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She pulled up at the front of the cottage and looked out over the valley, still seated in the car. The full moon cast a beautiful creamy light over the paddocks, and Pocket barked his impatient welcome from the backyard. She felt resentful.
Damn Clancy Kennedy. Damn the whole bloody thing.
CHAPTER 6
Clem stood gripping the railing, blue-and-white Cats scarf wrapped tight around her neck and beanie pulled low. Four exhausted bodies sat crumpled behind her on the interchange bench, eighteen more on the field, each of them bewildered, demoralised. The Jeridgalee Eels had built a steady lead over the first three quarters and were running away with it in the last, a four-goal margin ballooning to seven.
There was nothing more she could do. The Cats’ structure had fallen away as the defensive effort took its toll and a few of the more volatile players had started yelling at their own teammates, pointing fingers and waving their arms in frustration.
A loyal band of supporters had travelled two hours to be there and stood in loose clusters nearby. They had begun with gusto, yelling encouragement, shouting advice, booing the opponents and howling like fiends at the umpire, but had gradually lost their heart for the fight as the game had shuffled towards its miserable end.
The final siren sounded and the players slunk off the field, the sparse Katinga crowd dutifully forming a cordon along the pathway to the sheds, slapping the sweat-soaked backs of the players as they passed by, clapping with as much spirit as they could muster.
Now, with the sun dropping, the supporters trudged up behind the team and lined the back of the shed, speaking in hushed voices. The players sat on the low timber benches, some slumped with head in hands, others staring straight ahead, jaws hanging slack, beaten.
Big Matthew Torrens was up and pacing in the empty space in front of the benches. He pulled up sharply in front of Clementine as she entered. At six foot six, he towered over her, and he was shaking with anger. ‘Clancy’s got to come back. You have to get him back.’
The muttered conversations at the back of the shed stopped. She felt the heat of his breath on her face, but she refused to take a step back.
‘Sit down, Torrens,’ she ordered. He didn’t move.
‘But he’s right,’ said Beasley in his high-pitched voice. ‘We’re not going to make it without Clance.’
Looking across the shed, about twenty of the club’s most ardent supporters still remained. She recognised Benny Carmichael, a farmer who’d just lost his wife. Next to him was the entire Flood family. Kelsey, the eldest, was the club’s leading goalkicker. His father, Steve, had been unemployed since the mine closed four years ago, as had Kelsey and Kim, the next eldest. The younger two Flood boys were still in school. Right at the back, leaning against the wall, was the man from Dempsey’s Handyman Van, arms crossed, looking at her with those dark, deep-set eyes. She couldn’t remember seeing him at an away game before.
Every eye in the room was on her. Every one of these people wanted something. She turned a stony gaze back at Torrens, her words slow and deliberate, ‘I said sit down.’
Torrens did nothing for a moment, then turned and walked with leaden steps to the bench, his rage giving way to despair.
She took a breath and regarded the players. Young Wakely was still slumped but with his head raised, looking at her. Same for Sellingham and Conti, Devo and Maggot Maloney. Beasley was gripping the bench tight as if he might topple off.
‘Righto, then, listen up. Some of you boys tried pretty hard today’—her voice bounced lightly around the corrugated-iron shed—‘but none of you tried hard enough.’ She raised her voice a little louder. ‘Who can put up his hand and say to me straight, “I gave everything today”?’
Silence. No hands went up.
‘That’s right. No one. And you all know you can do better. You all know you’ve got more to give.’ She paused, swept her eyes across the benches. ‘But what you need to understand is that you are contenders. And you know what?’ she said, her voice building in intensity. ‘You are winners. But you will never taste victory if you can’t face up to adversity.’
A murmur of agreement came from the supporters at the back of the shed.
‘Now you’re a man down and you’ve lost a game. Next week you could be two men down—injury could hit anyone. Premiership clubs rise above it. Premiership clubs don’t lie down and die. They fight on.’
A shuffling of boots on the concrete, slumped bodies beginning to raise themselves, eyes turning towards her, the hesitant green shoots of hope.
