Chapter Forty-Eight
CHAPTER
48
By the time I join Astrid on the stage, most of the seats in the school hall are taken. A middle-aged man with a checked jacket and a bow tie sits in the front row next to a well-dressed woman with an iPad poised on her lap. When the man speaks, the woman types.
‘That’s Harcourt Bulmer,’ Astrid says in an undertone.
‘One of the distributors you want to impress.’
‘When he picked up our second series, it doubled our exposure.’
‘Did he really come all the way from London? Why not Zoom in?’
‘Bulmer claims to rely on,’ she draws air quotes, ‘the energy of the production. Already he is disappointed that he doesn’t see Kit.’
‘Summerfield will never be Antarctica.’
‘An abandoned mine site. A divided community that overcomes adversity. From devastation, beauty grows. I see it on the screen. I know that this is enough.’
‘With the prospect of jobs through the rehabilitation work and the expansion of grazing and agricultural interests, there’s not as much division as there was.’ Claudine and Gloria stand at the doors, directing stragglers to the few remaining seats. School students in uniform and teachers from the high school take up a row. Marie McAdams sits in the front with the federal minister, engineers and other experts.
After Astrid has directed me to my allocated chair, positioned on one side of the stage, Harcourt Bulmer calls her over. He raises his voice over the chatter of the hall.
‘It’s a shame that Kit Thorsen isn’t here.’
‘He’ll dial in.’
‘A different kettle of fish altogether.’
‘We have Mackenzie.’
Harcourt Bulmer, spluttering a little, lowers his voice but not by much. ‘The Summerfield saddler? She’s beautiful, granted, but an amateur artist and a movie extra? I don’t imagine that will be enough.’
After brushing Keith’s fur from my jeans, I point the toes of my sneakers and pull up my socks. When Astrid stands at the podium, the beads on her black shirt glitter under the lights. Speaking clearly and confidently, she tells everyone that she and the other speakers will address the audience first. Kit, who can hear what is going on but is currently without video, will answer questions after the break.
An image of Grandpa, commissioned by a local paper years ago, comes up on the screen. Wearing a battered Akubra, work shirt and pants, he’s sitting on his verandah with a saddle on his knee. Laughter lines crease his face; his eyes twinkle merrily. My throat tightens.
‘We’ve come a long way since Gordon Henry made a submission to the Polar Institute to feature Summerfield in a documentary,’ Astrid says.
‘Three cheers for Gordon!’ someone calls out.
‘Australia and Norway are signatories to the Antarctic Treaty and both countries have territorial claims and research bases in Antarctica, but it’s important to recognise that regional environmental initiatives, like the decision to close and rehabilitate the mine at Summerfield, benefit not only local communities but the world at large …’
Most people are interested in what Astrid has to say, but Harcourt Bulmer elbows his offsider and taps his watch. Astrid must notice—she flicks through a couple of pages before adjusting the microphone.
‘Every day, I work with actors,’ she says, before mentioning The Dragon Slayers , Chloe Rochefort and other famous movie stars. ‘Actors are trained to entertain an audience. Kit Thorsen was a confident public speaker when he was discovered in Antarctica. He was familiar with cameras and magazine covers. As to Mackenzie Henry—’
James, leaning against a wall at the side of the hall, wolf whistles.
After glaring at James, Astrid continues. ‘Mackenzie, working as a saddler in Summerfield, has fiercely protected her privacy. She has kept her creativity and passions …’ Astrid taps her chest, ‘deep inside.’
As I nervously put hair behind my ears, Astrid gives me one of her unsettling ‘trust me or else’ looks, but when a black-and-white director’s clapperboard comes up on the screen, she turns her focus to that. Numbers flash a countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
The footage is of me, mumbling answers to Astrid’s questions about tunnels and glow-worms. Awkward. Flustered. Confused. Incoherent. The scenery was beautiful. Dougie smiled encouragingly. Why not show those things? Astrid, standing opposite me on the track, looks shocked by my ineptitude. Kit, carrying my backpack as well as his own, appears equally horrified. What will be next? The tripod tipping over and knocking me down?
