Where the Willows Weep

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Laura Maskey and her wayward ways... Where the Willows Weep features characters from Valley of Lagoons and Mango Hill, as the legendary Pace MacNamara's son Paul takes up the fight for the land he loves. The perfect read for fans of AnneMarie Brear and Tricia McGill. 'For those who like quality historical romance, Patricia Shaw's Where the Willows Weep will appeal' - Courier Mail Laura Maskey's daring expedition to watch the gentlemen bathe at Murray Lagoon proves the final straw for her exasperated parents: their wayward daughter must be married off at once and Bobby Cope is just the man. But Laura has other ideas and when she runs away from her own engagement party, the family rift is complete. Laura's romantic inclinations are firmly fixed on Paul MacNamara, the owner of Oberon cattle station, and the tragic death of his wife brings him within her reach. But Paul has many battles to fight first; against the unscrupulous men who are determined to divide Queensland for their own gain; on behalf of the ancient Aboriginal tribes whose lands are at risk; and with his own personal demons. Only then can he allow his thoughts to turn to love... What readers are saying about Where the Willows Weep : 'Absolutely stunning ' 'Well written with subtle twists and turns ' ' Wonderful '

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Two girls rode listlessly along a bridle track towards the main road leading away from Rockhampton. Both rode side-saddle and both wore the dress of the day, white blouses and long dark skirts, but while Laura had on a plain felt hat, Amelia preferred a fashionable straw boater with a blaze of ribbons that now hung limply in the humid air.

They were the best of friends, these girls, thanks to the endeavours of their fathers – few families in this small, country community could afford horses for their daughters, let alone the smart Thoroughbreds that now carried their riders so splendidly through the rough scrub. Amelia’s parent was a wealthy man but Laura’s father had an added claim to fame, he was a Member of the State Parliament.

As Amelia often said, and insisted upon, she and Laura were the leaders of the young social set of Rockhampton. It irritated her when Laura laughed at her pretensions: ‘Don’t be ridiculous! There’s no social set here, only people.’ They argued about their status long and hard because there wasn’t much else to argue about and it always came down to the same thing – Amelia Roberts cared about such matters while Laura Maskey couldn’t care less.

‘What did we have to take this stupid track for?’ Amelia complained.

‘It’s a short cut,’ Laura told her. ‘And it’s cooler this way, and much more interesting.’

‘Who says so? The flies are appalling.’

‘Well put on your net.’

‘I will not wear that ugly thing on my good hat. Let’s go up to my place, I’m hot and bored.’

‘What will we do there?’

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going to sit in a cold bath. It must be a hundred degrees already.’

Laura sighed. ‘I wish we were near the coast. I’d love to go for a swim in the sea, it’s the most wonderful feeling to bathe in salt water.’

‘Yes, and ruin your skin in the sun.’

‘Oh, bosh.’

The horses took them out of the bush on to the open road and Amelia breathed a sigh of relief. ‘At least there’s some air out here.’

‘And dust. We need rain.’

‘Are you coming home with me?’

‘I might as well,’ Laura agreed, riding alongside Amelia now. ‘If I go home, Mother will think of things for me to do. She’s expecting quite a few ladies for tea.’

Amelia nodded, understanding. Her father was a widower so there was no mother in her home to keep a watchful eye on this pair of young ladies.

At a curve in the road Laura noticed another track. ‘Where does that go?’ she asked Amelia.

‘Down to Murray Lagoon.’

Laura stared at it as they passed by. ‘That really annoys me,’ she said. ‘I mean, why should the lake be out of bounds to women?’

‘Because that’s where gentlemen swim. Hardly the place for ladies.’

‘Exactly. Why aren’t we allowed to swim there? Why do we have to put up with this heat while they cool off in the lagoon. It’s not fair.’

‘There’s always the river if you can dodge the crocodiles,’ Amelia grinned.

‘Oh very funny! I heard they’ve got a diving raft and all at the lagoon.’

Amelia pulled her horse to a halt and turned to Laura. ‘I wonder what they wear?’

‘Who?’

‘The men, silly. While they’re swimming.’

‘How would I know?’ Laura waited while Amelia adjusted a stirrup, and then took off her hat to shake out her damp curls.

‘Won’t your brother tell you?’ Amelia asked.

‘Leon wouldn’t tell me the time of day.’ She laughed. ‘They probably wear long-johns. Carter Franklin, our bank manager, goes out there. He’s so fat, he must look a trick in his underduds.’

