged it, but he still felt reassurance when he saw her. He was also aware of how discerningly she had dressed, the trimmed lace gown and bonnet were in subdued tones. Bright colours enhanced Hannah Lockwood’s looks and made her a figure of admiration in any company. Today she had chosen to blend discreetly into the background, to sit passively in the back row away from any chance of public notice, and for this he was grateful.

  ‘Mr Speaker,’ he began, when the House was finally quiet, ‘I thank my colleagues for their support. And I certainly wish to thank the Honourable rabble opposite for booing me. Had they chosen to greet me with applause, I would have felt most uneasy.’

  Hannah joined in the laughter in the public arena.

  He looks so assured, she thought. As if he belongs. It means so much to him.

  ‘The Members on my side of the House already know many of the causes for which I stand. I am unashamedly for such objectives as Free Trade, for private en
terprise, the protection of property, and the upholding of Law and Order …’

  ‘Just another filthy-rich Tory,’ an Opposition stalwart shouted to general acclaim around him. ‘Bloody bloated capitalists.’

  He was joined by other cries of derision.

  ‘Look at ‘em. Arrogant bastards. Think they’re born to rule.’

  ‘I was about to say,’ William’s resonant voice managed to slice through the invective and silence them. ‘I was about to tell you bunch of ratbags across there, as well as the gentlemen over here, that I am also for progress, which means I am for change. I do not mean minor changes to gratify public opinion. I mean significant change. Real change. This collection of colonies ruled from London has been smothered by overseas self-interest for too long. It is time to demand a new way — and take our destiny in our own hands.’

  Hannah watched him, aware the entirely male membership of the Assembly had gone very quiet, and were now listening intently. Among the Opposition were some surprised faces; on his own side there were puzzled glances and startled frowns.

  ‘I wish to make it clear, despite any opinions against it in my own party, that I am completely for Federation.’ There was a roar of surprise from around the chamber. William raised his voice, forcing them to listen, as the House went quiet: ‘I am for a Constitution to form the six colonies into one nation, a Commonwealth of Australia. I am also in favour of votes for women — whether my colleagues support me or not — and those two issues are the reforms for which I will fight, and the reason why I stood for election and am here today.’

  George Reid was red-faced and open-mouthed. He wrote a hasty note, and passed it along his front bench to James North. North nodded his agreement, glaring at William. It was clear both felt they had been taken in by this upstart opportunist.

  There was a stony silence among his Conservative colleagues as William resumed his seat. On the other side of the Legislature, some surprised Opposition members began to applaud. Upstairs in the public seats, people around Hannah joined in, while the only two journalists in the press gallery who had bothered to attend were scribbling details of the speech as quickly as they could manage.

  ‘I didn’t go on too long, did I?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said and slid her hand between his legs. He laughed, but was already stirring and responding to her touch.

  ‘I meant the speech.’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ Hannah said. ‘The speech was not too long.’ Her fingers caressed him. ‘The speech was lovely.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Stop fishing for compliments. I was proud of you, darling.’

  ‘The gallery seemed to enjoy it.’

  ‘So did the Opposition,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m not sure about your own side.’

  ‘Jimmy North was upset.’

  ‘Upset? He looked absolutely furious.’

  ‘He refused to talk to me afterwards. And George Reid called me a bloody traitor.’

  ‘I think they’re going to find out about you.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘That you’re nobody’s tame poodle.’

  ‘Dead right,’ William said.

  They were both aware they were going to make love again.

  Hannah felt elated; like WiIliam she was still highly stimulated by the day and its impact. She parted her legs, guiding him into her. She began to probe his ear with her tongue because she had discovered how this aroused him, and she felt her own senses surge as his hands fondled her breasts, then played with her buttocks. They had both learned how to excite each other, but today was unusual and special. He was euphoric at his success, and by the reports in the afternoon newspapers already casting him as a new political figure of substance. She was thrilled for him, and their shared elation had generated this desire from the moment they reached the privacy of the bijou house. She felt out of control. She matched his thrusts with her own movements, and cried aloud with delight as they climaxed.

  Later, they bathed and dressed, opened a bottle of wine and touched glasses in an intimate salute to his debut. Hannah knew she had shared one of the important days of his life. But she was no fool. She realised it was only possible because of the absence of his wife and his daughter Elizabeth, who were on their way home from their world tour. When they returned, many things would change. She would have to grow accustomed to that again, even though she felt despondent at the thought of it.

  TWO

  Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht, sang the voices of the carol singers in the candlelit square, so nostalgic in his mind. Stefan Muller tried to shut out the persistent cry of the scavenging gulls that trailed the ship, and to cling to a memory which, with every passing day, was becoming more difficult to recall. He was unhappy and homesick for the cobbled streets and spires of his native Augsburg.

