Free Dirty Fracking Business by Peter Ralph Page A

everything you’ve worked so hard for,’ Buffy said.
    ‘We’ll see.’
    Steve had only been home a few minutes, flicked the TV on, grabbed a coke from the fridge and put his feet up when the phone rang. ‘Hello.’
    ‘You can’t do it! You just can’t do it!’
    ‘Dad, settle down. You’ll do yourself an injury.’
    ‘Listen to me. You not only won’t have a subscriber left, you’ll be the most hated man in the valley.’
    ‘How did you find out about CEGL’s proposition?’
    ‘Word travels.’
    ‘You mean Buffy phoned you the minute I left the office, don’t you?’
    ‘I didn’t say it was her.’
    ‘You didn’t need to. Dad, we can use the additional cash flow and, if we handle it well, we won’t lose many subscribers. I thought I’d do an editorial saying the Chronicle has to present both sides of the story.’
    ‘That’s baloney. I forbid you to accept that woman’s money!’
    ‘Forbid me? Dad, you put me in charge of the paper; now let me do my job.’ Steve slammed the phone down, something he’d never done to his father before.

Chapter 8

    The Federal Bank of Australia had been established in Paisley for nearly a hundred years in a large bluestone building on the corner of Main and Pedder Streets. The bank had an almost unblemished history of helping wineries, farms and small businesses through the hard climatic times that rural Australia was subject to. You could count on one hand the number of times the bank had foreclosed on a mortgage, and in living memory it had never forced anyone into bankruptcy. As the area expanded, the other banks set up branches in town but hardly won enough business to justify their existence. The FBA was the people’s bank, the bank you could trust to help you through the hard times.
    Craig and Jenny Orr operated a successful organic fruit and vegetable farm on fifty acres of prime land, and were not the slightest concerned when their good friend, Andrew Brown, FBA’s branch manager, phoned on Monday and asked them to come in and see him. However, they were a little taken aback that Andrew had not said anything to them at the weekend, when he had attended the birthday of their nine-year-old son, Jarryd.
    Usually, when they had a meeting with Andrew, he came out of his office and greeted them warmly. Today they were shown into his office by one of the tellers and they were surprised to see him wearing a suit and tie. He was usually tieless, shirtsleeves rolled up, with his shirt hanging loosely over his protruding stomach. He got up from behind his desk and shook Craig’s hand but did not make eye contact, nor did he kiss Jenny on the cheek.
    ‘Did you get a promotion or something, Andy?’ Craig joked, his deep voice echoing around the room. In direct contrast to his tiny wife, he was a big man who, after years of hard work, didn’t carry an ounce of surplus weight. His face was weather-beaten and drawn.
    Andrew stroked his bushy salt-and-pepper beard nervously, picked at his ears and patted his long brown hair. ‘It’s a bit more serious than that.’
    ‘You’re worrying me Andy,’ Jenny teased. ‘You’re not going to foreclose on us are you?’
    ‘Head office has directed me to reduce the bank’s loans to you by half,’ he blurted out, looking down at his feet.
    ‘You’re joking,’ Jenny said, but her face said otherwise. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, she stared at Andrew and watched him cringe in embarrassment. Because she was small, there were those who ignored her, but Andrew knew better, having seen her outmanoeuvre suppliers who had mistakenly taken her for a soft touch. There was nothing soft about Jenny Orr when it came to business and she provided the brains in the Orr partnership, while her husband supplied the brawn.
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘You’re sorry. Why, Andrew, why? Have we ever missed a mortgage payment? Have we ever exceeded our overdraft limit? Have we ever missed a lease payment? What have we bloody-well done to