‘Clancy’s gone, but you blokes have to keep fighting,’ she said. ‘Look around you. These people are counting on you. They turn up each week because you’ve given Katinga a bit of its pride back, and they want to help you make it to the top. You’re not just doing this for yourself, or for the team—you’re doing it for them, for the town.’
Nods from the back of the room. She stood taller, took a deep breath.
‘So. There’ll be no more crying over Clancy. I don’t even want to hear you mention his name until you hold that trophy in the air and dedicate the win to him.’
The players’ heads had lifted, their spines straightening. It was like an electric current going through the bench. From the back of the shed came a spontaneous shout: ‘C’arn the Cats!’ Another followed, and another, the whole room full of charged voices, shouting encouragement.
She wondered what to say next. She didn’t have to, as someone started singing the club song and everyone joined in. The tin walls of the shed rang with the sound. Clementine stood there for a moment, nodded her endorsement, then grabbed her bag and hurried out.
She walked quickly away from the sheds, towards the car park, the fear of letting these people down crushing her chest. She had managed to talk the team around today, but what would she do next time?
A chill evening breeze had kicked up, whipping across the back of her neck. She shivered. Someone was ahead of her—Dempsey, in faded jeans and khaki jacket. As he put the key in the door of his van he looked up, saw her walking to her car. Suddenly self-conscious, she tucked her hair behind her ears.
‘You fixed the headlight then,’ he said in that gravelly voice.
‘Yes, yes. All good. How about yours?’ She couldn’t see the back of his van from where she stood.
‘Not yet.’
‘I really should get my insurers to pay for the repairs,’ she said, a gust of wind blowing ice-cold into her face.
He snorted dismissively. ‘I’m going to the pub for a drink—you could buy me one if you like.’ He gave the first full smile she’d seen—like the sun emerging from behind a rocky crag.
She wanted to make an excuse, like she always did. But it was as if the bricks in her carefully constructed wall had loosened a little, like something heavy had slammed into it. The excuse just wouldn’t come.
‘Okay, if that’s the only way you’ll let me pay what I owe,’ she said, surprising herself.
They had a beer each and a round of chips. His name was Rowan. Rowan Dempsey. He said he’d loved her speech to the team, the way she spoke to the players. He’d played footy himself, but coaches were different then—gruff, uncommunicative, unable to truly reach out to the players except as a barking sergeant major or a mate, nothing in between. Clementine was surprised at how much she appreciated the compliment, felt lighter inside.
He let her pay and gave her another of those smiles when they left. She listened to the country music channel the entire two-hour drive home.
Clementine hung back behind the counter, a giant vase of beautifully arranged lilies partially shielding her from the secretary, who was organising a flight for Gerard. She finished the call, returned the handset to its cradle and offered up a perfectly crafted smile.
‘Hello, how can I help you, Ms Jones?’
‘I’d like to see Gerard, please.’
‘Hmm, let me see.’ She peered at the calendar on the computer screen, her gold necklace hanging free as she leaned forward. ‘How about Wednesday at three?’
‘Oh no, I meant now, actually.’
‘Well, that might be difficult—he’s in meetings all day, I’m afraid.’
‘Looks like there’s no one in there now. I only need ten minutes—it’s just something I need to ask him before the fundraiser on Wednesday,’ she lied.
‘Okay, let me check. Make yourself comfortable there for a moment.’ She pointed at a chair in the foyer. Clementine remained standing.
After a string of acquisitions in the nineties, CTS had become the largest agricultural services and equipment firm in Australia. Eschewing Melbourne and the larger regional centre of Earlville, the board had chosen to show its commitment to rural Australia by establishing its Victorian head office at the regional depot in tiny Katinga. It was the biggest development there since the CTS warehouses were first built forty years ago. When the mine closed, CTS became the biggest employer in the region. Strong autumn and winter rains this year had generated a bumper season for agricultural equipment sales up and down the east coast.