‘Oh, you are awful,’ Amelia giggled. ‘Maybe they don’t wear anything. I’d love to know.’

‘So would I,’ Laura grinned.

‘Then I dare you to take a look.’

Laura stared at her. ‘Don’t be mad. I can’t just ride up to them. I’d get shot at dawn.’

‘You don’t have to. Stick to the bush so they can’t see you.’

‘You want me to spy on them?’

‘Why not? It’d be a shriek! And we’d be the only two women who know.’

‘Then why don’t you go?’

‘Because I dared you first. Go on Laura Maskey. I double-dare you.’

Laura wasn’t one to procrastinate. She was more inclined to act first and think later. Amelia was right, she decided. It would be funny to spy on the men. Serve them right for being so selfish. ‘Where will you be?’ she asked Amelia.

‘It’s too hot to stop here. I’ll go on home and have cook make us a slap-up afternoon tea.’

‘With hot scones and blackberry jam,’ Laura demanded, in payment for the dare.

‘Done,’ Amelia laughed.

Laura wheeled her horse about and cantered down the road, turning into the track to make for the lagoon. Her horse trotted easily down the well-worn trail but when he smelled water he became more eager, so Laura kept a tight rein on him. She took off her hat, stuffed it under the saddle and guided him into the shelter of the tangled scrub, forcing him to step slowly as she shoved foliage out of the way and ducked to avoid heavier branches.

Ahead of her she could hear them shouting and laughing, enjoying themselves and that made her all the more determined to keep going. The horse seemed to understand now that they were on a furtive venture and he trod softly through the lank green undergrowth until Laura slid a hand down to stroke his face. ‘Ssh now,’ she whispered. ‘Be still. This will do.’

Carefully she moved a leafy branch aside to get her bearings and almost jumped in surprise to find she was directly opposite a small jetty. ‘Spot on!’ she murmured, congratulating herself, because she had a grand view of the swimmers only about fifty yards away.

It was an effort not to laugh. She wished she’d insisted Amelia had come too. There they were, more than a dozen gentlemen cavorting in the lagoon, by the jetty and on a clever pontoon, anchored in deeper water to allow them to dive.

Perspiration streamed down Laura’s face, and insects buzzed about her as she watched them enviously from the humid hide. The wide lake looked so cool and inviting she almost forgot the object of this exercise but peering more closely at the swimmers she was quite startled for a minute. Then she began to laugh, almost choking in an effort to keep quiet. None of them was wearing a stitch. They were all cavorting in their birthday suits! Gentlemen of all shapes and sizes dashed along the jetty and jumped off among the swimmers while others climbed up on to the pontoon to stand there shouting happily to their fellows like a bevy of Adams in Eden.

‘How rude!’ she giggled, wiping her face with her handkerchief. At twenty, Miss Maskey had never seen a naked man before and they intrigued her.

Suddenly, something rustled in the undergrowth. Born in the bush, Laura had the same reaction as the horse – a snake? But the horse was faster. Spooked, he reared up and crashed forward. The soft branches, hiding them, gave way and Laura hung on as the chestnut shot forward into the open, into forbidden territory! She managed to control him before he’d gone very far along the sandy shore but she could hear the men shouting angrily at her as she spun the horse about. Ignoring them, Laura gave the chestnut his head and she galloped away, laughing, her dark hair flying. She’d won the dare! Let them shout their heads off. What could they do to her? It was too late, she’d seen them in all their glory.

For these two girls, this was just another prank, but one thing leads to another and for the daughter of Fowler Maskey, Member of Parliament representing this electorate, this escapade was to have far-reaching and tragic consequences. Country towns are conservative and hot for gossip, especially this little river-town, a mere ten years old, that was struggling for recognition. Townspeople, eager to shake off the tag of being just a rough mining town, were sensitive about their image – as Amelia would say, ‘their social status’. They yearned for respectability; they were fierce neighbour-watchers and churchgoers with curious behaviour and familial failings kept behind closed shutters; and no one was more aware of the atmosphere than Laura’s father, their representative, who relied on their goodwill to hold his seat, for Fowler Maskey was an ambitious man.

The sun rose molten gold from the sea over Moreton Island to add lustre to the pristine waters of the bay, where singing whales luxuriated after their long journey from the south, unaware of the cruel harpoons that lay in wait for them. Light and retreating tides lifted glistening mangroves from the steamy darkness, and battalions of birds rose, bickering, to begin their day’s work along the banks and shoals of their bounteous river. Undisturbed, they flew over the small ships that plied the thirty miles from coast to township, to feast on nectar from red and white bottlebrush that lined the shores, and to swoop from stately eucalypts on any likely prey.

