Chapter Seven
CHAPTER
7
Grandpa pushes the remnants of lunch to the back of his plate, then covers it with a stainless-steel lid. He pats his mouth with a napkin.
‘That was delicious.’
I brush biscuit crumbs from my lap, putting them into my empty teacup. ‘It’s good to see you eating again.’
‘I had to get my strength up, Mary Mackenzie, what with you arranging this important meeting.’
Ten days have passed since the Viking roared away from the saddlery. Since then, I’ve been questioning Grandpa about the history of the mine. Right from the start, Grandpa has said the documentary makers didn’t want lobby groups, they wanted real people. I’ll never be able to communicate like Grandpa can, but now I have more knowledge, more context.
‘We still have a long way to go, so you’d best keep on eating.’
Grandpa’s medical condition results in breathing difficulties, restricted movement and muscle weakness. Sometimes his ability to swallow is affected. He’s made it clear to his doctors that when he can no longer see birds through the window, enjoy a meal and have a chat, they’re to stop treating him with his daily medications so he can join his wife and son.
‘Mary Mackenzie.’ He nods towards the window. ‘See how the leaves are turning? We don’t have time for you to be wool-gathering.’
‘It’s only the fourth of March, Grandpa.’ Pulling a small spiral notebook from my bag, I cross my legs and wedge the book in place before taking a pen from Grandpa’s tray. ‘Off you go, then.’
‘You’ll be running out of ink.’
‘The notes are just a reminder.’
He smiles. ‘Should I start with the Summerfield mine?’
‘Go for it.’
‘I would’ve been a toddler when my grandfather started working out there. If I tell you a bit about that, it’ll show the snow bloke you’ve got a good grasp of the history of this place …’
It’s almost one-thirty when I kiss Grandpa goodbye and I’ve filled even more pages than I did yesterday. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
He points to my sling. ‘I thought you’d be out of that by now.’
‘Just a few more weeks.’
‘How’re you getting on with that big black horse?’
‘Rory’s been helping. And I’m better at rugging him one-handed than I was.’
‘Being a thoroughbred, he’s not going to have much of a winter coat.’
‘One day I’ll get a shelter built.’
‘When I’m pushing up daisies, there’ll be something in the kitty for that.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Smuggle in a beer.’ He puts his hand on his heart. ‘I feel it here, Mary Mackenzie. We’ll have something to celebrate.’
The documentary would be a global recognition of what Grandpa has achieved in convincing people, one by one, that the environment has to come first. And the exposure is bound to increase funding for the rehabilitation work. If I can demonstrate that the Summerfield submission is the best, Grandpa will have a lot more to think about than pushing up daisies.
I told the Viking that we’d have a professional relationship. Should I have searched for Dad’s film before today? What if there’s nothing under the house? What if it’s ruined?
Keith Urban spins circles around my legs after I unclip his lead. As we walk past the shops in the centre of town, Cheryl Brown, who has run the supermarket with her husband for the past twenty years, nods curtly. Good afternoon to you too.
As there’s no sign of the Viking yet, I sweep the verandah and workroom. I puff up the cushions on the sofa in the living room and scrub the kitchen sink. Keith Urban, tail wagging merrily, trots down the hallway as I put water and three glasses on the table.
Finally, a knock on the door. Mumbled voices filter through to the workroom. The Viking says something, presumably in Norwegian, and another man responds. Then I hear a woman’s voice. Astrid?
‘Hello, Mac.’ I’ve barely opened the door when she thrusts out a hand. ‘Kit told me you want other opinions.’
‘Are you directing the documentary?’
‘It’s a possibility.’ She glances at the Viking, standing near the post at the top of the steps. He’s dressed more formally than usual. A pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Navy pants. His hair is pushed back and is shorter than it was last week. The other man would be in his fifties with spiky grey hair. Just like Astrid, he’s tall, angular and dressed entirely in black.
‘Erik Neilson.’ The Viking introduces us. ‘This is Mackenzie Henry.’
‘Mac Henry,’ I correct.
‘Your grandfather and I have exchanged many emails.’ Like the Viking, Erik is Norwegian. He speaks English fluently, but his accent is more pronounced. ‘Please give him my best wishes.’
‘Thank you. I will. Come in.’
I’m not sure how long the redwood table has been in the kitchen, but my father was still at school when he left divots in the surface by pressing too hard with his pen. On the corner closest to the Aga, yellowed with age, there’s a scorch mark in the shape of Grandma’s cake tin. My highchair bumped against the end of the table, leaving crisscrossed scratches on the surface.
‘Coffee?’ I ask. ‘Tea? Juice?’
Everyone nominates water, so I add a glass to those already on the table. When I return with an earthenware jug, the Viking holds out a hand. The jug is heavy. I have the use of one hand, he has the use of two. It makes sense to hand it over, but I can’t think how to do that without touching. I skirt around him, putting the jug on the surface with a clunk before filling the glasses. I sit at one end of the table, the Viking sits on my right, Erik sits opposite and Astrid, after securing her hair into a neat bun at her neck, sits on my left. When Erik explains that Astrid is ahead of schedule on The Dragon Slayers and he’s doing his utmost to recruit her to work on the first of the documentaries, I nod politely.