The secretary came out and ushered Clementine through the door of Gerard’s office. ‘Come through, Ms Jones.’
She stepped into the office, taking in the view from the wall of windows on the far side, over the rolling fields to the east. Three armchairs dominated the centre of the room around a small coffee table. Running along the inside wall was a long bureau with a timber-panelled bar fridge. The look was masculine and functional, luxurious enough to convey power but not so much that it would piss off the farming clientele. Gerard was seated in the far corner behind an oversized desk, in a disproportionately tall leather chair, behind him a painting—black geese, flying in a row.
‘Clementine, good to see you,’ he said, immaculate in a white business shirt and tie. ‘Thanks for dropping in. Have a seat.’
She parked her jeans in the chrome chair in front of his desk, crossed her legs and clasped her hands in the same way she used to when she was briefing a partner back in the day—only no denim then, never denim, why did she wear denim?
She dived in. ‘Clancy quit the team, and now I hear he’s lost his job.’
Gerard grimaced. ‘Yes,’ he said with an audible sigh, his eyes on the white leather desk pad in front of him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
He looked up and met her gaze, eyebrows raised. ‘You know I can’t tell you company business, much less the affairs of individual employees, Clementine.’ He had a pained look, as if it were killing him not to be able to share. What he said was true, at least in a legal sense, but coming from Gerard it was bullshit. If he’d wanted her to know, he’d have told her anyway.
‘I heard it from Clancy’s wife—theft of company stock—so you might as well fill me in on the details.’ Her voice sounded more authoritative than she felt, not so rusty after all.
‘Oh, I wish I could, but it’s really not possible to—’
‘Listen, Gerard, I’m just trying to get him back on the team. I’m here on club business, and you’re club president. I don’t care about CTS or anything going on here. All I want to know is why my best player quit. I’m sure you can tell me without jeopardising any confidentiality obligations.’ She had to admit she was enjoying getting back into the groove, that old Sydney swagger.
Gerard pushed back into the depths of the enormous chair. The leather gave a soft hiss. His head was fully reclined as he looked down his nose at her. Power pose, she noted.
‘I don’t know why he quit the team. Maybe he’s too busy looking for a new job, who knows?’ He shrugged.
‘He told me he was quitting because Melissa needed him—the baby’s due in two weeks.’
‘Yes, well, I guess he would say that, wouldn’t he? He’s stolen from the company and lost his job—he’s ashamed.’
‘So he did steal something then?’ Again, she felt the familiar thrill as she gained an inch of ground.
‘Clementine, I said I wasn’t going to discuss company business, and I meant it.’
Clem decided to ease off, see how much she could tease out by appearing chastened. ‘Yes, okay, okay, you’re right,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just that it seems so out of character. Apparently he’s never stolen before. Why would he start now? Why risk his job with a baby on the way? He’s so devoted to his family, and we all know how much he loved his job.’
‘I know,’ Gerard said. ‘I find it odd too. I really don’t know why he left, and it’s a terrible blow for the rest of the team.’ He leaned forward in an avuncular way, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. ‘So this is where you really need to shine, Clementine. Your speech at Jeridgalee, it was inspirational. That’s what the team needs now—you’ve got to focus on the flock, not the lost lamb.’
She stared at his white teeth, mirrored his posture, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘That’s exactly why I’m doing this, Gerard—for the team. I have to try to win him back. He’s so important. I can rally the troops and keep them going, of course, but if I can get Clancy back as well, think of the boost for the finals.’
‘Okay, fine. Do what you need to do—but I can’t help. You know that. It’s not worth my job to stick my neck out.’
She went in for the kill. ‘Tell me who reported the theft.’
Gerard gave an exasperated huff. ‘I can’t help you, Jones.’
Clementine leant over the outrageously large desk. ‘Tell me, or I’m on the phone to a lawyer now to get started on an unfair dismissal claim.’ Her voice was quiet, calm and confident, but inside she couldn’t believe what she was saying. So many months under the radar, and here she was threatening one of the most powerful men in town.