This was the age of the great canals, and the wide Brisbane River had taken its place as an important watercourse serving the capital of the huge new state of Queensland. Residents of the blossoming city preferred not to recall that their home on a bend of the river had begun life as a harsh penal settlement for doubly convicted transportees. And as they strolled their streets they had already forgotten that men in chains had toiled under the whip to forge roads and erect sturdy government buildings in a subtropical wilderness. Men and women of their own kin, from the British Isles, had suffered fevers, malnutrition, and torture at the hands of regimental warders, and had died unlamented, never realising that their labours were not in vain. They had laid the foundations of a city and through their bitter struggles had set the pace for the hard, tough men needed to pioneer this great land, many of whom were offspring of these same convicts.

But wait. Maybe the ghosts of these convicts were grinning now, along with survivors of the prison days, as together they roamed the streets, free at last.

Only thirty years had elapsed since the Moreton Bay penal settlement had been closed down in response to public outrage and the boundaries of the town of Brisbane thrown open to settlers. Lacking the fare home, which transported convicts were expected to pay when their terms of servitude ended, many were forced to stay in Australia. Others remained by choice to grow old in caustic observance of their former keepers. They lived to see the new state, still ruled by the first premier, Sir Robert Herbert, struck a body blow which came from, of all places, the motherland.

Governor Sir George Ferguson Bowen, who shared with Herbert the privilege of a first in the raw colony, left his tranquil home overlooking the river and stepped into his carriage accompanied by his aide, Captain Leslie Soames. He could have walked to his destination in a matter of minutes but Her Majesty’s representative could not be seen marching up the muddy road like any commoner.

This was a rare occasion. Usually the parliamentarians were summoned to his residence but this time he did not wish to alert the gentlemen of the press. A summons to Government House carried with it a sniff of political or social news, and either way, the members involved, for their own aggrandisement, made certain that word was abroad before they stepped to his door.

He was dressed, for him, in plain attire, to avert any suspicion of formality, although his lady, the Countess Diamentina, had seen to it that he was the epitome of elegance. Even in the steamy climate he disdained the shantung and cotton suits that had become the fashion, deeming them ugly and inappropriate for his exalted position. On this day he was turned out in a black jacket with a high braided collar, breeches and gleaming boots. His silk shirt was overtaken by a fine wool waistcoat and a silk cravat which was held in place by a pearl pin.

As he passed through the portals of Parliament House, a smile on his handsome face, he removed his grey topper and gloves in the nonchalant manner affected by locals, no matter their aspirations. Crowds in the lobby stared, bowed, bobbed and backed away as he passed by, and only one, the brash reporter from the Brisbane Courier, dared call to him. ‘What are you doing here, Governor?’

Bowen inclined his head magnanimously, demonstrating his good humour and lack of concern. ‘Why! Mr Kemp! Surely you must know the races have been cancelled due to this morning’s sudden torrent.’

He was rewarded by a titter from the audience. Everyone knew that Tyler Kemp was a dedicated punter.

‘Is the Premier expecting you?’ he persisted.

‘I daresay he will be by this.’ Bowen’s smile was still genial. There had been no time for appointments, the matter was urgent.

‘And what is the business of the day?’ Kemp asked.

‘Purely a social call. I have never believed, as you know, in the ivory tower, and what more interesting place on a dull day than our Parliament?’

But Kemp would not give up so easily. ‘The House is sitting, sir. Will you require admission?’

Bowen consulted his gold fob watch and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. ‘I believe the House is just now rising.’

As expected, the Premier had been informed of his presence and Bowen was relieved to see he’d wasted no time in coming to greet him.

‘Your Excellency! Good afternoon. Do come through. Perhaps you’ll join me in my office?’

‘A pleasure, sir.’ The Premier, he knew, must be astonished at his sudden appearance, but the man wasn’t short of brains. He hadn’t given so much as a blink of surprise. A consummate politician, he had often been heard to remark, referring to nearby company, ‘Not in front of the children.’ And today was no exception to his rule.

Bowen was tall, known as a fine figure of a man, but Herbert was taller and much heftier. As he escorted the Governor down to his office, Tyler Kemp dropped back. Not even he would muscle in on these two imposing personages with an aide at heel.

‘Tea or coffee?’ the Premier asked.

‘Coffee, thank you. Soames takes coffee also.’

