had once been a handsome, broad-verandahed building sheltered by spreading eucalypts but it wore a shabby defeated air created by peeling paint, faded brickwork and rusted iron. A battered ute stood under a makeshift canvas shelter and I pulled up beside it.
Kevin Brown jumped down and strode off towards the house without a word. The fuel gauge had flopped below empty and the motor died before I could turn it off. I climbed down and stretched. The Pajero was air- conditioned and comfortable but I’d driven for more hours than my mature limbs cared for. I stood in the long shadows cast by some spindly trees and worked my shoulders.
‘Left shoulder still a bit stiff, eh? I remember when you dislocated it in a dumper.’
I turned to see Jacko Brown standing a few paces away. His soft feet had made him a good boxer and a great jungle fighter.
‘Jacko,’ I said. ‘So this is what you traded in a contract with the Balmain Tigers for?’
We shook hands. His was as hard and rough as a mallee root. ‘This is it. A thousand acres.’
‘You’re behind the times, mate. It’s hectares now.’
‘Yeah, I keep forgetting. Great to see you, Cliff. Where’s Kevin?’
‘He took off inside.’ I reached into the 4WD for my bag. ‘I hope you’ve got some fuel here. I’ve used the last drop.’
‘Of course. Gallons.’
‘Litres.’
He laughed. ‘Fuck you. Come in and have a shower and a scotch.’
I shouldered the bag and we walked across the scruffy grass to the house. ‘I heard you went dry.’
‘I did, but I got some in for you.’
The temperature dropped welcomingly inside the house. I took off my sunglasses and adjusted to the reduced light. There was a broad passageway with rooms off to either side. The floor was polished hardwood but dusty. The carpet runner was frayed. We went through to a kitchen and sunroom stretching the width of the house at the back. The kitchen held a combustion stove, a big old-fashioned refrigerator and a microwave oven, plus a long pine table and chairs. Three pine dressers, antiques. The furniture in the sunroom was cane, old and with sun-faded cushions.
Jacko opened the back door and pointed. ‘Shower’s out there. I’ll just have a word with Kevin, then we can have a drink.’
The washhouse, combining a bathroom and laundry, was a fibro outhouse ten paces away. To shower you stood in a claw hammer bath. You hung your towel on a nail on the door. I showered quickly in cold water, dried off, changed my shirt and went back to the house. Jacko put ice in a bowl, got two glasses and a bottle of soda water, and put them on the low table in the sunroom.
‘Kevin’s shot through,’ he said. ‘Dunno where. I was going to give him a drink. I know he gets on it in town. Did you have any trouble with him?’
‘Not with him. A mate of his named Jimmy had a go.’
‘Did you hurt him?’
‘Not really. He’ll have a stiff neck and a bruised beer gut for a bit.’
‘Say when.’ He poured a solid slug of Johnny Walker red over ice. He put ice in his own glass and topped it with soda water. He handed me the drink. ‘Cheers.’
We sat and I drank and felt the whisky slide down my throat and lubricate my bones. As soon as we’d both had a swallow Jacko got to the point.
‘I’m trying to start a community bank,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way we’re going to survive out here. They’ve done it in other places and we can do it here, I reckon. Do you know anything about community banks, Cliff?’
‘I read something about one in Bendigo or somewhere but I was skimming. Safe to say I know nothing about them.’
I was treated to a half hour rundown on the theory and practice of community banking and the benefits it could bring to a depressed rural area. Typical of Jacko, he knew his subject. I remembered how he read up on farm management before he quit the big smoke.
I finished my drink about the time he finished talking. ‘You’ve got it by the balls,’ I said.
‘Internet. Marvellous thing. You on it?’
I shook my head.
‘That’s right. I tried to find your website. How can you conduct a business without being online?’
‘I manage. So what’s the problem? Not enough takers? You want me to scare people into coming in with you?’
The enthusiasm that had been in his voice ebbed away. ‘No, ‘course not. The problem is there’s someone trying to stop me.’
‘Stop you how?’
‘You name it-threatening notes and phone calls, sabotage of equipment, killing stock, spreading rumours…’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that I was drunk when Shirl got killed. Like that I molested Debbie and that’s why she left.’
Debbie was Jacko’s daughter, who I knew had gone to Adelaide. I didn’t know why. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who’d believe that?’
He slammed his tumbler down on the table so that the glass top cracked. ‘Shit! They don’t have to believe it. It just has to get around.’ He looked at me and grinned. ‘The word is I’m violent.’
I nodded.
‘I also got kicked out of the police force for corruption. See what I mean? People see Vic Bruce turning a blind eye to everything. Why would I be any different?’
‘I get it. But, mate, you live here. You must know everyone for miles around. You must have some idea who’d be behind it.’
He shook his head. ‘Too many to name. Tod Van Keppel? He’s the head of Western Holdings and chairman of the big producers’ committee. They’re trying to buy up the little men. There’s Shirl’s family and friends. Plus I’ve had run-ins with various people over the years. It’s part of country life.’
‘Have you talked to the copper?’
‘He’s useless. Just serving out his time. Have another drink. I’ll put something in the microwave. Steak and kidney pie do you?’
‘Sure.’
He went to the kitchen and I poured myself another scotch and added some of the ice cubes and water. Jacko was still moving with the same vigour he’d always displayed but he was looking old and tired. There was a lot of grey in his hair and the lines on his face were at least partly from worry and tension.
I was swilling the drink around when Kevin came stumping in through the back door. I raised my glass. ‘Your dad was going to offer you a drink.’
He sneered at me, picked up the bottle, uncapped it and took a long swig.
‘Tell him thanks,’ he said and went out the way he’d come in.
I had to wonder about Kevin.
Jacko came back with two heaped plates, a bottle of tomato sauce and some cutlery. He looked at the uncapped whisky bottle.
‘Kevin?’
I nodded.
‘Dunno what I’m going to do with that boy if I can’t get this bank idea up. He was fine when he worked in the bank. Gone to the dogs since. Dig in, Cliff.’
The massive hotel sandwich had taken the edge off my appetite but I ate as much as I could so as not to offend. Jacko drank his soda water and I made the whisky and water last through the food. It was pretty tasteless and needed the tomato sauce. Jacko ate even less than me and looking at him I realised that he’d lost weight. He was about the same height as me, 184 centimetres, and had fought as a middleweight in his late teens. He’d go welter now, easily.
‘Coffee?’ Jacko said.
‘Maybe in a bit. What d’you want me to do, Jacko?’