I sense the audience’s embarrassment. When I told Astrid she could use whatever film she liked, I thought she’d want me to look competent. So why—
‘As you can see …’ The microphone amplifies Astrid’s sigh. ‘Mackenzie has zero talent for acting. She is not a performer.’
Even Harcourt Bulmer is shuffling uncomfortably when the clapperboard appears on the screen again. A second countdown of numbers.
In this clip, we’re at the mine site and I’m shouting into the camera about how my father hated the mine and how he and Grandpa fought to close it down. My words are rough and raw, just like the landscape around me. Tears run down my face. I wipe my streaming nose with my sleeve. I’m afraid of letting Grandpa down. I’m angry and frustrated. I yell at Astrid; I scream at Kit.
By the time the footage ends, my hands are squashed between my knees. A hush descends.
Astrid speaks into the microphone again. ‘No acting,’ she says. ‘No performance. No artifice.’
One of the students shouts out. ‘Mac did great!’ A man in the front row puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. Others look to the people next to them, behind them, in front of them. Some whisper, others talk loudly.
‘What Mac says about the mine, whether you agree with it or not,’ Astrid says, ‘is relevant to this town and other towns. Mackenzie’s views, her sincerity, encourage conversation. This is at the core of Summerfield’s story. Pretty pictures, yes, but also the truth.’
Harcourt Bulmer raises his hand and shouts, ‘I’d like to see more.’
Astrid taps the microphone and the hall falls silent again.
This footage was shot on the first day of our second hike, when I explained to Astrid how I saw things. After the interview, a medley of images—a combination of my sketches and Dougie’s photographs—flash across the screen. Flowers, grasses, ferns, mosses, orchids, gums and eucalypts.
‘Mackenzie looks at the world up close,’ Astrid says. ‘Her words are few, but we listen.’
The screen lights up again. My father appears. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ he asks eight-year-old me. ‘Tell me the first thing that comes into your head.’
‘When I grow up …’ My smile is like my father’s. I’ve never seen that before. ‘I want to go on adventures with you. Lots and lots of adventures.’
Dad’s eyes are bright. He laughs. ‘Where will we go?’
‘I want to go to Antarctica to see the penguins!’
No one is talking. Harcourt Bulmer nods slowly. Claudine and Gloria, standing up the back near the urn, have their arms linked and are beaming. The clapperboard appears again, followed by the countdown.
The drone hovers above Kit and I as we climb the escarpment. Two tiny humans, towering trees, swooping kites and gathering storm clouds. Kit took pictures and videos on that day too. I’m sitting on a ledge, my feet hanging over the edge while I sketch. The rocks behind me are brown, my jacket and helmet are red. The first time Kit says my name, I don’t hear him. When he repeats it, I look up.
Is my eye colour a reflection of the trees in the valley? A trick of the light? When I smile, my eyes brighten more.
Astrid glances at me. ‘One more.’
The river peppermint gum towers above me and everything else. I didn’t recognise Astrid’s question, ‘Is there hope?’, as the same question she’d asked months ago when I’d marched across the wasteland of the mine and screamed at Kit. In this video, taken at the national park last week, I have my sketchbook in my hand. I look into the camera and speak quietly, confidently.
‘When I’m my grandfather’s age, there’ll be trees like this at the mine …’
***
Kit has been away for weeks, not months, and as far as I know he hasn’t sailed the ocean in a longboat or fought a Viking war, but …
When he appears on the screen, there are shadows under his eyes and his cheekbones are sharp. His jeans and beanie are grey like the ocean in the distance behind him. The video flickers, then clears.
‘Kit?’ A breathless question, as if I don’t recognise him. I resist the temptation (for the thousandth time tonight) to put my hair behind my ears.
‘Our final speaker,’ Astrid says, ‘is Kit Thorsen, a scientist at the Polar Institute. Through an Oscar-winning film and a series of award-winning documentaries, Kit has educated millions of people about the environment and our warming planet …’
Can Kit, far away on an island, sense how people hang off his every word? He talks passionately about the Polar Institute, pioneering research in Antarctica, and the important work carried out by the people of Summerfield and how the documentary will capture that. Then, as the applause dies down, as waves crisscross the ocean, he asks if there are questions.