Erik’s smile is reserved but courteous as I summarise what I now know about Grandpa’s submission. My gaze alternates between the pages in front of me and Phoenix, head down and grazing near the shed. If Grandpa was in charge, he’d have set up chairs on the verandah and spoken in his slow considered way. Assuming no one interrupted with questions, he’d have interrupted himself, checking everything he had said made sense and that his audience was following along.
I forge ahead like a freight train.
‘Mackenzie.’ Erik finally holds up a hand. ‘We only have one hour.’
I flick to the pages in the middle of my notebook. ‘I’d like to tell you about the history of the mine.’
‘Excellent.’
Grandpa would have skimmed the facts when describing his childhood, because he wouldn’t want anyone to think he was resentful. He was fourteen when he left school and took a job in the mine to help support his widowed mother and sisters. And that’s where he would have stayed if not for worsening asthma. At sixteen, he was forced to accept a subsistence wage as an apprentice to Summerfield’s saddler. Life as a saddler was the career that chose him, he’s always said, and wasn’t that grand?
‘Ah.’ Astrid looks around. ‘Is this the same saddlery?’
‘Grandpa took over the business and bought the property not long before he got married.’
I flick through more pages, trying to pinpoint what might be of interest, so my summary is shorter than Grandpa might have wanted. If he was on his verandah, it’s likely someone, a client or friend, would have stopped by to say hello. And meeting or not, Grandpa would have waved them into the garden and introduced them to the Viking, Erik and Astrid. Later, Grandpa would have told his guests how the visitors fitted into the fabric of Summer-field, and how even though so many had opposed the mine closure, it was important that the environment came first. When a magpie hops along the windowsill, Keith Urban pricks his ears, uncurls from his spot at my feet, pushes the screen door with his nose and slips through the crack. I close my notebook.
‘This was instructive,’ Erik says.
The Viking turns his glass on the table. ‘You had questions for Mackenzie.’
The mildly encouraging expression Erik has adopted fades to concern. ‘Might we ask questions?’ he asks.
My stomach knots. ‘I didn’t give you the chance, did I?’
‘Gordon Henry is the chair of Summerfield’s environment association.’ Erik looks up from his folder. ‘Can you tell us about it?’
‘It was formed to lobby for the closure of the mine.’
‘Closing the mine was unpopular.’
‘It’s still unpopular, but it’s not like it’s going to reopen, so people will come around eventually. I’ll arrange town meetings to keep locals updated and encourage them to get involved. The rehabilitation work will bring employment. That will help.’
‘Resentment will persist,’ Astrid says.
I adjust my sling. ‘Your documentary will be based on facts, won’t it?’
Astrid nods. ‘Of course.’
‘What happened in Summerfield when the mine closed—anger, opposition, resentment—will give a true picture that everyone can learn from. People opposed to similar closures might see that it’s possible to find alternatives to mining and, with commitment and resources, to rehabilitate land previously used for mining.’
‘You have good intentions, we see this.’
‘Some people still don’t believe in global warming. Others pollute and don’t care about the consequences. Isn’t it people like that you want to attract? Not just everyone who agrees with you.’
‘Opposition is a good thing?’
‘Summerfield is a small town. Many people—former mine workers who can’t get employment, a school that’s losing students and therefore teachers, local businesses—continue to feel the pain of the mine closure. We argued that some fuels are dirtier than others, that we should look to alternative sources of energy, that the mine had to close, but we have to acknowledge the implications of that. Locals have worked hard all their lives and so have their descendants. They have family and friends here and they want to stay, but we have to give them the support they need to do that.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Astrid speaks quietly, as if to herself.
‘Whether we agree with our opponents or not, we need to hear their voices. If we can get a proportion on side, we have the chance to show millions of people what can be achieved. We can demonstrate how we started out, and what the future might look like.’
‘What is the state of the mine?’ Erik asks.
‘Nowadays, operators have to comply with strict environmental safeguards. Before they start to mine, the way the land looks and everything that grows on it is recorded. Soils are stockpiled and there are staged plans for rehabilitation and revegetation. Those regulations and restrictions didn’t exist when the Summerfield mine was established and expanded, which is why it’s such a wasteland now.’
‘How will rehabilitation work?’
‘A stretch of the Summers River, the same river that runs through the town, is situated south of the mine. To protect the mine from flooding, a fork in the river was dammed and streams and wet-lands were lost. According to the engineer’s reports, these will be restored if the dam is demolished. In a few years’ time, given runoff from multiple water sources, a lake will form in the crater the mine left behind.’
‘How long will the work take?’
‘For all stages to be completed, including making the lake suitable for recreation, a decade, maybe more. It’ll be a long-term sustainable fix, not a quick one that is much more likely to fail.’
‘Stage one.’ Astrid’s brows lift. ‘When?’