With viceregal permission, Herbert took his place behind the large mahogany desk and engaged the Governor in small talk, recognising that the real purpose of the visit would emerge in due time. Bowen was grateful for the respite, since he was the bearer of bad news and would prefer to discuss the matter without interruption.

Herbert called to his secretary, who hurried away. In a very short time the young gentleman returned, wheeling an autotray with a silver coffee service on the top ledge and an assortment of biscuits on the lower level. ‘Shall I pour, sir?’ he asked.

Herbert nodded. ‘Your Excellency, might I introduce my new secretary, Joe Barrett?’

The china cups rattled dangerously as the Governor rose. Barrett was caught between the pouring and the handshake in a fit of nervousness.

Herbert laughed. ‘He makes a better secretary than a waitress. Give him a hand, will you, Soames?’

The captain’s eyebrows shot up and his thin nose twitched at the impudence of such a request, but he had to obey, whisking coffee to his governor with drawing-room ease and retreating from the demeaning task as soon as possible.

‘Graduate in law, Sydney University, is our Joe,’ the Premier said proudly. ‘Got honours, too, didn’t you, son?’

‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’

‘For us, yes thanks. But I want you to take a look at that bill the Minister for Lands is threatening to push through. It’s got more holes than a pair of old socks.’

‘Right away, sir.’ Barrett, as yet unused to such noble company, fled.

‘They’re getting away with murder up north,’ Herbert told the Governor amiably, ‘squatting on lands far past the limits. I’m from up that way myself, so I don’t begrudge them the size of their properties, just our loss of revenue while they dodge leasehold fees.’ He drank his coffee in a few gulps. ‘We’ve got to engage more surveyors, a lot more, to handle all this work.’

‘I wouldn’t do that just now,’ the Governor said mildly. He rose and walked over to study some pen sketches of Brisbane town, straightening one of the frames. ‘These are excellent. Who did them?’

‘You’ll never believe it.’ Herbert grinned. ‘Our mate Mr Kemp.’

‘Good God! Quite a talent there. Pity he doesn’t stick to his artistic endeavours.’ The sketches seemed to have caused him to reminisce. ‘I remember when I first came here and was handed the Treasury report.’

‘Ah yes.’ Herbert smiled. ‘That must have been a shock. What did we have? About five bob in the coffers to inaugurate a state. Not the most auspicious start.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘But we’re over those lean days. Unless your suggestion that we don’t employ any more surveyors rings a warning bell.’

‘Quite.’

‘Oh well, give me the worst. Spoil my Christmas.’

‘There’s a rumour, just a rumour at this point, mind you, that the Agra and Masterman Bank in London has problems.’

‘God Almighty! Don’t even breathe such a thing. My budget will be in ruins. We’re into them for a million pounds for railway construction, among other things. If the credit dries up … I hate to think!’ He took out a large handkerchief and mopped perspiration from his face.

‘That’s why I thought it might be advisable to hold back on any extra expense at this stage.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate the tip. I’ve got a party meeting this evening, the last for the year. I’ll start tightening the reins immediately. And start praying.’

By early February, Fowler Maskey, Esquire, the State Member for Rockhampton, was aware of dissension in Herbert’s cabinet and was pleased by it. Now in his fifties, Fowler was an influential man thanks to the wealth inherited from his father, one of the élite New South Wales squattocracy. Before his death, John Dunning Maskey had purchased land in the Rockhampton area, predicting great opportunities in the new state, and Fowler had taken his word for it.

He had moved his family north, built a house to complement his ambitions and settled in as one of the new town’s elders, despite the fact that his wife found the heat unbearable in the summer, and his son, Leon, now twenty-two, loathed the rough-and-ready river settlement. As far as Fowler was concerned, however, Leon’s complaints fell on deaf ears. Leon was not a scholar, nor could he be trusted to manage any of the Maskey properties since he had no interest in sheep or cattle. He was a good-looking chap, though of slender build, with fair hair and his mother’s blue eyes. ‘Horses for courses,’ Fowler allowed. It suited him to have his son with him. He socialised well, was a fair cricketer, and managed a respectable game of cards. He was also much loved by hostesses, an asset at parties. For Fowler he was a bee, buzzing about to keep his father informed of the latest news, moods and developments.

Fowler’s wife Hilda felt her son should be given more responsibility. ‘What’s to become of him if he’s permitted to fritter away his time like this?’ Fowler didn’t care. He wasn’t interested in dynasties. He only cared about himself and his endeavours. What would become of his family after he kicked the bucket was the least of his problems. Leon, he guessed, would have a whale of a time with his inheritance for a couple of years and end up dead broke. The prospect amused his father.

