The Summerfield Saddler

Chapter Three

CHAPTER

3

The floorboards on the saddlery verandah are grey gum; the horizontal railing has a sun-kissed silver sheen. I’m careful of my collarbone as I sit on the top of the three brick steps and awkwardly pull on socks. Keith Urban, blue eyes bright, lies like a sphinx on the path.

‘You’re the best timekeeper ever.’ I push my feet into old sheepskin boots, too warm for early February but easy to take on and off. ‘Five-twenty-five on the dot.’

I throw a bag over my left shoulder and adjust the sling on my right as I pass through the gate. A handsome sandstone bridge crosses the river fifty metres away and on the other side of the bridge is the town. When Lucas Merewether’s late-model Range Rover pulls over and he winds down the window, I paste a smile on my face.

‘Nice evening.’

‘How are you keeping, Mac? Will you be out of action for long?’

Lucas, an engineer, had a management role in the Summerfield mine, but now works for a company that supplies drilling and other equipment. He vehemently opposed the closure of the mine, and made Grandpa’s life hell because he supported it, but that was three years ago. Now that Lucas is angling to be elected as a local councillor, he’s forced to be civil.

‘I’ll be back at work soon.’

‘How is Gordon?’

‘I’m on my way to see him.’

‘Will he live permanently in the nursing home?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘It’s a shame in-home aged care isn’t an option in Summerfield.’ He sighs like he cares. ‘Have you thought of moving further afield?’

‘Where would we go?’

‘A town supported by industry would have what you need.’ He doesn’t say the words, but his meaning is clear. A town with a coal mine.

Even a fake smile is beyond me. ‘Goodbye, Lucas.’

Like the Merewethers, the Henrys have lived here for generations. Grandpa was born in a cottage on the town side of the river and has worked here all his life, but he’s also changed with the times, caring more about the long-term survival of the district than the important but shorter-term interests of mine workers and the companies they work for.

Before and after the mine closure, Grandpa, a scruffy hat pushed low over his thick shaggy hair, would stand at the workbench in the saddlery with the front door open or sit on the front verandah with tools at his feet and chat to supporters, opponents and anyone else who happened to pass through. He made a few enemies—not that he’d ever call them that—but even amongst people who disagreed with his views, he also made friends.

Keith Urban trots by my heels as I walk along the rough dirt footpath to the sluggishly flowing river and on to town. Three Italian brothers and their extended families built most of the rendered and painted shops and cottages in the main street. When the mine opened, the population grew, but the new builds copied the style of the old ones. Green, pink, yellow and blue and plenty of shades in between. A hardware store. An antique shop. A café. A pie shop. And since the menswear shop teamed up with the womenswear and shoe shops, we arguably have a department store. There are two pubs, but only one of them, the Union Hotel, has survived three consecutive years of a shrinking population. Beyond the pub is the community centre and the understaffed and rarely opened medical centre, and on the other side of the road is the nursing home. These government buildings are plain and functional—single-level blond brick with blue tiled roofs.

I fill a water bowl for Keith Urban and put it in the shade of a gnarly old banksia. Our dog would never wander away, but I clip on a lead in case another visitor leaves the front door open and Keith sneaks into Grandpa’s room again.

‘Welcome back.’ Frances, the brusque but unfailingly competent nurse behind the desk, considers me critically. ‘Are you over the virus? How is the collarbone? Are you sleeping?’

‘Much better on all counts, thanks. How’d Grandpa go today?’

‘He’ll be happy to see you up and about.’

The nurses, nursing aides, carers and cleaners couldn’t work any harder, but no matter how often the floors and carpets are scrubbed and shampooed, the corridor has a hospital smell—or worse. The nursing home is small, only ten beds, and Grandpa’s room is at the end of the corridor. When it became clear Grandpa would be here long term and I asked what he wanted from home, he requested the small concrete statue that stood under the scribbly gum tree at the saddlery. Beppe, an Italian boy with a straw hat and a basket of fruit, was Grandpa’s present to Grandma for their first anniversary.