‘Claudine and I, Claudine is Summerfield’s librarian, saw our local MP yesterday.’ I hand over pages. ‘The government has set aside money and resources to do preliminary work, like getting rid of the dam and redirecting water, by the end of the year. Eventually, the rehabilitated land will form a bridge between the national park and the local community.’
‘When can we speak with your grandfather?’ Erik’s smile is sympathetic. ‘When will he be well enough?’
By the time I was ten or eleven, Mum could no longer stop me speaking to judges and court personnel about where I wanted to live. Dad’s lawyer once said I was an excellent witness because I always told the truth. He said lying was more difficult to pull off.
My eyes prickle. ‘He won’t ever be well enough.’
The Viking looks from Erik to Astrid to me. ‘Will you take his place?’
‘I can answer your questions and show you around the mine site and the national park. I know a lot about our local flora, native orchids, things like that.’
Erik nods slowly. ‘Your father’s film, Mac. Will you give it to us? Can we copy it?’
‘That’s possible, yes. And his film can also be incorporated in the Summerfield project.’
‘You’ll sketch for us?’
Astrid’s question shouldn’t be difficult to agree to. So why does the silence drag on for so long? Grandpa thinks that me and drawing go together like bread and butter and meat and potatoes. But like I told the Viking last time we met, I’ve never sketched to make money. Or to show off. I sketch to disappear into a world that others can’t see. That will have to change. With the tip of my finger, I trace a scratch on the table.
‘If it’s useful to the documentary, to what we want to achieve in Summerfield, I can sketch for you.’
‘When will you be well enough to do so?’
‘I’m left-handed.’
‘Your other hand?’
Like everyone else, my gaze goes to the sling. I wiggle my fingers. ‘I’ll be out of this soon.’
‘Your injury.’ The Viking speaks quietly, but everybody hears him. ‘It goes beyond your collarbone.’
I ignore him. ‘Our submission is strong.’
‘Based on the additional information you have provided,’ Erik says, ‘the submission deserves further consideration.’
The Viking sits back in his chair and stretches out his legs. ‘It has shortcomings.’
Astrid frowns. ‘Be specific, Kit.’
My mouth is dry, but if I picked up my glass my hand would shake. Does Grandpa have a chance or not? I manage one word. ‘Yes.’
The Viking lifts the folder, gives Astrid one of his narrow-eyed looks, and drops the folder onto the table again. ‘One, Gordon Henry is no longer available. Two, the environment association has four active members. Three, Mackenzie is injured. Four, she’s at risk of hurting herself again.’
I stand so suddenly that my chair rocks. And when I twist to catch it, a shaft of pain shoots from my shoulder. I bite back a curse as the chair crashes onto the floor. Frowning hard, the Viking stands too.
‘Kit.’ Astrid puts both hands on the table as she stands. ‘Mac would be all of our risks. Not only yours.’
The Viking rights my chair. ‘I’d be responsible for her.’
‘We’ve discussed this before,’ Erik says. ‘Your mother’s accident had an impact and this is understandable but—’
‘My family is irrelevant.’
Erik sighs. ‘I’ve spent sufficient time with you to know—’
‘Enough.’ The Viking’s blue eyes narrow.
Another sigh from Erik. ‘The men and women in your Antarctic teams had far greater challenges than we expect here.’
‘They were experienced in that environment.’
‘That will also be the case in Summerfield.’
The Viking glances at me. ‘Mackenzie acts independently.’
‘Everyone in the team would be trained,’ Erik says. ‘They’d be responsible for their own safety. You can’t be everywhere at once.’
‘Climbing and hiking,’ the Viking says. ‘There are dangers.’
‘The risk minimisation measures you took in Antarctica cost us a fortune.’
‘If you don’t want my involvement, find somebody else.’
Erik throws up his hands. ‘This submission is unique—you can see that as well as the rest of us.’
‘You also want the Antarctica film,’ I say.
As Erik turns to me again, I feel a glimmer of hope. ‘Would you be prepared to go on camera? To communicate your grandfather’s passion for environmental causes.’
‘I support what he does, but I haven’t …’
‘Would this be too difficult?’ Astrid says. ‘Kit says you are a loner.’
The Viking frowns. ‘I said she was alone.’
‘Is that different?’
He hesitates. ‘Possibly.’
Grandpa could have sanded out the scorch mark on the table, but it reminded him of Grandma, just like the squiggles reminded him of Dad and the scratches reminded him of me. Grandpa only sees strengths, not weaknesses. I ignore the pull in my shoulder as I straighten my spine.
‘I could be involved in the filming.’
Astrid’s gaze goes from my face to my hand sticking out of the sling. Calluses, stains, the uneven length of my nails. ‘Mac’s trade is uncommon, particularly for a woman,’ she says. ‘She’s also an artist.’
‘She’s unusual,’ Erik says. ‘Different.’
The Viking is the only one not looking at me. The scar on his chin is curved. A sword or lance? An axe or spear?
‘Let me talk to her,’ he says. ‘Alone.’