Chapter Thirty
CHAPTER
30
I don’t have it in me to hate anyone, even my mother, any more than Kit has it in him to be manipulative, but that didn’t stop me wanting to hurt him back. If he really thought I was courageous, he would have had faith in me to do my job.
He shouldn’t have overruled Astrid and changed the schedule.
He shouldn’t have kissed me. I shouldn’t have kissed him back.
Astrid left a voicemail early on Monday morning. The documentary team don’t plan to be back until the end of the week. Which will be why Kit said he wouldn’t make the environment meeting on Friday.
On Wednesday, I receive his text.
If I can, I’ll get there. K
I pour another cup of tea before returning to my laptop. Kit’s laptop. He’s grouped all the videos and photographs in folders with headings. The night he was here, we went through most of the ‘family’ videos and photos, but there are also folders labelled ‘Summerfield bushland/national park’ and ‘mine’.
Dusty trucks and four-wheel drives rumble down the circular roads of the open-cut mine. Workers, mostly men in boots and hard hats, operate machinery, huddle in groups, disappear into dust clouds, shrug out of high-vis vests as they walk into the canteen. Office workers, mostly women sitting at their desks behind screens, look up at the camera and smile. It’s almost midnight when I open the final two videos in the mine folder. In the first one, I would have been fourteen. Wearing a T-shirt and shorts, I’m walking along a gravel path. Freshly dug earth is piled high either side of the path, and scores of newly planted grasses and shrubs are growing nearby. Dad zooms in and out as he comments on the mine operator’s responsibilities to clean up the parts of the site where mining operations have ceased.
‘Mackenzie!’ he shouts. ‘I’ll be back soon!’
Turning to the camera, I take a sketchbook from under my arm and wave it. ‘I’ll be here!’
The next video, shot through a chain-link and barbed-wire fence, takes in the towering gums and shrubs and grasses of the bushland that forms a corridor between the mine and the national park. When a goanna rustles through leaf litter and shoots up a tree, Dad’s camera follows its progress.
In the distance, I shout, ‘Dad! Give me a hand!’
He mustn’t be too concerned, because he’s still filming as he walks towards me. My sketchbook is held high but I’m no longer waving it.
‘Mac!’ He laughs. ‘Get out of the mud!’
I clunk my mug on the table. Even though I haven’t thought about it in years and years and years, all of a sudden everything about this day is startlingly clear. I’d stepped off the path to get closer to a swathe of grasses brighter and greener than all the others and my sneakers had sunk into the ground. It happened so quickly I tipped forward, holding my sketchbook clear with one hand and bracing my fall with the other. The mud, dark and slimy, squelched between my fingers as it seeped into my shoes. Then, as I regained my balance, my feet sank further into the mire. By the time Dad reached me, I was buried in sludge up to my knees.
I couldn’t laugh like Dad had done—I was still sinking and it made me uneasy. ‘You’ll have to pull me out.’
He must have heard something in my voice. Or maybe now he was closer, he’d seen how far I’d sunk?
His eyes were wide. ‘What is that?’
‘It stinks.’
He immediately held out his hands. ‘Hang on tight, Mackenzie.’
‘It’s sucking me in. You’ll have to pull.’
He kept a firm hold on one hand as he took the sketchbook from the other and, as if it were a discus, threw it behind him on the path. He grasped my upper arms and, careful to keep his feet on solid ground, he hauled me out of the mire. As if I were a kid, he told me to sit on the ground as he pulled off my sneakers and peeled off my socks. He wrapped them in a shopping bag and stored them in the boot.
‘I’ve got a key to the washroom at the mine. Let’s get you cleaned up.’
‘Can you wash my sneakers?’
He was distracted. ‘I’ll have to buy new ones.’
I was surprised by that because the sneakers were expensive and I’d got them for my birthday.
Dad didn’t want to tell Grandpa what had happened. ‘You know how he worries about you. If we tell him you were up to your knees, he’ll be thinking you were up to your chin. I’ll tell the site manager about this first thing Monday morning. It’ll be a drainage problem. They’ll get it sorted.’
As Keith Urban, deep in a dream, scratches the floorboards with his claws, I check the dates on the video. It was shot a couple of days before Dad died. Is that why I forgot all about it? Why would I remember it anyway? I got stuck in the mud and Dad was rattled. Did he report it like he said he would? Did the mine fix the problem? Thirteen years on, what would that strip of land look like now?
Why does that niggle?
***
The high school principal and other school staff sit in the front row of seats in the school hall. I suspect Lucas Merewether, seated at one end of that row, would have preferred a less supportive spot, but he came in late and most of the seats at the back were taken. Marie McAdams, dressed in a smart blue and white dress and matching jacket, sits in the second row next to Mike Farnsworth, the farmer who came to the last meeting. There are many faces I don’t recognise—not surprising when Claudine and Gloria contacted other environmental organisations and advertised the meeting through library and council networks.
