A Place in Time

Wales.

Chapter One

Ian Lane sat in his current favourite coffee shop sipping his second flat-white for the day, the small pile of work papers at his elbow untouched as usual. He always brought work with him to lunch but rarely looked at it. Rather it served as a safety net in case someone came along to invade his privacy, then he could pretend to be engrossed in his work and legitimately avoid recriminations of ‘snob’ and ‘anti-social’. He was a very private person and treasured his lunch break as a time to be alone – that’s why this was his ‘current’ favourite eatery – nobody here knew him yet. But the time would come when the staff in the place saw him as a regular and would want to chat. That’s when he would find another place.

He looked at the television screen on the wall and unconsciously shook his head at the rantings of the leader of the Northern Alliance expounding the economic and social logic of the proposed union. Australians must see the obvious benefits of having a regional government incorporating Malaysia, Indonesia, New Guinea, New Zealand and Australia. Free passage and free trade among the members, the right to buy and sell property while combining the ample resources of the region made perfectly good sense.

And surely the five-year plan for Australia would mean progress and prosperity for the people. The reallocating of much of the currently useless national parks and heritage listed areas to more productive but environmentally responsible development was inevitable in a world starved of space. And the plan to divert sea and river water to the arid centre of the country would mean an oasis where deserts now prevailed.

The Northern Alliance was formed just after the Iraq War a few years ago and had grown rapidly in numbers and influence. Ill feeling against

America and those who supported her was rampant in certain parts of the world, including the nations that now formed the backbone of the Northern Alliance. Australia sat in the region like an enormous fat cow – blessed with land and resources of all kinds but with a piddling population that seemed oblivious to the reality of its geographical location. Australians saw themselves as members of Western culture, and their apathy precluded them from thinking their status could ever be challenged by other more populated nations to their north. Indeed little had changed in this mindset since the Second World War, when most Australians refused to see the possibility of a Japanese invasion – even after the attacks on Darwin and Sydney Harbour.

Now sixty years later Ian Lane believed that an invasion was not only possible, but also imminent, though he hoped fervently that he was wrong - that it was just the paranoid old soldier in him that fostered that view. He had watched a debate last night between two prominent political figures with opposing views on the subject. He had been surprised at first, and then terrified when he saw the great gap in opinion and perception. His personal views were largely with those who opposed the union. Australians had been politically, religiously and culturally aligned to western principles for over two hundred years and he saw no reason to change that now.

To him it served no purpose to argue that the country’s geographical position in an Asian region dictated where its alliances should lie. As a member of a regional government Australia would soon be irrelevant. Australia’s small population and different culture and values would see it relegated to a small voice in a broader government and it would starve and die for want of a voice.

But whatever Ian thought, it was clear that public opinion was divided – and passions were running hot. The airwave shock-jocks were having a field day on talkback radio, and it was clear, at least to Ian, that the people were being cleverly manipulated in several directions from within. If it came to a physical conflict it would be difficult to tell just who would be on which side and he shuddered when he contemplated a guerrilla war in his own country.

Ian went back to his coffee thoughtfully. It was obvious that a lot of people supported the plan – from politicians to big business executives, despite the screams of protest from the greenies and the fiercely patriotic. Commentary from Australia’s international supporters – notable the USA, was surprisingly ambivalent, particularly given their close alliance during the war in the Middle East a few short years ago. He wondered if Australia could really count on military support if it ever came to that.

Japan was surprisingly vocal in its support for the proposal – but given that nation’s economic success in her tiny group of islands since being repelled in the Second World War, that sentiment was not surprising. God knew the Japanese had little enough real estate at their disposal, and they would never contemplate setting aside hundreds of thousands of square kilometres to national parks as Australia had done. And perhaps there were many people in that country who still believed in the motives that had led them to war all those years ago. Australia’s practice of exporting its raw materials instead of refining and producing actual goods, while it suited the Japanese, did not make any economic sense to them at all. He knew that the wider international community often referred to the Japanese as ‘environmental vandals’ – but he thought theirs was a case of survival. Whatever people said of the Japanese, they had built what was arguably the second largest economy on the planet.

Ian Lane was fifty-seven years old but could pass for much younger. He had a rugged lived-in look about him, and when he was passionate about a subject people said he took on a strange light of attraction. But mostly he was a little distant and surly, with a hangdog look on his face that suggested a constant state of disappointment. He had been raised on the land and since then had been a soldier in the Vietnam War, a business executive for the last twenty-five years and more recently a novelist.

His writing efforts stemmed from the rich tapestry of his life and his astute observations of the human condition. The writing had been spasmodic at first, but developed in bursts of intense passion until he had turned out three novels – each a little better than its predecessor, or so his critics said. But the challenge and frustration of finding a publisher and then actually marketing his books had given him a cynical edge and a gnawing stress. The world was full of critics who could not write themselves, and the established literary community was slow to embrace new writers; particularly one like Ian who skipped across genres with reckless abandon.

