properties could cause any two surfaces to adhere, no matter how uneven.
Mac, wrapped in an outsized white bath towel, sprawled in a massive colonial wicker armchair in the shade of the double-width verandah. Everything at Bellaranga was enormous. You could fly over its million acres in a helicopter for a couple of hours and still be on the property. The views were infinite-from the beginning to the end of the world in time and space was how Mac phrased it when he was in a lyrical mood. Some of the oldest artworks in the world were on this place, painted on the walls of rock caves by peoples unknown; some said the Australian Aborigines, some said not. To Mac it was irrelevant. They were graceful, elegant, tasselled figures with extraordinary headdresses, painted with exceptional skill, as alive on the rock face now as they would have been over twenty thousand years ago. One of Mac’s prized showpieces was a small Matisse oil with dancing figures. He reckoned Matisse must have been to Bellaranga.
How he wished his old dad could see him now, the lord of this domain and the other world on the end of the telephone. He’d never believe it. One of the European migrants who’d brought their skills to help build the Snowy Mountains Scheme, his father became more proudly Australian than any native born. He named his son after Governor Lachlan Macquarie and added James, as English a name as he could imagine. Mac still saw him sometimes, walking away from him down a Sydney street or cupping his hands to light a cigarette in a pub doorway. He remembered the line into the small church in Auburn and the crowd stretching away under the trees at the graveyard. He’d never seen half these people before, yet they all knew Ja.
Suddenly he was brought back to the present by some discordant note from the telephone. His mind worked that way. He could half listen to the conversation and hear a clear bell ring in the middle of the hubbub.
‘I’m sorry, Chairman. I missed some of that. The line’s not too good. Would you mind summarising for me?’
Sir Laurence was only too happy to oblige. ‘The chief executive, in the course of presenting his monthly report to the board, was highlighting the wellknown fact that we run a negative profit on our insurance operations with an insurance margin of one hundred and three per cent. While this is common in the industry it is apparently of great concern to him. He was directing his remarks to the twin questions of pricing and costs in addressing this issue. I trust this is an accurate summary?’ Sir Laurence gestured vaguely in Jack’s direction.
‘Yes, Mac. I know some insurance companies lose on every policy they write and make their profit on investing shareholders’ funds, but to me it’s a dangerous way to run a business and I’m not comfortable with it. We’ve got to look more closely at how we price risk. There might be a percentage of our book we want to discard because we can never make money on it and some business we want to keep but reprice.’
Mac’s voice echoed from the doughnut. ‘Hang on, my friend, you’ve got to tread carefully here. The market won’t like us writing less business just because we think we’re going to make more profit somewhere down the track. They want growth. But I thought I heard you talking specifically about the cost side.’
Jack’s enthusiasm began to rise. ‘Absolutely. There’s so much we can do there. Not just with internal costs, although I’m convinced already we can take eighty to one hundred million out of those, but on the education side, with our policyholders. If we can teach them how to better secure their homes, we reduce the incidence of burglary. And more, if we can work with local communities and the police on drug rehabilitation, we can help to treat the cause. If we can convince local councils to use our rating information and rezone likely flood areas, or change the building codes for hurricanes and severe storm areas, we can reduce claim costs and help our customers at the same time. Because that’s what insurance is all about, as I see it. Just a spreading of risk across the community so one family’s disaster is shared by everyone else.’
There was silence in the boardroom and from the speakerphone. Finally, Sir Laurence spoke. ‘Are you still there, Mac?’
‘Yes.’ A short cough. ‘Yes, of course, Laurence. Chairman. Just thinking about Jack’s comments. Very commendable sentiments. Very much in line with my own thinking. Of course, you have to balance these long-term aims with the short-term interests of the shareholders. As directors, I think that’s where we have to look, is it not, Chairman?’
‘Indeed. The Corporations Act requires us to represent the interests of shareholders at all times.’
‘Just so. I’ve heard you say that many times. So, Jack, it’s quite right of you to raise these matters and commendable that you should get on this track so quickly, but we must plan carefully and slowly to strike the right balance of interests. Everyone agree?’
