Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER
22
Keith Urban trots across the workroom floorboards when a car pulls up outside. I loop the straps of a hand-stitched girth over a western saddle.
‘Who is it, boy?’
A man’s footsteps. ‘G’day, Mac.’
Going by his too-small shirt, heavily muscled arms and thick rugby neck, Joseph Rossi still works out at the gym. He was in the year above me in high school, but we weren’t friends and I’ve never seen him at the saddlery. When he stands in the doorway, he blocks out the last of the sun.
As Keith Urban sits by my feet, I pointedly look at my watch. ‘I’m about to close up.’
‘Nice gear.’ He scans the shelves before, puffing out his chest like a rooster, he picks up a stirrup leather and holds both ends, letting it loose before pulling it tight. ‘You sell a lot of these?’
‘Do you have a horse?’
He looks me up and down. ‘That’s not what I ride.’
‘Get out.’
‘Just a joke, Mac.’ His veneers glisten as he grins and puts his thumbs through the tabs of his jeans. ‘Heard you had a bit of trouble with someone breaking in. A crowbar, was it? With you living here all alone, I thought I should check in, make sure you were okay.’
I pull the girth free of the saddle, swing it by my side. ‘Who told you about it?’
‘It’s a small town. I’ve got mates.’
‘Was it one of them who broke in? Did they break in again last night?’
‘Whoa!’ He holds up his hands. ‘No way.’
‘It’s after five, Joseph. I want to knock off.’
‘No hard feelings, that’s all I’m saying. You and Gordon made mistakes with the mine, but that doesn’t warrant criminal behaviour.’
‘You think the two are related? Three years is a long time to wait.’
He shrugs. ‘You never know.’
‘But you had nothing to do with it?’
He considers the bolt on the door. ‘This is new, isn’t it?’
‘A precaution.’
‘From what I hear, the town’s a bit worried, you getting the environment association up and running again.’
‘We want to make things better, not worse.’
‘It’s stirring up old tensions.’
‘Are you here to warn me off?’
When he walks towards me, I’m hemmed between him and the saddle. ‘Why would I do that?’
A fake smile. ‘Because you’re a bully?’
He hoots a laugh. ‘In addition to your looks, Mac, you’ve got spirit.’ He turns back to the shelves. ‘You got any whips here?’ He swings an imaginary whip over his head, lowers his arm and flicks his wrist.
‘No whips.’
‘Shame.’
Joseph isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but if he was involved in the first break-in, he wouldn’t come by and ask me about it, would he? Particularly the day after the second break-in might or might not have happened? I ponder that as Keith Urban and I walk over the bridge to Grandpa.
***
Three days after the bus dropped me off at the saddlery, I receive a message from Erik: As the final element of the selection process, you have been invited to meet with one of the senior members of the Polar Institute, Ove Hansen. The meeting will take place on 1 June at the Denman home of Martin Roxburgh …
‘Hey.’ I lean over the arm of Grandpa’s chair and kiss his cheek.
‘Don’t you have a meeting with Ove Hansen tonight? Head out early so you don’t have to drive there in the dark.’
‘It’s mostly on the highway.’ I hold up a sandwich. ‘I want to eat with you before I go.’
‘Don’t they know the days are getting shorter? They should have the meeting in daylight hours.’
‘I wish they’d get it over with and let us know what’s happening.’
‘These things are bound to take time, especially with the snow bloke heading back to Norway.’
‘How do you know that?’
He points to his newspaper. ‘With all this time on my hands, I read this rag from cover to cover. It’s amazing what you find in the social pages.’
A picture of Kit and Chloe running along the foreshore of Sydney Harbour, the Opera House sails glistening in the sunshine behind them, takes up half a page. The article says that Chloe will be returning to France next week, and Kit is taking a break in Norway before returning—thanks to the backing of the Polar Institute and sponsor funding—to film the first instalment of a new documentary series.
Kit said it was over with Chloe. Was that last week’s news?
***
When I visited Martin’s thoroughbred stud with Grandpa, we drove past the two-storey mansion to the rows of stables and equine facilities behind it, so this is the first time I’ve been to the house. The door is opened by a woman who introduces herself as the housekeeper—I follow her through a high-ceilinged foyer to a terrazzo-paved hallway. Martin Roxburgh, with bright red cheeks, sandy hair and a welcoming smile, bursts through a door at the end of the hall and bounces towards me.
‘Mac!’ He grasps my hand in both of his. ‘It’s been too long. How is Gordon? Best saddler in the country, that grandfather of yours. We miss seeing him around the place.’
‘What do you think of Jimmy Bains? Other racing stables I’ve sent him to are happy with his work.’
‘Bains is good and I like to give a young chap work, but no one will ever replace Gordon. You’re not following in his footsteps? Specialising in saddles like he did?’
‘I like a range of work.’
He smiles as he rubs his hands together. ‘Come in! Come in!’
Martin has nothing to do with the Polar Institute, but he’s wealthy and well connected, which is why he’s hosting the meeting. The dining room is enormous, as is the table, a rectangular glass top and four marble plinths. An elderly man with thick white hair sits at one end of the table. Seated next to him is a much younger man, probably in his late thirties, with short dark hair and a thin white scar across his cheek. I don’t recall his name, but he looks familiar.
He gets to his feet and holds out a hand. ‘Per Amundsen.’
His name is familiar too. ‘I’m Mackenzie Henry. Mac.’
The older man puts both hands on the table, using it for support as he stands. He smiles gently as he holds out his hand.
‘I am Ove Hansen, Miss Henry. How is your grandfather? I regret that his illness has prevented his involvement in this process.’
‘He’s still very excited about it.’
