A couple of other protesters had straggled in and joined the semicircle behind and to either side of Bartleby. Payley was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, doing what he thought was the right thing, communicating face to face with the elder, but with all the others standing up—there must have been about thirty in the living room now—he was starting to feel that whatever authority he had was being leached out of him to the point where these people, quite clearly harmless in themselves, now felt like a threat. He looked into their faraway eyes and seriously thought they might spear him. He got to his feet—a badly executed stagger—so he could look at them on the same level. But, having done so, he realised he was now towering above Bartleby who, since he’d said that thing about not getting up, had neither spoken nor moved.
Almost instantaneously, Payley felt thirty pairs of eyes looking down at the back of Bartleby’s head as if they were asking him: Is this okay, this guy lording it over you like that? I’m standing up, said Payley, gesturing with his arm to the group and at the same time tilting his head sideways in the direction of Bartleby, because I need to stretch my legs. I had an operation a little while ago and it’s still playing up. He tapped the knee in question. So. I’m actually talking to you all. He swept an arm out in front to show them what he meant. Of course I empathise with you, he said, but what I’m saying at the same time is that you have to go about these things the right way. You can’t just barge into someone’s house and take it over. Where would the world be if everyone did that any time they liked? We’ve got to find a way to live together, even if we don’t necessarily like each other all that much; the important thing is to overcome our differences, see what unites rather than divides us, if we are to live in a harmonious society, as we would like to do. That’s why we have laws, he said, so we don’t scratch each other’s eyes out.
Now, he continued, I believe from what I have been told by your lawyer and from the few words Uncle has spoken that you as a group wish to claim ownership over the land on which this house is built and that you feel some entitlement, as indigenous people, to be gathered here as you are in this living room with its marble benchtops and state-of-the-art space-saving cabinetry, today. But quicquid plantatur solo, solo cedit; whatever is annexed to the soil is given to the soil, as our whitefella law has it. Quicquid plantatur: whatever is annexed. Can you as indigenous people enjoy ownership of the land here without ipso facto claiming ownership over the house and ipso facto, therefore, enjoying it? The house was not here when your forebears walked the land, so why should you now benefit from its comforts? We can’t turn the clock back to a time when we and our houses and cars and shopping centres and shopping bags were not here and we shouldn’t even try. We need to find a way forward. One that doesn’t look back. I am absolutely an advocate for inclusion, Payley said, of having all peoples share in the wealth of a lucky society, but inclusion means just that, it means playing by the rules, doing your bit, you can’t have one without the other.
I recently, said Payley, continuing, had an Iraqi man come into my office to plead his case to be allowed to stay. Who do you barrack for? I asked. He didn’t understand ‘barrack’, I’m not sure he even understood ‘for’. Do you see what I mean? You will always find me out there front and centre supporting multiculturalism, an inclusive society, but you will also hear me saying—I don’t apologise for it—that everyone has got to pull their weight. Nothing is God-given, we’re all in the same struggle against circumstances, we’re all trying to make something better of our lives. My mum and dad couldn’t afford to send me to uni, I had to pay my way, I worked two, sometimes three jobs, crammed my study in where I could. I struggled like the next guy but I accepted the struggle. The laws of the land are always about finding compromise, listening to both sides of the argument, making judgments based not on emotion but fact. There is a young couple currently living at home with the man’s parents, the young woman seven-and-a-half months pregnant with their child, in despair at what is happening here and how their ownership of this house, as written and signed into the contract of sale, is being questioned.
It was hot in the room. The midday sun was beating down on the roof and streaming in through the glass doors. The heat and odour from thirty bodies meant the air in the living room had become almost unbreathable; sweat was dripping off Payley’s forehead and had soaked the underarms of his suit jacket. The group were all sweating too, and those at the back in the direct sun were shading their heads with their hands. The only one who seemed to have stayed cool was Bartleby: his face had just a slight extra sheen. He had been listening to Payley throughout with his ear cocked, but now, on his forehead, otherwise as passive as stone, the backbencher could see a little furrow. On the brows of a few others, too, there were lines. The kids down the front were staring up at the man in the suit with their mouths open. They greatly respected their elders, and Uncle in particular—otherwise, no doubt, they would be outside playing. They were all waiting to see if the man in the suit had finished.
But now, said Payley, enough of me. It is time for Uncle to speak.
Payley had only ever met one or two Aboriginal people in his life, he was inner-city born and bred, and he didn’t really know how he should address them. He’d been parachute-preselected into and won by a nearly twenty per cent majority a safe outer-suburban Labor seat—there was as much chance of running into a blackfella out there as there was of meeting a Kalahari bushman. He gestured for Uncle to speak. There was a long silence. Uncle, he said, you may speak.
Uncle’s lips barely moved. Now I’ve sat down, he said, I won’t be getting up.