  Already on this foreign ship, he missed the noisy Gemialicbheit, the fellowship that was so much a part of life in the Bavarian university town. His own student days had been abruptly terminated by the death of his parents in an influenza epidemic, and he had been reluctantly taken in by his Uncle Uhlrich and Aunt Cordula in the small apartment over the Apotheke, where Uncle Uhlrich dispensed prescriptions and every Thursday played the cello in a string quartet. They had three children of their own, and Stefan felt like an intruder, although he earned his keep by making deliveries and sweeping the shop each day.

  It was a dull unrewarding existence, without prospects, and it was this more than anything else which made him interested when Aunt Cordula first spoke of her brother Johann. Uncle Johann, it transpired, was a sailor who had walked off his ship on the other side of the world, in a place called Australia. There he had met and married a Westphalian girl from Coblenz, and was now settled and growing grapes on a farm in the hills above Adelaide, a city named for a German Queen born in Saxony. It was a wirklich Deutsch community, Aunt Cordula explained, managing to make it sound romantic and adventurous, and Uncle Johann Ritter like a blend of poet and pirate, a seafaring man who wooed a Rhine maiden and now ran his prosperous vineyard in the New World. He was looking for someone to help share in the venture, Aunt Cordula said, and Stefan, then an ingenuous nineteen year old, began to dream of lush pastures and barefoot girls with sunlight in their hair singing Leidenschaft songs as they trod the grapes.

  Communications were slow and Uncle Johann a somewhat tardy correspondent, so it took almost three years before arrangements were completed. By this time, at close to twenty-two years of age, Stefan was no longer certain if his destiny lay across the world. Especially since by then he had met Christina.

  He smiled at the memory of their first meeting. The smile transformed his thin, unhappy features, and surprised the girl who had been watching him from the upper deck. He looked up and noticed her, and they gazed at each other for what seemed to be an inordinately long time. She was very pretty. He was not sure what her open appraisal meant, but she was boat deck and he was steerage, so he merely gave a polite nod that was almost a bow. He was aware she stayed there, looking down and watching him as he turned away.

  His thoughts returned to Christina. He had collided with her, literally, on a windswept corner of the Keplerstrasse, in a tangle of arms and legs and bicycle wheels, and after a heated exchange during which her dark eyes snapped indignantly and her attractive mouth pronounced her opinion of idiots who rode their bicycles so carelessly, they suddenly realised they had known each other most of their lives. She was fat Christina Gressmann, the teacher’s pet from Kindergarten: he was shy, skinny Stefan Muller, whom the girls at high school declared they would be safest with, if locked in a closet. She was no longer fat and he no longer shy, and moments later they were in the nearest coffee shop. He learned Christina had been a music student in Leipzig, and was now teaching pianoforte. He was uncomfortably aware of his own lack of position, and that, in his early twenties, he was little more than an errand boy with no vocation.

  He was, however, about to embark on a journey no one else i
n Augsburg had attempted. Most families knew someone who had migrated to America, and indeed there was a town in Pennsylvania called Pittsburgh said to contain many Germans, but nobody Christina knew had settled in Hahndorf, in far-off Australia.

  It invested Stefan with a certain distinction. He was an adventurer setting off to cross the world, where in time he would become a vigneron. Never did he mention what his Uncle Johann’s one smudged letter had conveyed to him: that the hours would be long, the work hard, and he would travel steerage because Johann Ritter did not believe in wasting money on relatives. Nor did he say what was constantly in his mind — that now they had met again, the last thing he wanted was to leave her and migrate to some distant, foreign place.

  He could not tell her this. He realised, all too well, the effect it would have. Christina, with her good looks, had many admirers and was constantly sought out by students and young army officers. In her eyes, Hahndorf was Stefan’s special cachet, the singular distinction which gave him a place in her orbit. Without it, his status would rapidly decline to that of a nobody, a messenger boy who swept up in his uncle’s shop. If he decided not to go — assuming such a decision was possible — he and Christina would no longer have an interest in common. Hahndorf was what linked them, and what would separate them soon enough, and if he chose not to go to Hahndorf, separation would be equally certain but far less glamorous. It had an irony that was not entirely lost on him, although it could hardly be said he found it amusing.

  He was roused from his reverie by the cries of the seagulls, fighting over scraps of garbage tipped from the ship’s galley. He looked back towards the boat deck. The girl was still there, still watching him — her blonde hair gently blown by the sea breeze.

  He did something then, that he would remember for the rest of his life. He raised his hand, in a token of admiration to her. It was completely instinctive, an accolade bestowed, a recognition of her youth and beauty — and as if understanding this, the girl accepted it naturally. She smiled, waved in reply, then vanished into one of the staterooms.