My grandfather, freshly shaved but hair endearingly messy, is sitting where he always sits, in a recliner by the window overlooking the primary school playing field and the school hall. His eyes light up.

‘You’re back!’

Grandpa has a medium height and build and a smile as warm as his heart. I lean over and hug him as tightly as my collarbone allows. ‘I missed you.’

‘How’d you have time to do that, with all those phone calls I made?’

‘See anything interesting today?’

He takes my hand in a steely grip. ‘Three magpies, two brush turkeys, ten galahs, six crimson rosellas, four rainbow lorikeets and a wallaby.’

‘That sounds like a Christmas song.’

‘How’s that arm of yours?’

I tap my chest. ‘It’s this that’s the big problem.’

‘Keep that sling on, Mary Mackenzie. You gotta protect your heart.’

When a carer sets Grandpa’s meal out on the tray attached to his chair, I take wonkily cut sandwiches and a drink from my bag.

‘You can’t live on bread and cheese for dinner,’ Grandpa says.

‘I also have ham and tomato. That’s a complete meal.’

‘You can’t butter the bread, can you? Not with that arm of yours. Take my roast chook.’

‘Thanks, Grandpa, but I couldn’t stomach the mash on the top.’

‘Nothing wrong with pumpkin.’ He cuts his chicken into pieces. ‘How’re you managing? You can’t be getting any work done.’

‘Keith Urban and I are doing just fine.’

‘You’ll get a bit of money when I go.’

‘Grandpa!’

‘No tragedy in a seventy-five-year-old man pushing up daisies.’

‘I want you around a bit longer.’

He winks. ‘You don’t sob into your hanky like you did a few weeks ago.’

‘I never sob!’

‘With you, glossy-eyed and one or two sniffles is just the same.’

I was fourteen when my father died and he was only thirty-eight. Reasoning that losing a man I’d adored, who was also my lifeline to Grandpa and Summerfield, was the worst thing that could ever happen, I cried myself sick. Since then, I’ve learnt a lot more about unhappiness. How loss and disappointment slowly creep up on you. How much they hurt. But even when Grandpa got sick, I didn’t cry. He can’t get around like he used to, but he’s still here. I won’t cry until he’s not.

‘Right now …’ I bite my sandwich, chew through my words. ‘I’m happy to have you just down the road.’

He pushes peas to the side of his plate. ‘What’ve you been up to today?’

‘Rosie Rossiter floated her horse to the saddlery. She wanted me to check the fit of the dressage saddles she’d had custom made in Melbourne. With her doing the lifting, we managed okay.’

‘How many backs has that horse got?’

‘One saddle for everyday wear, one for show warm-ups, one for competition. That’s the one I’ll tinker with.’

‘Three saddles? Ridiculous.’

‘Bread-and-butter work, Grandpa. And I enjoy it.’

‘Are you being looked after by the film people? They’d have insurance, wouldn’t they?’

‘They’re looking into it.’ Deep breath. ‘And talking of film, Grandpa …’

He looks up, waggles his thick white brows. ‘What about it?’

‘Have you heard of Kit Thorsen?’

‘You think I live in a cave?’ He grins and waves his fork around. ‘Course I have.’

‘I hadn’t.’

‘The pub has his shows on the telly.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘The snow bloke, remember? I’m forever talking about him.’

I hold my hand tightly to my collarbone. ‘I should have listened better.’

Grandpa puts his knife and fork on the plate before pushing it away. ‘What about him anyway?’

‘He’s here. I met him.’

‘You’re pulling my leg!’ When Grandpa thumps the tray, the knife and fork clang together. ‘You met him! Bloody hell!’

‘He was on the film set, but …’ I take another bite of sandwich. ‘He knew my name, Grandpa. He said I was a co-applicant to a project you’ve applied for. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘If I had, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘The snow bloke. That’s knocked me for six. I’m having trouble taking it in.’

‘Going by his email, he’s here for your project.’

‘With all that’s been going on, the Polar Institute clear went out of my head.’

‘I read through your folder. I hope that was all right.’

