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About
the author Gary
Blinco grew up in the bush on the Darling Downs in Queensland during the fifties
and early sixties. His large family existed in poverty stricken and primitive
circumstances in those days, and the author credits his harsh beginnings with
his insight into landscapes and the human condition. He is also a Vietnam
Veteran, having completed two tours of duty as an infantry soldier after being
conscripted during the National Service era of the sixties and early seventies. His
first two books, ‘Down a Country Lane’ and ‘The Wounds of War’ are
largely about soldiering during the Vietnam War. His writing deals in sensitive
terms with personal relationships, including conflict on and off the
battlefield, and romance, which provides a refreshing contrast against the
harshness of military combat. In this sense his first two books offer more than
just a blood and guts war story. His
third book, ‘Under the Harvest Moon’, is a romantic mystery novel set
against the backdrop of the first bulk wheat harvest on the Darling Downs in
1957. The book provides an entertaining journey across a spectrum of history,
mystery and romance during a time of rapid change. ‘A
Place in Time’ is his latest work and a novel that explores what might happen
in the near future in Australia – and builds on the author’s venture into
fantasy and science fiction writing with a glimpse at the world 252 years in the
future. The
Mystical Swagman series will be released shortly and follows the experiences of
an orphan boy of mysterious origins who develops mystical powers while tramping
the wallaby track with two old swagmen. Gary
works in sales and marketing in the financial services industry and lives on the
central coast of New South 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 dependant 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. ‘See you tonight.’ He
nodded and continued to sit thoughtfully at the table. She looked back at him
from the doorway and felt a sudden swell of pride. Perhaps he was going to pull
this writing thing off after all – but she wanted to play it safe. Ian sat and
stared into the empty coffee cup for a long time. Somehow he saw his long past
projected in the dregs of coffee. The poverty of his childhood, his struggle for
an education and the loss of his parents when he was still a child. His
whole life seemed to have been spent doing things he would rather not be doing
but was forced to do out of a sense of responsibility. A responsibility at first
to help support his numerous siblings after his parents died young. And then,
almost before he knew it he had his own family to support. The years had slipped
away somehow and when he finally obeyed the lifelong urge to write he was in his
fifties. What had taken him so long he wondered? But he knew the answer well
enough. He had been too busy earning a living at first, and catching up on all
the education he had missed in his youth. Then
he felt the need to live a little so he had some experience of life before he
could feel the adequacy and credibility to write. Suddenly he was in his
fifties, with a rare childhood and youth in the bush behind him. Add to that his
military service in Vietnam, a couple of decades in the corporate world and a
lifetime of observing people in a myriad of situations and circumstances.
Suddenly all the excuses were gone and he would not be denied any longer. The
waitress was at his elbow with a question in her eyes that said order something
else or get out of here. ‘Sorry,’
he smiled. ‘I was off with the pixies. Nothing else thanks, and I’ll get out
of here so you can clear the table.’ He
stood up and strode purposefully from the café. *
* * In
the end they reached a compromise. He left his job and she arranged to take six
months leave of absence. Deep down she knew she would never be going back to her
job and she struggled with the mixture of relief and resentment that romped
through her in turn. Ian’s excitement grew as he arranged to let out the house
for six months, enrol Linda in correspondence school, buy a new caravan and
generally get their affairs in order. He almost lost interest in the deepening
debate over the Northern Alliance. Eileen became caught up in the planning
process too, despite her gnawing apprehension, and Linda was as excited as a
water spaniel in a storm. Ian tried to imagine how it would be for her, tried to
visit his childhood and put himself in the same situation, but it was
impossible. The circumstances were just too different. Most
ten-year old girls would be lamenting the loss of their bedroom, friends and
school, but Linda seemed not to care about these things at all. As an only child
to older parents she was very pampered, even spoiled, and she was also the
central focus in their lives. Perhaps she saw the trip as an adventure that
would bring them all even closer together. No more before and after school care
while her parents worked long hours. Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
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