When Leon had declared he preferred to live in Brisbane, Fowler had agreed. ‘By all means. Live where you like as long as you support yourself.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Leon had argued. ‘I’ve nothing to do in Rockhampton but be your runner.’

‘You’re contributing to your father’s career, my lad,’ Fowler had replied amiably, ‘and if you go anywhere else without my say-so, you won’t get a bean from me.’

So Leon stayed. Most afternoons he could be found cooling off at Murray Lagoon where a gentlemen’s bathing pool had been established. His evenings were spent at the Criterion Hotel or the Gentlemen’s Club on Quay Street, within walking distance of the family home.

It had surprised Fowler that his daughter, Laura, actually liked the town. She enjoyed their imposing two-storeyed house with its wrought-iron balustrades on the front veranda and the long balcony upstairs. The house was right on Quay Street, which, Hilda Maskey complained, afforded them no privacy, but it suited Laura to be right in the centre of things. Unlike her brother, she was not above sitting out on the veranda chatting to passers-by, whether friends or strangers.

She was a headstrong girl, tall and healthy, with the same silky blonde hair as her brother, but bolder than Leon. Too damned bold for her own good at times, but she’d be married and off Fowler’s hands soon enough. Lately she’d been nagging him to take her out to see the goldfields outside Rockhampton, but that would have to wait, he was too busy. Gold. He smiled. Rockhampton had become a town overnight, thanks to the gold rush at nearby Canoona. More strikes had quickly followed. It was a marvellous thing to have gold fields springing up in one’s electorate, adding to the already growing cattle industry.

Old John Maskey had certainly chosen wisely. There was a big future for a parliamentarian in Rockhampton if he played his cards right, and Fowler intended to do just that. And as he’d told Hilda, ‘I expect my family to support me to the fullest. While I’m here you arrange to entertain as many locals as possible, and while I’m away in Brisbane do some charity work. That always makes a good impression.’

‘What charity work?’

‘How do I know? That’s a woman’s job. And get Laura at it too.’

‘Laura?’ Hilda had bristled. ‘She won’t do anything I tell her! She’s only interested in the horses, always off riding somewhere. And that’s your fault. You let her run wild.’

‘Then find her a husband, that will settle her down.’

Fowler allowed his thoughts to idle in this manner to keep his head clear for his next move. Stationed by the wide window at the end of the corridor, apparently taking a breath of air, Fowler had placed himself so that the door to the Cabinet Room was between him and his office. As soon as the honourable gentlemen emerged, he, a lowly backbencher, would be right among them, simply making his way to his own room. Premier Herbert was a stickler for cabinet solidarity but an early bird could easily catch a worm, in the form of a minister off guard, ears still tingling from being boxed by the leader. Fowler was certain that Premier Herbert had lost his grip and that it wouldn’t take much to edge him out of the saddle. A few burrs in the right place could shift him now.

There they were, being bundled out, faces aghast, trouble brewing. He pressed forward, moving among them, listening eagerly to the gush of in-house complaints. He collared a big fish, the Colonial Treasurer. ‘We’re in full support of Raff’s petition to upgrade the Brisbane wharves, sir. I hope you won’t let us down.’

‘All in good time,’ the Treasurer snapped, pushing past him.

Fowler moved into step with the Postmaster-General. ‘Steamy old day, isn’t it?’ But when the minister merely nodded in reply, Fowler pressed on. ‘I have to tell you I’m getting bagfuls of complaints about the mail up my way.’

‘You got the telegraph, didn’t you?’ the Postmaster-General snarled, and Fowler hid a smirk. Of course they’d got it, against this fellow’s advice, but it was marvellous what a few quid towards members’ campaign expenses could do to pull an appropriation vote out of the hat. ‘We did and we’re grateful to you, believe me, but the diggers can’t afford to telegraph every time they want to contact their loved ones. They’re pretty savage, they say fortnightly mail is just not good enough.’

‘Then you’d better tell that to the Premier,’ the minister said as they rounded the staircase. And then, over his shoulder as they parted ways, ‘Or Macalister.’

‘Who?’ Fowler asked, surprised, but the minister’s door slammed shut.

Arthur Macalister, Member for Ipswich and Secretary for Lands and Works. Why ask him? He was a nobody, a grim tub-thumper. No one asked his opinion. But Fowler would, and right now, with the utmost speed. He rummaged around his office for two bottles of good whisky, stuffed them in a carryall and strode off to pay his respects to Arthur.

