Bangalore. Roger Crook
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“He sounds more like a business executive than a lawyer, and very rich.”
“Lawyers have a better nose for money than many a businessman. They get involved in negotiations with traditional owners for mining leases. They draft documents from the beginning, when the parties reach an MOU. Then they draft final agreements. They appear at hearings. Check prospectus. All for a fat fee. For Roddy that means somewhere around seven hundred to a thousand dollars an hour and more. After that he sits on company boards and gets a fat director’s fee. On top of all that, Roddy’s firm, Goldsmith and Blaud, specialises in taxation, so he represents the big end of town to make sure they don’t pay tax or pay the very minimum. I didn’t know until recently that the Tax Office will negotiate with big end of town if it looks as if they are in for an expensive fight. Roddy may not make the tens of millions some CEOs make, but he won't be far off. He has his fingers in many a pie, both here and overseas. Africa is the flavour of the month, I gather.”
“I think I can hear a plane now, off to the south,” Pat said.
Angus listened. “That must be them. Those new turbo prop engines have a sound all of their own, don’t they? He’ll fly over the homestead; the airstrip is about a mile to the east. Let’s go and get the car.”
As they walked out of the back door the first big drops of rain started to fall and a gust of wind lifted the fine red dust. Angus’ car was a twenty-year-old Mercedes diesel station wagon. It was the only Mercedes that Pat had ever seen with a roo bar. Bolted to the bar were two big spotlights, the kind favoured by the truckies. As they climbed in Angus said, “Don’t let the exterior mislead you, Pat. She may be twenty years old but mechanically she’s perfect. A couple of bumps here and there but she’s good for another couple of hundred thousand.”
Inside the Mercedes the leather upholstery was covered with fitted sheepskin covers. As he started the diesel motor he opened his window slightly as the air-conditioning started to take over from the heat inside. By the time they were bouncing down the road to the airstrip the rain got heavier and there were flashes of lightning in the north.
Angus looked at the sky, looked at Pat and smiled. “That’s Roddy – just in time. That storm is coming this way and I reckon it’s about half an hour away. It’ll give us time to put his plane in the hangar out of harm’s way, save us having to tie it down. I bet he’s been watching that storm and had it flat chat.”
The windsock at the landing strip was horizontal, indicating a strong northerly wind. They stopped by a hangar. There was another hangar about one hundred metres away. “You didn’t say you had a plane, Angus.”
“You didn’t ask. I thought Ewen would have told you. This is where he learned to fly, same plane too, an ancient Cessna 180, affectionately known as Bessie, don’t know why, I think the kids named her. My father bought it when he moved to Perth, second hand then. Like my car she looks a bit forlorn, especially against Roddy’s gleaming monster, but she’s as good as we can keep her, needs a paint job really; apart from that she’s as good as the day she was built.” They pushed open the sliding doors of the hangar to reveal as Angus had said, a Cessna 180 with faded red paint, and a little dusty.
Now they could not only hear Roddy but they could see him in the south, as, into the wind, he lined up the runway on his final approach. A loud clap of thunder made them both jump as the Cessna Stationaire made a perfect landing almost level with the hangar. Pat and Angus watched as he taxied and then turned towards them. Behind the plane the storm had arrived faster than Angus had predicted. There was a savage fork of lightning that seemed to be just at the northern end of the runway followed by a clap of thunder that rattled the sliding doors of the hangar. Then the heavens opened.
Roddy taxied right up to the hangar doors and turned the engine off. The rain was falling in sheets. They watched as Roddy opened his door and climbed out and they helped him push the plane a few yards into the hangar and got soaked in the process.
Pat hadn’t met Michelle and didn’t know what to expect. Her romance with Ewen had been short, just three months, and during that time Michelle and Roddy had been away on a business trip and holiday for the same duration. They had been to South Africa to see his family, then on to look at an investment one of the companies, of which he was a director, had made somewhere in Africa. Then on to London for two weeks and then a month for Michelle in Vale, Colorado, skiing, while Roddy did, as he said, ‘A few things in the States and Canada’.
The rear door of the plane opened and Roddy helped Michelle out. Pat knew she was the same age as Angus, so just over fifty. She was dressed for the bush. Well-fitting jeans, plaited leather belt, blue-striped long-sleeved shirt with the Longhorn logo over the left breast pocket; polished but not new Cuban-heeled R M Williams boots completed the outfit.
She was of medium height, with a trim but full figure that showed no sign of running away to excess. She looked fit and tanned. Blonde hair that was just above shoulder length and looked as if it received plenty of professional attention; for the flight she had it pinned back behind her ears. She wore no jewellery except for a broad white-gold wedding ring, gold stud earrings, each with a small diamond and a simple fine gold chain around her neck. Very pale lipstick was all the makeup she wore.
When Michelle saw Pat she smiled and Pat saw a stunningly beautiful woman. Michelle said, “You must be, Patricia. Ewen told me over the phone that he had met a beautiful girl.” She gave Pat a warmish half-hug, just enough, and a kiss on the cheek. “How long have you been here, Patricia?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I drove up. Left on Friday, stayed the night at Carnarvon and then came on out here.”
“What a pity we didn’t know what we were doing. You could have come with us and Roddy could have shown you his new toy; you probably could have flown it, couldn’t she, Roddy?” Her voice was what Patricia’s father always called an ‘Australian money’ accent. Not quite Australian and not quite English upper class, somewhere in between, unique to Australia. In Western Australia mostly found in the river suburbs of Perth, in the up-market boutiques and coffee shops, and at the big end of town among lawyers, stockbrokers and those with old money, or wealth, real or pretend. An accent that blows away forever the popular myth of Australia being a classless society.
Pat’s father had always taken pride in his Scottish accent, and like many Scots in Australia, it had never left him. A Labour man when in the UK, he became a fierce Labor man in Australia. She remembered him making fun of Malcolm Fraser, commenting, “How could Australia have ever trusted a man that speaks like that, that toffee-nosed prat?” Michelle’s was that kind of ‘Malcolm Fraser’ accent.
Roddy Goldsmith had been taking luggage out of the locker of the plane and he turned to Pat when Michelle asked her question. “Hello, Patricia, pleased to meet you. Yes you could have taken over coming up here, suppose this sort of thing, gesturing to his plane, is pretty much all in a day’s work for you?”
Pat held out her hand and his handshake was firm and in spite of the heat of the day, cool to touch. “Not really, Roddy. Haven’t flown anything like this for a while now, but the avionics and instruments Angus tells me are state-of-the-art, so I’m sure I would soon get the hang of things. It’s a lovely plane.”
Pat saw that Roddy was about the same height as Michelle, slim waisted with no sign of a paunch. She guessed his age to be about fifty. Powerful shoulders, close-cropped grey hair running to bald on the top, clean-shaven and wearing rimless spectacles. Like Michelle he looked fit and tanned. She recognised his accent as being from southern Africa. It was quite distinct but again had a refinement to it. She was later to learn that he had been born in what was now Zimbabwe, had been educated in England and qualified as a lawyer in England and then practised in London and Cape Town before migrating to Australia in the early eighties.
Roddy too, was dressed for the bush, bone-coloured jeans, light-blue long-sleeved shirt and polished, brown, elastic-sided boots. As Pat helped Roddy with the last of the luggage and Michelle watched them, Angus came round from the other side of the plane with his arm round the shoulder of his daughter, Rachael.
She was without doubt her father’s