‘It’s good you’re up to speed.’ His eyes are bright with excitement. ‘I thought someone would turn up and take a snapshot or two. If the snow bloke’s here, we might get a whole documentary.’

‘About the mine? Why would they be interested in that?’

‘Why do you think, Mary Mackenzie?’ Grandpa huffs. ‘After a long hard fight, we got the mine shut down. But what happens next? We can’t bring the land back to how it was, but we can make it a whole lot better. And while we’re at it, we can reunite the town.’

‘That’s a lot going on.’

‘One step at a time, young lady.’ Grandpa picks up a spoon. ‘The funding the town has got from the government gets us part of the way, and the publicity from the documentary can’t help but get us further. Clean up the land, blow up the dam and restore the bush-land. All of that will bring work to this town.’

‘Yes, but …’

Grandpa looks up from stirring stewed fruit. ‘What’d he say in the email?’

‘Not much, but in your submission you offered to show the institute the mine site, the place where the wetlands used to be, and the national park.’ I do my best to keep my voice even. ‘You can’t do that any more.’

‘True enough, but we can’t pass up a chance like this.’ He smiles like the solution is obvious. ‘You can take over.’

‘Grandpa! I can’t—’

‘Do you know about tracking? Thorsen does—I saw it with the seals in Antarctica. They stick the cameras to their fur. Stays on in the ocean, it does, until the seal moults. Seals are a bit easier to catch than our native animals, I’d say.’

‘He’s not here to track kangaroos.’

‘Course he isn’t. He wants to see what can be done with the mine site, but he’ll be thorough, just like he is with the seals. Like I said before, I reckon the government officials will put their hands deeper in their pockets now the snow bloke is on the case. The dam destroyed the wetlands. We can bring those wetlands back, and other things besides.’

The Summers River runs six kilometres south of the mine site. When the mine was expanded in the sixties, a fork of the river was dammed, meaning water that had previously flowed into Summerfield’s wetlands and streams was pushed back into the river. The wetlands are now a wasteland. The streams have dried up.

‘In the submission, you referred to the Summerfield Environment Association.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Beatrice has moved to Newcastle, Frank’s memory is patchy, and Rueben and his family are back in Denman. The only other members besides Claudine and Gloria are you and me.’

‘Small doesn’t mean you’ve got nothing to say.’ Grandpa puts down his spoon and sits forward in his chair. ‘There are seven countries with claims to Antarctic territory, and Norway and Australia are two of them. There’s no exploitation of resources in Antarctica. Scientists and environmentalists from around the world work together to protect what’s there.’

‘Yes, Grandpa, but—’

‘That’s better than countries just doing what’s best for themselves.’

‘It’s called the Polar Institute. How—’

‘The series is about putting world interests over national ones. After all these years, we can’t get the mine site back to what it was, but we can make it a whole lot better. Get rid of that dam, and we get water back in the environment.’

‘I understand that, Grandpa, but—’

‘No buts about it. With lots of work and a little bit of luck, the flora and fauna will return. Not for all the land, mind. Some will be better used for grazing and agriculture.’

‘The work will take years. The documentary team won’t wait for that.’

‘In the BBC series Seven Up , they filmed a group of London children every seven years all through their lives. This project is a bit like that. The first documentary will show the world what the land is like now, what’s planned to transform it, the early work, and what the locals think about it all. After that, maybe in five or ten years, they’ll come back again and check things out.’

‘The Polar Institute might think the environment association is more than just you, me and a couple of others.’

‘We’re the foundations for something bigger.’ Grandpa links his hands. ‘And given we’ve got Kit Thorsen to check us out, the institute must’ve been impressed with my submission. They’ll be interested in your dad’s photography too. Sam was only supposed to be in Antarctica for six months. That turned into a year and a year turned into two.’

‘It was almost thirty years ago.’

‘They’ve seen some of the film work he did, and there’s more they don’t know about. Way back then, even fewer people got to go to the scientific bases. It’ll be a useful historical record.’

‘Dad was going to make his own documentary, wasn’t he? When he had more time.’