Well, said Marshall, I’m sure you’re all thinking that the next thing Payley did was call in the cops and get some heads kicked to save face—that’s what we blokes do, don’t we? Actually, that’s what he should have done. In fact, what he did next was I’m sure against his better judgment. There was a clear right and wrong—the young couple were right, the squatters wrong—but the backbencher chose to take on Bartleby’s cause.
He started defending him in the press, arguing the point with the outraged new settlers who came trooping into his electoral office (If you let this happen once, it won’t stop!), took it up with his party colleagues and tried to get parliamentary support. He always ran the line—he had to—that while he didn’t necessarily agree with their methods, we as a community couldn’t completely ignore what they had to say. Maybe we were trampling over sacred ground a little too quickly and unthinkingly. Shouldn’t we at least stop for a minute and draw breath? Look at the circumstances? Launch an enquiry? Payley kept visiting the house—the press were camped there, he knew there’d be photos—to sit down and parley with Bartleby and try to get something else out of him. He couldn’t. He began to feel like everything he was doing—let’s face it, risking his career—was for no other reason than to get Bartleby to speak and somehow ‘explain himself’.
Then the young Indian wife had her baby and the photo was published on the front page of the papers. Shock! Outrage! An unwashed rabble were living in the house that was rightfully theirs, while they—now with a newborn—slept in the husband’s parents’ spare room. The tide turned against Bartleby and his supporters, including, and most dramatically, Payley. He was hauled in by the party and given a dressing down: a recent poll showed voter support plummeting in his aspirational lower middle-class electorate. He took their advice and stepped away. Shortly after that the cops raided
the house, broke up the protest and arrested the occupants, including Bartleby. The house was restored at the government’s expense to its original condition, the tradesmen returned to finish it off and there were plenty more happy snaps and smiley footage when the young couple and their baby moved in.
The case got dragged through the courts for a while but in the end the charges were dropped. Bartleby disappeared and, aside from a few stuttering attempts to revive the movement, his supporters disappeared too. Payley tub-thumped pretty strongly after that for the little guy, the battler, trying to pay his mortgage and put food on the table, while big government let welfare cheats get away with murder. His numbers crept back up again: at the next election he won by an increased majority.
Marshall placed the stick carefully back on the table.
It’s about expediency, isn’t it? said Evan. Don’t you think? The quick fix. Keep it simple, stupid. We don’t want to take time, get our hands dirty. Oh no! Do you see what I mean? We’ve become very good at avoiding the messy bits, haven’t we? It’s always someone else’s problem. But what can we do, people? Seriously? What can we do?
It was only after he went on like this for a while that everyone realised Evan was pissed. Actually, everyone was a bit pissed but it was only Evan who was jumping out of his chair. Adam watched him, smiling.
Marshall sat forward. You’re right, Ev, he said, it’s true, and not just with politics but with everything. We’re becoming short-sighted, stupid. Pretty soon even one plus one will be too complicated for us. Debate’s a thing of the past—don’t talk to me about debate! We only pay lip-service to it now. How many times already in this job would I have liked to undo a decision I’d made only because there was pressure to make one? We need to find time to relax, people, to sit down and have a chat, or soon we’ll all be going over the cliff.
Absolutely, said Evan—but with that, in an instant, he seemed to have expended his last bit of energy. Marshall waited—but Evan had nothing left. Thunder rumbled above the house. That was a good story, said Megan. Everyone went quiet. Marshall sank back into the cushions. The pot bell went off. Megan got up.
They started organising dinner, an Italian-style casserole with the lamb loin chops Lauren and Adam had brought for a Saturday barbecue. There would be no barbecue now. They had onions, garlic, carrots. A tin of tomatoes. Dried herbs from the top of the cupboard. Half a bottle of wine. For a while there was some dispute about how much to put in: Adam, Evan and Marshall argued a splash, Megan said they’d need at least a cup to give it flavour. Marshall said he thought he might have a couple of bottles, a gift from a donor, in the back of his car—but then they looked out at the rain. Scissors, paper, rock, said Evan. I’ve got one, said Adam. What? said Lauren. A spare bottle, in my bag, wrapped in a jumper, just in case—it’s a good one too. Now he tells us! said Evan. Adam went to get it.
Hannah was still looking out the window. God, she said—and she flicked on the outside light.
A river of water was pouring over the embankment onto the driveway, dragging a slurry of dirt and gravel and splashing around the wheels of the cars. Marshall’s, at the end, had been cut loose. They watched, amazed, their faces pressed against the glass, as it floated across the road on a brown river of water and dropped into a shallow ditch on the other side. Fuck! said Marshall. He grabbed the real estate section from the couch, held it over his head, opened the balcony door and ran out.
It was not just the end of the driveway gone, half the front garden had been washed away too.
Then it went dark. Shit! said Adam, from the hallway. What? said Evan, looking round. Shit! said Adam, again. The only light was the glow from the fire. Are there candles? asked Hannah. Someone lit one. Hello? Tilly’s here, said Adam. What? There was a silver light coming up the stairs, shaking and shivering. Everyone? said Adam—I think I can see Tilly here.