The setbacks and challenges combined with the stress of his regular corporate job until he became even more surly, taciturn and morose. But he loved writing, and despite the setbacks he felt he was making some headway. One day soon, he mused; I will be able to write for at least a modest living. But there were other times when he felt like throwing the dream away and slipping quietly back into the ranks of those who had given up on dreams.

His mobile phone burred and he cursed inwardly; he had forgotten to turn the damn thing off. He picked it up with annoyance but grinned with some pleasure when he saw Dan Phelps’ name on the screen. Dan was his recently discovered literary agent and the partnership was yielding fruit. Like Ian, Dan had a military background, though his experience was much more recent than Ian’s was. Dan had been a commissioned Officer of some seniority before leaving it all behind to pursue a diplomatic career, and more recently as a freelance literary agent. Dan was well connected in many circles and he and Ian had formed a close relationship quickly – perhaps due to their similar backgrounds.

So far Dan had found him a decent publisher and they had one book out in the market with his name on the cover – three months now and sales were encouraging. Of course you never knew with books, the few thousand that were in the stores could all come back in six months if they were not sold, so it was a waiting game.

‘Hello Dan,’ Ian said softly into the phone. There was only one other occupied table in the coffee shop but he did not want to emulate the loud-talking-on-mobile yuppies he so hated.

‘Why the morbid tone?’ Dan asked, ‘you sound like you’re in a church or something.’

Ian laughed softly. ‘Wouldn’t risk that,’ he said. ‘The bloody place would probably fall down. What’s up? Have you sold the movie rights already?’

‘Still workin’ on that one,’ Dan said airily. ‘No – I think this is better than that.’ Ian felt his heart skip. ‘What have you done then?’

‘You know how the Federal Government is sticking its nose into the education system of the states – well the latest initiative is for them to provide free books under a new school reading program. There are a lot of kids in high schools across the nation and I’ve managed to convince the powers that be to include your book in the program. They reckon there is enough reality, history and humanity in it to help the little darlings learn about life and literature – and I’m not about to argue with them.’

‘Shit,’ Ian said, talking loud now in breech of his own rules but not caring. ‘How many copies are we talking about?’

‘Two hundred thousand, about – and firm sales too. A few other local authors have done a bit better as you can imagine - but given your relative newness to the game this is a big break. But the real boost will be to your reputation – it will send sales through the roof. This is as good as winning one of the major literary awards mate.’

‘If you say so,’ Ian said as he paid his bill to the bored looking little cashier with the low-cut top and the please squeeze me breasts. ‘But it seems to me that people have a lot on their minds at the moment, what with this Northern Alliance thing. Reading books must be well off their list of things to do.’

‘Sales were suffering from the distractions for sure,’ Dan agreed. ‘But this deal will end all that.’ The connection was quiet for a few seconds and Ian pushed out into the traffic noise and lunchtime crowd in Pitt Street. He scowled at a group of addicts who stood smoking and dropping their butts on the pavement. A suit clad young corporate Turk threw his smouldering cigarette butt on the pavement and stamped on it symbolically as he caught the look of disgust on Ian’s face. He gave Ian a get stuffed look as he approached.

‘So do we make any money out of this or did you just donate the books as a public gesture?’ Ian asked into the phone as he fought back an urge to kick the Turk’s arse as he passed.

He heard Dan’s raucous laugh in his ear. ‘I’m not the friggin’ tooth fairy - normal trade prices mate – with twenty-percent of the net as royalties to you, old son, less my modest cut.’

‘What is your cut again?’ Ian wanted to know. ‘Ten percent of what you get,’ came the firm reply, ‘plus my expenses, of course.’

‘Expenses!’ Ian grunted. ‘I saw the bill from your Perth promotional trip. Did you take your girlfriend and her family out to dinner on my tab or what?’

Dan laughed again. ‘Just good PR mate. Anyway, I can’t keep chewing the fat and taking this abuse - gotta go and sell more books. This deal is big dollars for you but my little share won’t keep me in red wine. I’ll get something to you on paper this afternoon.’

The phone went dead as Ian entered the lift and pressed the number for his floor, his face creased in deep thought.

‘I’ll be out for the rest of the day,’ Ian told his personal assistant. Personal assistant was a bit of a stretch as he shared her services with three other managers – but it was all part of the image.

‘May I ask where you’ll be,’ she wrinkled her chubby face. ‘He who must be obeyed will ask me if he calls you know.’

Ian nodded and patted her back as he gathered up his briefcase and some papers. ‘Tell him I am doing market research in a house of ill repute.’