When Harcourt Bulmer’s hand shoots skywards, one of Astrid’s team hand him a microphone. ‘I’m impressed by Mackenzie Henry,’ Harcourt says. ‘I’d like to see more of her.’
Kit frowns. ‘What is your question?’
Harcourt smiles stiffly. ‘Summerfield is the first of an eight-episode series. Will you work with Mackenzie on future projects?’
‘I hope to do so.’
Harcourt glances at me. ‘Might I be frank, Miss Henry?’
I don’t imagine he could say anything that could make me feel any less competent than I did earlier tonight, so … ‘I guess.’
Harcourt addresses Kit again, via the screen. ‘I have it on good authority, including what we’ve seen tonight, that you and Mackenzie don’t always see eye to eye. Is this an accurate observation?’
‘I respect Mackenzie. She’s proven herself.’
‘But you have differences of opinion?’
‘When I climb, I see the landscape from above. Mackenzie looks at the landscape from the ground. This is a different perspective.’
‘What is best?’
‘Mackenzie and I meet in the middle.’
Kit can’t see me but his words are directed at me. As are the eyes of most of the people in the audience. I look down, study my boots.
‘Given her parentage,’ Harcourt says, ‘Mackenzie is a celebrity in the making. Do you agree?’
‘Mackenzie is intelligent. She works hard. I value that over parentage or celebrity.’
‘Will she have your support?’
When Kit pulls off his beanie, the wind plays with his hair. ‘She doesn’t need my support, but I’ll do what she asks of me.’ The scar above his eye is pronounced. ‘Anything.’
As, with a racing heart and shaking hands, I process what Kit has said, Astrid takes more questions. When she asks me to say a few words before closing the meeting, it’s an effort to stand. Kit is still on the screen. I need time to think and—
Astrid strides across the stage and hands me a microphone. ‘Two minutes.’
Claudine, still at the back of the hall, has a concerned look on her face. Gloria, as if too nervous to watch, turns her back and clinks mugs and plates. I didn’t want to come. I wanted to stay at the nursing home with …
This is for Grandpa.
Microphone clenched in my hand, I walk to the podium and hang on to it tightly. Shelley is standing next to James. Rory mirrors James’s position—shoulders back, one foot on the ground, the other behind him and flat against the wall. James traps my gaze and lifts his chin high with the back of his hand. Unusually serious, he firmly nods. When someone sitting at the end of the front row whispers loudly to the person sitting next to them, Marie McAdams glares fiercely and puts a finger to her lips.
‘My grandfather …’ Swallow. Try again. ‘Grandpa is listening in tonight, and I’m really happy about that.’
‘G’day, Gordon!’ someone shouts out.
‘My great-grandfather was a miner in Summerfield, as was his father before him, and Grandpa worked at the mine until asthma forced him to leave. He understood as well as anyone that Summerfield only existed because of the mine, and that the future of the town would be threatened if the mine closed.’
When Gloria opens the back doors, a late spring breeze blows in. Streetlights from the town shine above the treetops. I face the crowd again.
‘My father also grew up in Summerfield. Like Grandpa, he loved the natural environment but he wanted to capture it in a form he could share with others. His film work took him around Australia and eventually around the world. After I was born, he was determined to preserve what sustains us—clean land, air and water.’ I cling more tightly to the podium. ‘My father had views that upset a lot of people, but he refused to compromise. He didn’t think the world could afford that.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Gloria says.
‘For many years, my grandfather’s views on the mine were different to my father’s, but anyone who knows Grandpa knows he listens to all points of view.’ The nursing home windows facing the school are dark, except for one. ‘My grandfather might have changed his mind about the mine, but he never lost his love for Summerfield or for the people who live here. He never will.’
Mike Farnsworth, the farmer who wanted to know my plans in the last meeting, nods approvingly.
‘For a very long time, Summerfield was my refuge. Today it’s where I choose to work and live. Wherever I might travel in the future, I’ll always think of Summerfield as home.’