Gerard’s jaw locked into a perfect square as he placed his hands palm down on the desk in front of him, his eyes narrowed. ‘You really are persistent, aren’t you, Jones? I guess that’s what makes you such a good coach.’ He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head and puffing out his chest. ‘But don’t push your luck around here. Small towns don’t like overly inquisitive people. We mind our own business, and so should you.’
Clementine reached for her mobile phone and starting scrolling through her contacts. ‘Paul Quincy at Quincy & Fleming is a friend of the family,’ she lied. ‘Let’s see if he’s got time to see me and Clancy tomorrow.’
A look of fury flashed over Gerard’s face as she called her own home number and raised the phone to her ear. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a name, but that has to be the end of it.’
She tapped the ‘end call’ button. ‘Of course, Gerard, I understand.’
‘Frank Cranfield,’ he said, begrudgingly.
‘Who’s he?’
‘I said I’d give you a name. That’s the name.’
Clementine stood up. ‘Thank you, Gerard. I really appreciate it.’
‘He’s a good worker, Frank. Been with us over ten years. Best thing you can do now is help Clancy write a resumé.’ She heard him swear under his breath as she walked away. ‘Don’t go making it any harder for the team, Jones,’ he called. ‘They’re hurting. And I damn well expect you to make sure they get up off the floor and win this bloody thing.’ His voice softened. ‘After fifty-three years, the whole fucking town does.’
Clementine walked past the well-kept gardens around the office and across the car park dividing the head office from the warehouse. Gerard’s BMW, a few up-market SUVs and a large cluster of hatchbacks gave way abruptly to rows of Holdens, Fords, utilities and off-road four-wheel drives, mud-splattered and dinged.
Gerard had been more helpful than she’d expected. If he’d been her client she would have told him to keep his trap shut. And why had he felt it necessary to tell her that Frank was a good worker, a good man?
Her mobile phone rang—Tiny Spencer from the Valley News. ‘Sorry, Tiny, I can’t make it tomorrow…No, I can’t make it any time tomorrow…Well, there doesn’t seem to be any rush…How about we aim for next week?…Okay, Tuesday it is.’ She hung up, tapped the appointment into the calendar on her phone, fully intending to postpone when the time came.
She walked over to the first of the three hulking sheds that made up the warehouse complex, heading for the small office just inside. Approaching the yawning opening, she could make out an arsenal of enormous equipment—spiralling blade ploughs, giant rakes and brutish-looking tree spears. To her left, a forklift stacked high with a pallet of boxes whirred and spun on its stumpy rear, and two men guided a massive yellow drum swinging weightily from a crane, shouting instructions as it was lowered towards the tray of a flatbed truck.
An enormous ‘Safety First!’ sign hung outside the office enclosure, another sign above it proclaiming, ‘CTS…Powering the agriculture of the future’. Inside, at a desk below a large service window, a grey-haired woman wearing an olive cardigan was deftly stamping a stack of dockets, her body completely still apart from the flick of her fingers as she turned the page and the snap of her wrist as she stamped. She looked up as Clem’s shadow fell over the desk.
‘Can I help you?’ she said blandly, peering over the top of her bifocals.
‘Yes, thank you. I’d like to see Frank Cranfield, please.’
Behind the woman, in a glass-walled fishbowl of an office, a man sat signing documents. Clementine recognised him as one of the players’ fathers. The nameplate on the door caught her eye: John Wakely, Warehouse Manager. Ah yes, Todd’s father.
Before Clementine could speak, Wakely was up from behind his desk. ‘Hello, Miss Jones, good to see you,’ he called from inside his office. He was at the door in two long strides and out into the main office area. ‘Marjorie, this is Clementine Jones, coach of the footy club,’ he said, extending his hand to Clem. ‘What brings you here?’
In his beige slacks, and with that grey V-neck woollen jumper over a tightly-packed collar and tie, he reminded Clementine of her father.
‘Good morning, Mr Wakely. Sorry to interrupt your day, but I was hoping to have a word if I may.’