‘He sure was.’ Grandpa’s smile is proud but shaky. ‘The day after his funeral, I stored his film and cameras under the house. They’ll still be there, provided the rats haven’t gotten into them.’

‘You didn’t want to hand the film over back then? To the Australian Antarctic Division or the Polar Institute? How come?’

‘I didn’t want to think about it.’ A shadow crosses Grandpa’s face. ‘I’m ashamed of that now.’

‘It was hard to think about what Dad had left behind.’ I pat Grandpa’s hand. ‘There’s no shame in that.’

‘Shameful or not, it’s past time I remedied it. Your dad’s links to Summerfield and Antarctica are important.’

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘The documentary people don’t want lobby groups. Real people, they said in the advert, people with connections to not only their towns, but to the world as well.’

‘You have connections—maybe Dad did too. Me? Not so much.’

‘If you didn’t have your roots in this soil, you wouldn’t be able to draw in the way that you do.’ He winks. ‘I might’ve sent a few photos of your sketches.’

‘Grandpa!’

‘Another reason for keeping things hush-hush—you wouldn’t have agreed to it.’ His smile is unrepentant. ‘Your drawings are as good as any you’ll see in a fancy botanical book and it’s about time somebody besides me told you so.’

I awkwardly wrap the remains of my sandwich before stuffing it into my bag. ‘It’s not like I went to art school. I didn’t even finish regular school.’

‘You think the film mob would’ve paid for your services if you only made saddles and bridles? They asked for leather waistcoats, but when they saw your designs they wanted more. Etching, engraving, embossing. Shields and swords as well. They couldn’t get enough. They still can’t.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘You only saw the draft submission—you should’ve seen what I wrote in the final.’ He leans back, closes his eyes. “‘Etchings last forever, and so should our flora and fauna.” Real poetic, I thought.’ When he opens his eyes, they’re even brighter than they were. ‘When’s your next meeting with Kit Thorsen?’

‘Why me, Grandpa? You’re the expert. Why don’t you meet him?’

This time, a succession of shadows cross Grandpa’s face. And his attempt to smile through them fails miserably. ‘I’ve lost a bit of confidence, Mackenzie, you know that.’

‘Quite a few of your friends called me last week. They wanted to visit because I couldn’t.’

‘They don’t know what to say, love. Just like I wouldn’t know what to say to the snow bloke. I was blowing my own trumpet in that application, saying I was as fit as a fiddle and offering to take the Norwegians left, right and centre. Then look what happens? All of a sudden, I’m weak as a baby and sleeping all the time.’

‘You could have another transfusion, Grandpa.’

‘I don’t want to be pumped full of blood that’d be better used for people half my age. It’s not right, Mackenzie, not when I’ll die anyway.’

Grandpa has myelodysplastic syndrome, a type of cancer where immature blood cells in the bone marrow don’t mature or become healthy blood cells. It makes him tired and weak and—

‘Don’t you go getting mopey again, young lady.’

I force a smile. ‘You could talk to Thorsen on the phone if you don’t want to see him.’

‘When I could fall off the perch at any minute? Like I said before, they want real people, and that means people who can show them firsthand what’s been going on with the mine and what we’ve got planned to fix it.’

It’s not surprising that Grandpa, who’s lost virtually all his mobility, has been depressed. This news alone won’t fix that, but he’s more animated than I’ve seen him for months. The last thing I want to do is disappoint him, but …

‘I don’t want to leave you, Grandpa. For trips to the mine or national park or anything else.’

‘I’m stuck in this chair all day and winched into bed at night. I’m not going anywhere.’ Sitting forward, he grasps my hand. ‘You like a bit of adventure, Mackenzie, just like your dad did. When The Dragon Slayers opportunity came up, you gave it your best shot. Give the snow bloke a chance too. If you don’t like what he’s got to say, you can always pull out.’

‘I have to keep the saddlery going.’

‘You’re a fine saddler. The customers will wait a bit longer for their gear.’

‘I wouldn’t want to go in front of the camera.’

‘You’re not the type for poncing around, I know that better than most, but there’ll be a host of engineers and all sorts of experts involved. Kit Thorsen can film them.’

