Paul looked over the crowd assembled in Joe’s Café. Every seat was taken. Josh and Warren Leadbeater had encouraged the mill workers to attend, and late-comers stood at the back, blocking the view through the plate-glass window. The ragged line curved in front of the cake cabinet and Beryl raced to wipe down the glass top each time someone raised a mug to drink. He took a deep breath before tapping a spoon against his glass of water until all eyes turned to him.
‘Thanks for coming, everyone. This turnout gives me hope that today, we have reached a turning point. Today will be the beginning of taking back control of our lives, and of ensuring the security of our jobs, our families, and our community. Today, we propose a change that gives Mindalby back its cotton mill.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Warren led a round of applause.
Paul waited until it stopped and clicked into the first slide of the digital presentation he’d put together with the help of Penny Fordham.
‘Recent events have shown us the importance of controlling our own livelihoods. We must have control that cannot be abused and misused; control that rests in the hands of a company run by a group of elected shareholders who operate for the good of all. Control that belongs to us, the workers, and business owners, and operators.
‘We offer you shares in the Mindalby Cotton Co-operative, owned and operated by the people of Mindalby.’
The off-white sheet he’d hung as a makeshift screen dimmed the colours of his opening slide, but nothing could dim the bright hope embodied in those three words.
Paul had hoped for a good reception to the idea, but the excited cheers and whistles were like a valve relieving dangerously high pressure. He looked at Josh who gave him a thumbs up, and Warren who cracked a broad smile for the first time in recent memory.
Eventually the crowd settled and Paul worked through his PowerPoint presentation, explaining in layman’s terms what Penny had set out for him. ‘There are certain requirements that have to be met, but if you are interested in being part of this exciting innovation for our town, Warren Leadbeater, Josh Carey, and Julian Stone have ‘expression of interest’ forms at their tables. Signing up doesn’t commit you absolutely, nor does it guarantee your application for shares.
‘However, on our behalf Penny Fordham has been in negotiations with the bank and if we can raise four hundred thousand dollars by the fifth of July, on the strength of that commitment the bank will allow us to re-open the mill. We already have fifty thousand dollars worth of offers to purchase shares. Let’s raise the next three hundred and fifty and take control of our mill and our lives.’
Paul flicked onto the final slide—the new name superimposed over a transparency of the mill—and left it on display. Glad to have made it through the presentation, he picked up his glass of water and drained it. The audience gravitated to the three sign-up tables, adding their names and picking up a copy of the brochure outlining the operation of a co-operative, and their rights and responsibilities.
As the crowd thinned, Julian Stone strolled up and clapped a hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘Well done, mate. I reckon this idea is a goer.’
‘Thanks. How are the sign-ups going?’
‘Looking good. Offers are in single digit hundreds or thousands. But we’ll get there.’
They had to get there. The co-op was the only way to make sure the mill and their town not only survived, but thrived. ‘Whatever it takes. You heard the rumour about Frankston wanting to purchase, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. But now the bank is aware of the co-op, nobody is going to be able to make a knockdown bid.’
And if they raised the funds in time, the co-op would go ahead, the mill would re-open, and Hayden could get on with managing the family farm.
Which left the problem of Serena.
Now was the time to knock that zero point one per cent chance his father had mentioned off the continental shelf.
He turned to seek out his uncle and clear the air. Josh’s chair was empty. ‘Where did he go?’
Warren stood and shuffled the pages into a neat pile. ‘He said he had an errand to run, but he’ll end up at the pub. Did you ever know Josh to miss a celebratory drink?’