‘You used that one last time – it made him laugh, but it wouldn’t work again.’

‘He won’t call in today – he’s in Victoria and will be too busy having long lunches. But if he does call tell him I went home with period pain.’

‘You’re too old for that,’ she giggled.

‘Then tell him I’m having menopausal flushes – that should work, I’m about the right vintage for that.’ He was out the door and in the lift before she could reply.

Thirty minutes later he was out of the city and on the northern freeway. As the city slipped behind he took the vehicle up to the 110- kilometre per-hour speed limit and again admired the neat cuttings where the road passed through the ranges. High walls of pale rock rose up on either side as if the pass had been sliced out of butter with a hot knife. The traffic was heavy but moving fast and Ian felt a reduction in his stress levels as the city fell away behind him. But the freeway held its own demons.

A careering triple line of vehicles speared up the freeway in an out- of-control formation just a few metres apart and Ian felt his usual knot of apprehension as he was caught up in the parade. The pace of the traffic seemed to build slowly until the speed limit was ignored, and woe-betide any driver who slowed down and held up progress. Ian was in the middle lane and trying to stick to 110 ks, but the red Volvo sat right on his tail with the lights flashing angrily.

There was a gap in the fast lane at last and the Volvo roared out and around the Mitsubishi. The well-dressed driver gave an aggressive two- fingered salute as he sped off at a rate that made Ian feel as if he had stopped dead in his tracks. Ian sighed – he preferred morning and afternoon peak-hour when the name ‘freeway’ became a misnomer. It was bumper-to-bumper then and a crawl at best – but at least the speeding frenzy was not there.

Ian scrolled through the names in his mobile and found Eileen’s number and pushed the send button. The radio muted out and he heard the ringing sound. ‘What do you want?’ his wife’s voice said, her tone full of mischief. ‘You’re not getting a matinee so forget it.’

He laughed. ‘Already had two,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like a coffee.’ She sighed into the phone. ‘Where are you?’

‘On the freeway,’ he replied. ‘Be with you in about forty minutes.’ ‘At this hour of the day – did you get the arse or something?’ ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Four weeks pay for every year of service, plus a

generous bonus for my outstanding contribution.’ ‘You wish,’ she said tiredly. ‘But you will get punted if you keep sloping off. I can spare you a few minutes but I have my arse hanging out at the moment – I still have to actually do some work you know, not like you middle executives who seem to be able to hide in the crowd.’

She had an earthy turn of phrase at times and her words stung him a little. He knew she thought he could try a little harder, harness a bit more of his excellent ability and climb a few more rungs of the corporate ladder. But he had lost the heart and the desire for all that stuff ages ago.

‘A few minutes will do,’ he said, deciding to ignore her comments. ‘I’ll meet you in the usual in forty-five – I have something to discuss with you.’ He killed the phone to avoid the rush of questions and hit the play button on the CD player. Country music filled the cabin of the four- wheel-drive and his mind went wandering as Kasey Chambers wailed the Nullarbor Song. It had been out for about four years but it was still his favourite song of hers.

Two hundred thousand books in one sale – WOW! Was it a dream? His banker’s mind began doing the calculations and even after he paid Dan he would still gross over three hundred thousand dollars – assuming the education department paid their bills. And he knew he could average the earnings over five years so the after tax amount would be like two – maybe three years salary in his normal job. There were three new books in the mill as well, including the one he was currently working on. So surely he could quit the rat race and write full time now. But would Eileen agree? She was conservative about money and he was grateful for that – his attitude was more cavalier, wait and see, spend now and worry about it later.

Eileen had not shown much interest in his writing ambitions, perhaps because her feedback on his early attempts had been limited to technical points – punctuation, grammar and structure rather than the larger plot and style. He had been angry then, and after a while she seemed to lose interest. He had found a small publisher for his first work but it had enjoyed very limited success due to poor presentation and marketing.

The next book went into print with some of his own money behind it but there was little or no profit after production and distribution costs. All his wife saw for his efforts was expense and some positive reader reaction that she thought lacked substance. Eileen at least knew that it was possible to be regarded as a great writer and starve for the privilege. It was true that her interest had increased with his latest venture – particularly with him finding an agent and a major publisher. But she had yet to see the colour of the money.

The sun was halfway down the western sky when he pulled into the shopping centre on the Central Coast and parked the Mitsubishi under cover. In the café he ordered two flat whites, conscious that this would take him to three for the day. He usually restricted his intake to one – he did not like how the caffeine made him feel these days. The coffee arrived as Eileen came through the door. She saw him and smiled – he pursed his lips into a silent whistle shape as she came towards him, navigating between the tables and pausing to talk with other patrons. He liked the way his heart skipped when he saw her – even after fifteen years. She was tall, dark, trim for her age and still strikingly pretty. She slid in beside him and brushed his face with her lips.