‘I didn’t like him.’ The words burst out.

Grandpa blinks. ‘Granted he has a lot of letters after his name, but he comes across well on the telly. And he’s good with his hands. Why didn’t you like him?’

Considering the tossing and turning I’ve done since I met him, I should be able to answer immediately. Why didn’t I like him?

‘After I fell, he bossed me around.’

‘Might’ve thought you needed a hand. According to Geoff, you were in a fair bit of pain.’

‘Geoff the paramedic?’

‘He does the odd night shift here.’

I hide a wince as I adjust the sling. ‘We don’t know what Thorsen wants.’

‘So, what have we got to lose? Maybe the snow bloke isn’t as bad as you thought? D’you think you could give him one more look?’

‘He looks like a Viking.’

Grandpa laughs so hard he clings to his sides. Then he smiles in the way that he used to. I miss that about him, the creases at the sides of his eyes and mouth. I miss—

‘Mackenzie.’ He pats my hand. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘I’ll give him another look, Grandpa.’

‘Don’t ever forget, I’ll always put you first.’

When they argued in person, my mother would throw things and Dad would walk out. Over the phone, they’d scream and shout and hang up on each other. If I was in Summerfield when that happened, Grandpa would shuffle to the side of his chair on the verandah and pat the space next to him. After I’d sat and leant in close, he’d take my hand and hide it between both of his. He’d tell me that because he was so much bigger and stronger than me and because I’d given him so much happiness in his life, I could squeeze my eyes shut and pass all my troubles on to him.

There are marks other than scars, calluses and scrapes on Grandpa’s hands now. The skin on the backs is almost transparent. He bruises easily. His veins are raised and blue. But in other ways, nothing has changed. His love for me is unreserved, unconditional, unwavering. I swallow. Swallow again. He’s still here. I won’t cry yet.

‘Mary Mackenzie.’ When Grandpa reaches over the tray and takes my hand in both of his, it disappears in the way it’s always done. ‘You all right, love?’

‘I have two reasons to help you out, Grandpa. The first is, I’d do anything for you.’

‘That’s not enough.’

‘I told you there were two.’

He smiles. ‘Get to the point, then.’

‘Remember how Dad would take me to the bushland near the mine site? I’d sketch by the stream and he’d take photographs. There were other streams too, weren’t there, when you were a boy?’

‘In my grandfather’s day, they didn’t have the explosives they have nowadays, or the technology and machinery to take away mountains of waste. Sure enough, the landscape was changed, but nothing like the changes that happened in the sixties.’

‘They expanded the mine and dammed the fork in the river.’

‘The river survived, but that was the end of the wetlands and streams. Demolish the dam, remodel the land, put life back into the ground with soils and plants.’ Grandpa winks. ‘Given time and engineering know-how, the hole in the ground will fill with water and create a new habitat.’

‘It’ll be a lake.’

Grandpa sits straighter in his chair. ‘Lake Summerfield.’

‘They should call it Lake Gordon Henry.’

‘Fancy that!’ Grandpa slaps his leg.

I check the time before standing and, one-handed, tidying the tray. ‘Are you sure the documentary makers would commit to seeing this through?’

‘The film people will start off with the doom and gloom of the mine because that’s the reality. The beauty of Summerfield is that the town is on the cusp of turning things around.’ His eyes light up. ‘We have the plans to get going on it. We’ll show the world what can be done.’

It’s impossible not to enjoy Grandpa’s enthusiasm. ‘If we get water into the wetlands, there’ll be streams like there were in your grandfather’s time.’

‘Don’t forget the fauna and flora.’ He smiles. ‘What’s that favourite orchid of yours? The one with the scented flowers.’

‘ Dockrillia teretifolia . Do you think it’ll grow on the mine site, Grandpa?’

‘We can make it happen.’ He taps his chest. ‘I feel it here inside.’

I’d do anything for my grandfather.

The people of Summerfield deserve a second chance.

I kiss Grandpa’s cheek. ‘I’ll contact Kit Thorsen. I’ll arrange to meet him.’