Are people expecting Kit to be here? Given what I hope to communicate, I’ll be less nervous if he stays away. The presentation will be recorded so if everything goes as it should I’ll send it to Astrid to demonstrate I have the potential to be useful.
Shelley, waiting with me in the wings, gives me a push. ‘Go break a leg.’
‘That might be easier.’
‘If I have to drag you to the lectern, I will.’
Gloria, wearing gumboots and pocketed overalls, stands at the back of the hall with a clipboard. Claudine has her hair piled sham-bolically on the top of her head and sits at a console next to the teacher, Mrs Banks, who’s in charge of the audio-visual equipment. As a screen two-thirds the width of the stage whirs to the floor, I walk into the light.
Last time I was anywhere near a lectern, I would’ve worn a navy checked dress with short white socks and school shoes. My award wouldn’t have been for public speaking, debating or academic achievement, but for my artwork. So, what am I doing here now?
‘Mac!’ Shelley hisses. ‘Go for it!’
‘Thank you for coming.’ When the microphone squeaks, Mrs Banks holds out a hand, indicating I step back. As I follow that instruction I peer over the audience to the long rectangular windows above the doors at the back of the hall.
If Grandpa is still awake, he’ll see the strips of light.
‘My name is Mac Henry.’ I attempt a smile. ‘There’ll be a thirty-minute presentation, and time for questions at the end.’
When Dad’s photographs of Antarctica—deep blue sea, aqua-marine ice, towering glaciers, mountainous bergs—appear on the screen, I refer to my notes.
‘The Summerfield Environment Association is passionate about rehabilitating the mine site, but as you’ll see from these images, we’re looking at the bigger picture too. What we do at the local level to improve the land has a global impact in terms of climate …’
When one of the double doors at the back of the hall rattles, Gloria rushes towards it. But she stops in her tracks when Kit walks in. He stands to one side of the hall, midway between the door and the stage. Eyes on me, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall. Pretend he’s not here. As more photographs flash on the screen— close-up shots of different species of penguin, expeditioners taking shelter from flurries of snow, scientists gathering around tables to eat and play card games—I go back to my script.
‘What happens in Summerfield, our town and district, has relevance to what’s happening in the world around us.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Gloria calls out.
Footage of Kit and his colleagues trudging through an ice storm, tagging seals and releasing them and climbing craggy cliffs, comes onto the screen. Even swathed in protective gear, Kit’s height, build and Viking features identify him. The words on my carefully prepared speech blur into meaningless lines. I bring the pages closer.
‘Summerfield will be at the heart of a documentary made by the Polar Institute. What the documentary will show is that changes made in one small town, to close a mine and rehabilitate land, are something that isn’t only good for the local environment but for the environment generally.’ My mouth is dry; my hands are shaky.
‘Keep going!’ Shelley hisses.
I shuffle pages, finding the one I need, but when I wipe my hands down the front of my jeans the page slips from my fingers. Gloria lowers her clipboard. The high school principal stiffens.
‘Talk about Mr Gordon!’ Shelley again.
‘A lot of people …’ When Mrs Banks puts her hand to her ear, I move closer to the microphone. ‘Some people are worried that the Summerfield mining community, or ex-mining community, will be portrayed unsympathetically in the documentary.’
‘You’ve got that right!’ Cheryl Brown, the supermarket owner, calls out.
‘My grandfather Gordon Henry was born in this town, as were his father and grandfather. It was Grandpa who wrote the submission to the Polar Institute, asking them to feature Summerfield in their documentary. Anyone who knows Grandpa knows he always looks at every side of an argument. He might disagree with a point of view, but he’d never undermine or belittle the person who held it. His stance on the closure of the mine was unpopular, but no one could ever accuse him of not listening, of not acknowledging why people held the views that they did.’
Many in the audience nod assent.
‘Grandpa has never wanted to live anywhere else but Summer-field and he’s determined to die in this town.’ My mouth is dry; I clear my throat. ‘My father was different, leaving town as a teenager and swearing he’d never move back here.’ When I point to the screen, more images flash up. ‘He worked in rodeos for a year to save up for a plane ticket to Europe. Later, he took his cameras to South America and Antarctica.’
Kit isn’t leaning on the wall any more. Tearing my gaze away, I look longingly at my water bottle.
‘Dad didn’t intend to come back to Summerfield, but after I was born he needed a home and a steady income. The mine was good to him; it gave him work and stability when he was desperate for it.’
‘He screwed the lot of us!’ When the man at the back yells out, others shout him down. I crouch and pick up the page I dropped, add it to the others, tidy the edges and put them back on the lectern. The school principal continues to nod encouragingly.
‘Someone who was at school with Dad recently reminded me how anxious my father was to get out of Summerfield. What this person didn’t appreciate was that after Dad came back, he saw a lot that he hadn’t seen as a teenager. He found things here that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the world, and he taught me to look for those things too.’
Still images of banksia, bottlebrush, majestic grey gums and iron bark trees flash on the screen. Waterfalls in the park, red gums at the river, the soaring escarpment.