Tilly turned off her phone so the candle was lighting her. There’s grog here somewhere for sure, said Evan, from the kitchen. Tilly? said Marshall, from the balcony door. The newspaper had moulded itself to his head. The lights are out, said Tilly. I got the wine, said Adam, holding it up. Tilly flipped her phone over and over in the palm of her hand. Whisky! said Evan. I found whisky here!
They lit more candles, set the table. Marshall? Evan poured some whisky into a glass with pictures of Bart Simpson on it. Marshall had taken the newspaper off but his hair was still stuck to his scalp. Tilly was in the living room on the couch, fiddling with her phone. (It was doing their heads in, that silver light; they were like moths, flapping around it but not getting too close in case it burned them up.) The pot bell went off and Hannah got up to empty it. Anyone else? said Evan, and he presented the whisky to each in turn.
Lauren set the casserole dish on a chopping board in the centre of the table. Adam opened the wine. Hannah brought in plates, knives and forks. It was, unexpectedly, a candlelit dinner. Are you going to have something to eat? asked Lauren. Come on love, said Megan. Tilly came to the table and sat at the place set for her, next to her father. Now we are eight! said Evan, raising his glass. No-one laughed. Maybe you should turn it off? said Leon. He spoke quietly, almost under his breath. Tilly flipped the phone around once in her hand. When did you last charge it? asked Evan. He spoke like someone who needed to know but also wanted to make out like he didn’t. This morning, said Tilly. Phew, said Evan. Turn it off now please, darling, said Marshall, while we’re at the table. Tilly did. The room changed without the silver light.
I’m sorry to hear about your Uncle Rylan, said Hannah. That felt like someone had dropped a bomb and Tilly said nothing at first. He was a troubled young man, said Marshall, always had been, trying this and that but never really getting his life together. I guess he’d had it a bit too easy—but easy’s not always the best, is it? Lauren started serving. I tried to help him, said Marshall, with money and all that, but he couldn’t hold on to anything for long. I’m just telling the truth, Tilly, he said, turning to her. Your mother would agree, Uncle Rylan had some lovely traits but listening to good advice wasn’t one of them.
He seemed to be warming to his subject—truth is, they were all warming to the idea of dealing with the elephant in the room—when Tilly pushed her chair back, picked up her phone and stepped away from the table. If Uncle Rylan was stupid, she said, and maybe he was, then stupid’s better than liar. She hesitated, held her ground. She looked like a loaded spring. And if you don’t want to do anything, she said—she was talking to them all—then why don’t you just get out of the way.
The phone torch came on. She followed it downstairs. The door below opened and closed.
I’ll do it, said Megan. There was something cold, abrupt, about her voice. Marshall stiffened, but let it go. Megan picked up the plate that Lauren had prepared and with a candle in her other hand she made her way downstairs. They all stared at their meals. Evan started first, the others followed. When Marshall spoke it was like he’d decided to confess to the plate of food in front of him and that of all things available this was the one most likely to offer absolution.
He was giving me the shits, he said, so I yelled at him, that’s all. I gave him a serve. He had it coming. He was a lazy, selfish little prick who’d never lifted a finger in his life. Jackie’s parents are working-class-made-good; they did everything so their kids didn’t have to do anything. But Jackie
had a conscience, she studied hard, worked hard—you all know that—she never once leaned on her parents for money. We scraped together our own deposit, took out a mortgage, paid it off week by week like everyone else. We never asked for hand-outs. But not Rylan. He stayed home all through his twenties, they bought him a car, whatever he wanted—when he finally did move out they even bought him his own apartment. Simple, working-class people who had earned what they had by the sweat of their brows.
So Rylan moves out and fucks around, goes to bars, eats at good restaurants, buys the best clothes, has one girlfriend after another but nothing that lasts. He tries a few jobs and they don’t last either. He’s got a self-destructive streak. Flies off the handle, says stuff he shouldn’t. And whenever he needs money he just rings the old man. Jackie was always too soft on him. We used to argue about him, and I tried to keep out of it, really I did. Tilly loved her Uncle Rylan. And why? Because Uncle Rylan was full of shit. He listened to the coolest music, wore the coolest clothes, seemed to be always where the action was. It started to get to me, it shouldn’t have, I know; what Rylan provoked in me was a kind of alien feeling. I’m rusted on Labor, you know that, I’m about a fair go for all, we hold out the helping hand when it’s needed, we don’t do sink or swim. But this idea had lodged in my head that Rylan was a bludger—like my dad used to say—and that he needed to get off his arse, take responsibility for his actions, show some initiative. Some enterprise. There I was running a campaign and winning a seat on a platform of old-style community values and all the while, on the side, I’m preaching dog-eat-dog individualism to my wayward brother-in-law.
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