‘Captain Amundsen works with scientific teams in Antarctica and has a long association with the continent.’ Ove smiles. ‘You might know of Per’s wife, Harriet Scott?’
Half the Australian population would be familiar with Harriet, an environmentalist who was raised by her parents on a ship. After her parents died, Harriet continued with their work—making documentaries about the destruction of ocean habitat and rising sea levels.
‘I knew I knew you from somewhere,’ I say to Per. ‘Your children are adorable. You must miss them when they’re travelling on The Adélie .’
‘I am always with them.’ He’s very serious. ‘I avoid the camera.’
Ove puffs out a breath. ‘Such a shame.’
‘As Per and Harriet were staying with Per’s cousin and his family in Warrandale,’ Martin says, ‘Ove roped him in to this meeting.’
‘I thought Erik and Astrid would be here.’
‘Didn’t they warn you?’ Ove looks a little uncomfortable as he, Per and I take our chairs. ‘As we have not met you before and formed opinions, Kit asked that we see you alone.’
Erik supports me. I get the impression that Astrid hasn’t yet made up her mind. Is their absence a good thing or not? ‘Right.’
After Martin leaves the room, Ove compliments my father’s skills in capturing the fragility of Antarctica through the lens of a camera. He tells me Grandpa has demonstrated that the destruction of the Summerfield landscape isn’t a local issue but a global one. ‘These endeavours have created a link between Australia, one of the original signatories to the Antarctic Treaty, and the environmental mission of the institute. Our challenge is to show that every city, town and village can contribute to the health of the planet. Seven documentaries for seven countries, an eighth documentary to bring the nations together. In the future, one year, five years, a decade, we hope to film again in each country.’
‘The challenges facing Summerfield are long term.’
Ove is excruciatingly polite. Would I be prepared to spend extended periods on a film set? Twelve-hour days? A week? Only if my grandfather doesn’t need me. Could we have a time frame for the course of his illness? I push through the pain. I don’t know.
He turns pages in a notebook. ‘Erik referred to something you had said—you look at things from the ground up and Kit Thorsen looks down from a height. Was this a criticism?’
As I consider which words to choose, Per leans forward in his chair. ‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
‘Kit and I look at things in different ways, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be useful to each other.’
Ove purses his lips. ‘Please elaborate.’
‘This project is connected to your work in Antarctica. I can’t contribute directly to that—not beyond the work my father did—but for a worldwide perspective, you’ll want to know about Australia. A lot of our plants are small and delicate and easily trampled, but that doesn’t mean they’re not as important as eucalypts and other large and, at first glance, more impressive species. Without mosses, lichens, grasses and smaller plants, larger plants can’t survive. Neither can native animals.’
Per looks nothing like Kit, but there’s something about the reluctant lift in his lip that reminds me of him. ‘Continue,’ he says.
‘I like to draw native orchids, but I can’t always get access to the bushland in Summerfield because of the terrain and cliffs. Kit climbs. He could get me to those places. We could go together.’
‘To inaccessible regions?’
‘In Antarctica, Kit tracks seals and other wildlife. The documentary could give us a chance to find out more about rare plant species and the insects and animals that rely on them. You’ll know about Professor Williams, right? She’s an Australian who’s worked in Antarctica for years, researching mosses that can teach us about climate and what the future might hold. If Kit can get me to places that are difficult to access, I can look at things from the ground up in a different way.’
‘We at the Polar Institute are scientists,’ Ove says. ‘Kit Thorsen is also a scientist, but an extremely effective communicator as well. Much as some …’ he looks pointedly at Per, ‘… would prefer that people make decisions and change behaviour on a scientific basis, mass media, also social media, is a reality. Used wisely, it can be useful.’
‘Intrusion in your personal life.’ Per speaks quietly. ‘Kit has concerns.’
‘Other than his illness, my grandfather’s life is an open book. My father spoke through his photography. His personal life, my personal life, except as they relate to our occupations, are irrelevant.’
Ove nods slowly. ‘Your mother?’
‘The custody disputes ended years ago.’
‘We already have the capacity to film and distribute this series, but once we have our characters, the people with whom our audience are likely to develop a personal connection, the support for our project will expand further.’
When Per mutters something derogatory about the use of the word ‘characters’, Ove sighs again.
‘Later in the year,’ Ove continues, ‘perhaps October or November, there will be additional commitments with media, distributors and sponsors.’
‘I’ve told Kit and Astrid I’ll see the project through.’
‘I see how you and Kit might be useful to each other.’
‘Does that mean you approve of me? It’s just …’ I blow out a breath. ‘This has been up in the air for months. When do you make a decision?’
‘Some decisions are easier than others.’ Brows raised, Ove looks to Per. ‘I welcome your view.’
Per considers me closely. ‘Kit warned me about you.’
‘What did he say?’
He stretches out his legs. ‘You make it difficult to say no.’
***
When Kit calls, what should be the first thing on my mind? Not the way he kissed me. Not his relationship with Chloe. The first thing on my mind should be …
‘Have you made your decision yet?’
‘I’ll be back the week after next.’ A hesitation. ‘Erik or Astrid will call.’
I straighten Phoenix’s forelock, divide it into three. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘Your collarbone. And arm. How are you?’
Left over right and right over left. I plait for no good reason. ‘I’m good.’ When Phoenix shoves me in the chest with his nose, I fall against the fence. ‘Get back, boy.’
‘What?’
‘I was talking to Phoenix.’
Silence, then, ‘Are you riding him?’
‘Did you call for a reason?’
‘I didn’t set you up. I didn’t kiss you because Astrid wouldn’t like it.’
Deep breath. ‘I apologised for accusing you of that.’
A roar sounds over the phone. Another roar. ‘Where are you?’
‘A game park in Zimbabwe. I’ll be back in two weeks.’