‘Dad took these pictures fifteen years ago, and I’ve been back to this place many times since. Given our warming climate, we have to do what we can to preserve our untouched environments and to rehabilitate what we’ve destroyed.’
After Claudine signals to Mrs Banks, more of Dad’s photographs come up on the screen. The camping ground, a row of tents, children splashing in the shallows at the creek.
‘My grandfather has never been further from Summerfield than Sydney. He’s never wanted to leave the home he adored, and that’s why he wants to protect it. Grandpa loved the community the mine created, but he loved the environment too. Generous and warm-hearted as he was, he knew he couldn’t have everything. None of us can.’
‘You go, girl!’ Shelley calls out.
‘The documentary will focus on the importance of our unique environment and draw comparisons with what happens in Antarctica— how signatory countries to the Antarctic Treaty prioritise preservation over exploitation. In Summerfield, we’re hoping to recreate the wetlands and water courses again. We’re looking after the land not only for the sake of our own families and community, but for the world at large …’
Fifteen minutes later, when Claudine stands and pumps the air, I assume I’ve covered everything I was supposed to. When I ask for questions, Cheryl tells the room she’s heard enough and, after loudly excusing herself, she makes her way to the door.
‘Miss?’
The high school student who wanted to hug Kit in the last meeting asks a question about regeneration work. Marie McAdams confirms that Denman’s farmers’ association is keen to assist Summerfield in promoting environmentally friendly farming initiatives on land adjoining the mine site. Gloria is clinking cups and saucers at the back of the room when Mr Farnsworth stands.
‘I found that most informative, Mac. Just one question.’ He looks around the hall. ‘You told us Gordon will never leave Summerfield, which is no surprise to his friends in this room. But you did the costume and stunt work for the movie they made out Denman way. And now here’s our saddler, involved in a documentary and up on the stage telling us all kinds of things. What are your long-term plans?’
How would I have answered a year ago? Maybe even a week ago? I’d have said I’m not like my mother or father. I’m like my grandfather, so what’s important to me is security and certainty. I can sit on the verandah stitching leather for the rest of my life. Summerfield is my home. I’m hot, then cold. This isn’t a trick question, but my heart rate ramps up. I’ve avoided looking at Kit, but my eyes fly to his. I grip the lectern, my fingers turn white and …
‘Can I address the question?’
Kit’s clothes are crumpled. His boots are filthy, his hair is ruffled and his shirt is hanging out. But as soon as I nod, he strides across the floor and takes the steps to the stage two at a time. Legs a little apart, he puts his hands behind his back. He looks to the left of the hall and then to the right, to the back, to the middle, to the front. He’s a Viking on a ship, looking out to sea.
‘Gordon Henry’s love of this town was at the heart of his submission to the Polar Institute, as was his love for his family. Through the lens of his camera, Samuel Henry captured the remotest continent in the world and brought it back to the country where he was born.’
When I spoke, the audience listened politely, but this kind of listening is different. There’s no green dot or camera, but Kit is talking to each and every person like they’re the only one in the room. Men and women sit forward in their chairs. The people up the back are frozen to the spot.
Grandpa should be here. Is he still awake? Can he see the light above the doors?
‘By choice,’ Kit continues, ‘Mackenzie Henry has made Summerfield her home. Through her drawings, she captures images others are unable to see. Mackenzie represents the past of this town but also its future. Will it lead to other things? If Mackenzie wants that, yes it will.’
Mr Farnsworth nods enthusiastically before he sits down.
‘Short term …’ Kit flashes a smile as he holds out his phone. ‘If Mackenzie leaves the district, call me immediately. I’ll bring her back.’
As the audience laughs, another man gets to his feet. ‘When will we hear more about the documentary?’
‘The team will invite the community, rehabilitation experts, sponsors and film distributors from Australia and overseas to a meeting in October. We will give an update on progress.’
‘In other words, you’ll be back.’
His teeth flash white, his eyes crinkle. ‘When I am not in Antarctica or Europe, I will be here.’
When I sip from my water bottle, my hands aren’t too unsteady. I put my hand over the microphone. ‘Can you close the meeting?’
He touches my hand, just for a moment. ‘You should do it.’
‘Please.’
He frowns a little, but then he does as I ask. ‘Summerfield has given up the mine. This has had an impact on employment and the culture of the town. The documentary will demonstrate that your sacrifice, your prioritisation of the natural environment, is to the greater good. Summerfield will be a blueprint for the future of our planet …’
***
‘Goodness me.’ After pressing a cup of juice into my hand, Claudine, her colour high, waves a paper plate like a fan. ‘Mr Thorsen was rather impressive.’
As I help Claudine and Gloria with refreshments, Kit talks to Marie, the students and the school principal. But after twenty minutes, with cool and remote smiles for the queue of people waiting to meet him, he walks determinedly out of the hall. Two hours later, I receive a text.
Wattle Valley Hotel. 12:00 tomorrow. You, me, Astrid.