There were murmurs from around the table of an indeterminate nature, as there usually were when Mac put this question. No vote had ever been taken in this boardroom, no clear dissent ever expressed.
‘Excellent. So I think we’re all agreeing with you, Jack, just expressing a note of caution. But didn’t I hear you mention specifics on the cost side?’
Jack drew a deep breath and coloured slightly. ‘I’m not sure you are agreeing with me, Mac. It’s clear as day to me we need to move ahead on all this immediately and in the absolute interests of the shareholders. Our investment returns have been behind the market lately and I’m still trying to understand how our profits are increasing at such a pace.’
Now it was very quiet and still in the room. No one shuffled papers or fiddled with pens. Even Shane O’Connell, who was usually prodding at his electronic organiser with a stylus, sat with his palms flat on the table. Jack continued.
‘Frankly, I see the cost side as the easy part. For instance, we seem to spend a fortune on consultants. I’m certain we can slash that in half. I don’t even know what they all do yet, but I’ll have a detailed analysis for you by the next meeting. And the other example is this company called Beira. We appear to pay it between thirty-five and forty million dollars a year, yet no one seems to know what it does precisely. So there’s a ton of potential for cost- cutting and I plan to get on with it.’ He paused and counted to ten in his head. ‘In the interests of shareholders.’
It was really no more than a rock jutting out of the Mediterranean. The vegetation, such as it was, consisted of a few scrawny olive trees struggling for survival in a thin layer of wind-blown soil trapped in the rock’s crevices. There were donkeys to carry supplies from the boat up the hill to the village, chickens in the yards, depression in the air. He only ever went there once with his father. It was enough. Enough to remind him where he came from, more than enough to know he wasn’t going back. He’d searched for it in the index of his atlas but there was no Beira listed among the Bs. But Ja was proud of where he came from and grateful for where he’d landed. They were different in that way. Mac felt he’d wrestled what he had from opponents who would have turned him over in a crocodile roll given half a chance. His father saw life with a softer palette.
He walked stiffly down the verandah steps to the lush green lawn under the poinciana trees, the only expanse of soft green anywhere in the Kimberley in the harsh dry season. When he woke, alone, in the early morning after a day of riding, his body always felt like a rusty old car that needed a grease and oil change. He loved being alone up here. It was strange, because in the city he hated to sleep or eat alone and rarely did, but he’d never brought Bonny or any other girl to Bellaranga and Edith had only come twice. It was too hot for her, too wild, too far from the bridge club. A few times a year he flew major clients or investors in for fishing and shooting but, unlike life on the Honey Bear, this was bloke’s stuff, men’s business. Huntin’, shootin’, drinkin’-but no rooting. And a great tax deduction.
This last thought brought him back to the subject of the board meeting with an unpleasant jerk. What possessed these people, given a huge salary and the chance to make a fortune from options, to go digging in holes full of snakes? First Buckley, with all his pompous crap about corporate behaviour, and now Jack Beaumont sounding like he was preaching a sermon. He’d have to learn. There were some holes that had big snakes in them with very nasty bites. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Let Renton Healey sort it out. He could confuse anyone in three easy lessons. He’d been promoted to CFO and given a whacking pay increase thanks to his loyalty and ability to show flexible, creative thinking on tricky issues; now was the time to bring those qualities into play.
Louise entered quietly through the open hatch, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden steps. It was one of Jack’s flights into whimsy, this study in a loft with a narrow staircase and a trapdoor. It was a wonder he hadn’t included a pole to slide down into the bedroom.
‘What are you doing, lover boy? It’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s happened to the digger who sleeps under gunfire?’ She was holding his head in both hands now and he was grateful for the warmth and comfort. He nuzzled into her body. ‘This is a worry; you’ve either fallen in love with another woman, in which case tiny parts of your body will be lightly sauteed with onions and garlic, or you’re more concerned than I’ve seen you since your daughter was born breech. Which is it? Be quick lest I ready the pan.’