‘What are you up to, you lazy old bastard?’ she asked affectionately. She spooned froth off her coffee and he searched the sugar container for some artificial sweetener. She grinned at him and took in his toned, tanned and fit look. He still had a good head of hair and did not look anywhere near his true age. He cared about his body and general appearance and she appreciated that – poor health would only add to their worries.

They had been together for fifteen years, both on their second marriages, and they had a ten-year-old daughter. He had two grown-up children from his first marriage, and they were no longer dependent on him for regular support. The divorce had set them back financially at the time, but she was glad that they had been able to provide for his other kids when they needed him.

Ian came from poverty stricken stock and it was only after he was able to make his own way in the world that his prospects and lifestyle had changed. His family had been rural working class, but he had followed a brighter image into his future and eventually made it successfully into corporate life. Eileen on the other hand had been brought up in a sort of middle-class affluence. She knew what she wanted and usually got it. She was bright, focused and determined and had entered the corporate world of finance directly from high school. She was confident of herself and used earthy language to make her point, a trait gained in the cut and thrust of corporate politics where the bold survived – not just on ability but on front and cunning as well.

Ian had been surprised once when a member of his family described Eileen as a ‘shallow, materialistic spoiled bitch with a gutter mouth’. He never saw her that way, but he could see how she might give that appearance when she was intolerant of others and their points of view. But corporate life was not a place for the faint-hearted, and she was a survivor. While Eileen could mix it with the most ruthless corporate operators, Ian was often disgusted with the backstabbing and politics and longed for an escape route. The bush boy in him still longed for the country, but common sense told him there was little money there these days. Now he felt he had finally found an option that would allow him to live wherever he chose – his income not dependent on his geographical location.

‘You know how you thought I was a talentless old dreamer when I started writing,’ he said slowly. ‘Well you might want to order another coffee to help you eat your words.’

She slapped his hand and her eyes flashed in a sudden moment of anger. ‘That’s not bloody true and you know it!’ she spat. ‘It was just because you were too pig-headed to take any feedback that I backed off and left you alone. Besides – all I've seen so far has been promises and costs.’ She clasped his hand and stared into his eyes. ‘Don’t talk to me like that please – just tell me what the hell you are talking about. I’m too tired for riddles.’

‘Sorry about the crack,’ he sighed. ‘But it was a bit lonely on my own in an important dream you know. Anyway – I think the dream has come true to the tune of about two hundred thousand copies.’

She sat back in her chair to better focus on his face. ‘Are you taking the piss out of me? How could you possibly sell that many books at once? You wouldn’t know for six months anyway would you? I mean the stores can return any unsold books after six months can’t they?’

‘Not this time they can’t – these are firm sales,’ he said quickly, feeling hammered by the barrage of questions. ‘The government wants them for the new school reading program. It seems my poor bush-boy to shit-scared soldier to broken down business type has struck a chord. Maybe they see some sort of a positive example in it all. And the writing is bloody good if I do say so myself. Anyway, I calculate the gross at about three hundred thousand bucks.’

She continued to stare at him. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said slowly. ‘When will you know for sure?’ ‘Dan promised something in writing this afternoon. I expect an E-mail or fax when I get home.’ He found her hand. ‘So – can we retire now and go for that caravanning trip around Australia before the baddies blow it all up?’

She sighed. ‘I knew that would be on, but shouldn’t we wait and see the money first, and make sure it continues. I mean, three hundred would barely get us out of hock with the house and things. We have some money in super and some savings I suppose, but we still have to live the lavish lifestyle you so enjoy.’

‘And you don’t?’ he defended. He could feel an ember of anger rising in his heart.

‘You know I do,’ she countered. ‘But we need to be sure you know. We still have Linda to rear, and if we scratch from the workforce before we are ready we may not be able to get back in at our age.’

He stared sulkily into his coffee and she sighed at his petulance.

‘Look, why don’t you wait until everything is signed, sealed and delivered – then we can make some plans? Maybe we could just take six months off on half pay or something. You have long-service leave owing and I’m pretty sure I could get the time off.’ She held his hand and lifted his chin with her free hand. ‘Stop friggin’ sulking or I’ll slap your arse, you big girl.’

He grinned and felt the anger drain out of him. ‘Okay Mum,’ he said. ‘I suppose we could rent the house out for six months and see what happens – but I think it shows a lack of commitment and belief.’

She finished her coffee and gathered up her purse, turning her mobile phone back on as she rose to leave. The message tone beeped almost at once and she raised her eyebrows. ‘Back to work,’ she said ruefully.