‘My dear fellow,’ he said, noticing an air of excitement in Macalister’s office. ‘Forgive the intrusion, but I have been remiss. Several of my constituents asked me to drop these little gifts in to you at Christmas but I missed you. Dredging of the Fitzroy River is under way now, thanks to your good offices.’

‘Good man,’ Macalister said, stowing the whisky among maps in an overstuffed cupboard without offering Fowler a drop. ‘Sit you down, Maskey, I wanted a word with you.’

Fowler caught sight of his own florid face in a brass jardinière on a pedestal behind his host, and the distortion reflected a wide grin under a drying clutch of gum tips. Or rather he hoped it was the distortion. If there were trouble, he must not appear to welcome it. He pursed his thick lips to counteract the effect.

Arthur, representative of an unruly mob of coal miners, was fairly jumping with excitement, and a tic developed near his right eye, above his bushy beard. ‘There’s going to be a spill,’ he hissed.

A spill! Jesus! Fowler’s mind raced. He wondered, as every other politician in the building would now be doing, if he should throw his hat in the ring. Who could he count on? He could call in a few favours. To be Premier of Queensland, the most powerful man in the state! Immaterial that he had inaugurated a move for a separate state in the north with its capital in Rockhampton and himself, of course, as premier. The separationists could go jump! This was a much bigger prize. He almost laughed. If he won the day the state would stay intact, he wouldn’t let them cut loose.

‘Did you hear me, man?’

‘Yes. I could have predicted it – Herbert’s none too popular – but it’s still a surprise.’ Obviously he had Macalister’s support and the Scot could bring him a handful of southern votes.

‘None too popular? That’s an understatement. The man’s gone mad. If we listen to him, all of us will lose our seats. He’s hellbent on cutting back on public works everywhere and raising taxes and charges across the board.’

‘You don’t say?’ Everyone knew Herbert’s penny-pinching was causing rumblings, but this was past a joke.

‘I say,’ Macalister continued, ‘that we have to block him. Are you for us?’

‘I would have to be,’ Fowler said. ‘The future of the state is more important than one man. He has no financial judgement at all. I’ve always said that. We need a leader who understands that the economy of Queensland depends on a balance of wise investment and expansion. If he pulls back now we’ll die on the vine.’

‘Exactly my sentiments. If I’m elected I’ll do just that.’

‘What?’ Fowler jerked up in his seat. ‘You’re standing?’

‘I am and I’d appreciate your support. I believe Herbert made a mistake in passing you over for the ministry, considering that a few of my colleagues are rolled-gold deadheads. You can be assured that I won’t make the same mistake.’

And pigs will fly, Fowler thought. That was the oldest trick in the book, a carrot for donkeys. Macalister as Premier? Preposterous!

‘Herbert sucks up to the viceregal set, that’s his problem,’ Macalister continued. ‘Never a chance of that with me, they’ll no’ be impressing me with their fancy ways.’ He fixed his eyes on Maskey, the tic beating a warning. ‘Can I count on you, then?’

‘Of course,’ Fowler said. His dreams of leadership might be fading, but the separation movement was suddenly reinstated in his plans.

The two men shook hands and Fowler hurried away to investigate his own chances. Finding himself among the also-rans, he gave his solemn support to two other gentlemen lobbying for high office.

‘None of them will beat Bob Herbert anyway,’ he told Leon, who was always happy to accompany him to Brisbane. ‘You get out there and nose about. If I have to vote for Herbert I want something for my money.’

He lit his pipe and began preparing a statement for the Rockhampton press declaring Herbert a traitor to the north, a leader who reserved all his energies, and the public money, for the south-east corner of the state, ignoring the needs of the good citizens of the north. His essay was rising to a torrent of vitriol against the Premier when Leon came dashing back. ‘Herbert’s resigned!’

‘What?’ Fowler almost knocked the inkwell over.

‘He’s resigned, I tell you! Just now. He said he’d give his reasons later.’

‘To hell with his reasons – when you’re dead, you’re dead. So who’s in the lead now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well find out, you bloody fool. Get down to the bar. Shout a few drinks, expensive ones, that draws the flies.’ He crumpled the press release and flung it into the wastepaper basket.

Two days later, the new premier, Arthur Macalister, announced his ministry, but Maskey’s name was not on the list. Fowler immediately went to work on a new press release, praising Herbert, claiming he had been driven out by a bunch of ratbags who wouldn’t know how to run a chook-pen. And who had elected a dour penny-pinching Sc