Cleanskin Cowgirls

by Rachael Treasure

  Tammie began to picture it, then hauled on the brakes. ‘That sounds awfully like a money-making venture for the Smiths.’

  Tara paused patiently. ‘No. The Smiths are one of the few families around not motivated by money. They want to form a co-operative so all the townspeople are shareholders. They want to supply jobs to the Culvert families so we stop this drain of talent to the cities. And they want to share the technology with the next rural town and the next so those big cities stop draining us. So we quite literally get our power back.’

  Tammie’s mind ticked over. She could see it working. She was so tired of her husband going broke on the farm and having to work long hours herself to pay bills, mostly for chemicals, superphosphate and diesel. She’d never understood the need for sprays near her precious kids. Nor could she understand the way the land seemed so dry on her husband’s farm when the Smiths’ seemed so green and abundant. She sure would like to see Phillip achieve the same thing. She had been steeling herself for the day her kids left school and, like the other children, were forced to leave for Rington or the cities where work could be found. She liked this mad idea. ‘Yes, it could work, but . . .’

  Tara felt it coming.

  ‘. . . I’m not sure Phillip’d be convinced.’

  ‘There is one way I know you could convince him . . . or at least encourage him,’ Christine said suggestively, jamming her tongue into her cheek.

  Tara laughed. Tammie rolled her eyes.

  ‘You forget, Tammie, you are a powerhouse yourself. We all are if we let ourselves be,’ Tara said. ‘I bet you’d do anything to better the place for your kids. Well, this is it. This is the answer for us all. We are the innovators. How many governments are looking for answers to carbon emissions? Which brings me to my next project to submit to council. The site of the old abattoir house. Now you know there is a new garden in place. That’s a framework for what I want to build there.’

  ‘So it’s not Jamie Durie?’ Christine asked, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

  ‘No. I have a business plan to submit to council and I intend to start building next year. It’ll be the Cleanagain Energy Hub. It’s where the engineers will roll the Smiths’ and global company Cleanagain’s technology out to the community and then hopefully the rest of regional Australia. It’ll be a centre that can advise other councils how to convert their waste plants and refuse sites and how to establish a fuel co-operative.

  ‘It’ll be a gathering space too. As you know, the gardens are ready to go. We’ll need the school on board — the kids can attend an education program there, growing fruit and vegetables. I’ve even got plans with the Smiths to run a pilot program inventing gym equipment that will generate power for the novelty of it, but also to teach them awareness. Imagine the Culvert kids coming in each day, gardening, growing food, getting on the running machines and exercise bikes to create power that goes back into the grid. Then feed ’em a good brekky or lunch and then back they go to school. Crazy idea? I think not. Culvert will be the first town with zero obesity in its kids and zero power costs for the facility. We’ll need the Elderly Care Centre to organise daily trips to the gardens too, so the old folks can walk a dog or keep some chooks, plus eat the food grown there, even jump on the gym equipment if they feel inclined. So what do you say?’

  The women shook their heads, smiles lighting their faces.

  ‘It sounds amazing. You are amazing,’ Tammie said.

  ‘It’s not me being amazing. It’s . . .’ How could Tara explain her way of living? Living in the moment. Living with gratitude. Living with the universal forces of love, kindness and joy within every cell of her body. ‘It’s all of us who are amazing. This town has the potential to be amazing. You just need to believe it.’ She linked arms with both women.

  ‘We need the numbers stacked so we get the vote through. Tell me, girls, who on council will need a little TLC to get this new vision for Culvert over the line? Which crusty old bastards will block this? We need to hatch a plan.’

  The women, refreshed by Tara’s vigour and inspired by her mere presence, practically waltzed with her into the tea room. After they’d made their drinks they moved into the delicious sunshine that was blasting the back of the offices.

  Sitting on a chair they’d taken from the mayor’s old chambers, Tara sipped on her tea.

  ‘Make a note please, Christine, to knock this wall out and replace it with glass. We need some light in the building. It’s been angled all the wrong way. And some outdoor beanbags and chairs. We can have our team sessions out here some days. And for godsakes get onto one of the Nicholson boys to drag out that awful chainsaw sculpture from the front. The energetics of a dead tree stump are not a good thing. Trust me. We’ll replace it with a fountain and an ornamental food garden. Get onto Sylvia. She can supply us with what we need.’

  ‘But the budget —’ Tammie began.

  ‘Ah . . . the budget,’ said Tara, wondering where she started with them on the notion of universal abundance. ‘We’ll cross that bridge.’ Even she had no idea where the money would come from. Once they were teamed with Cleanagain in the States, though, she knew in her heart there would be plenty. As she went to sip her tea, the phone clipped to Christine’s pocket rang.

  ‘Culvert Council, Christine speaking.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh. Oh,’ she said softly.

  She hung up and looked at Tara and Tammie.

  ‘That was Zelda. Sarah Jones died early this morning.’

  Fifty-four

  Elsie Jones pressed her back to the emergency-exit door in the laneway, asking the security guard to give her a moment of privacy. He swept his palm over a sideways slick of black hair, his round face expressing disapproval, but when he got a spoiled-diva glare from Elsie, he grimaced a smile and slipped inside the building.

  Suddenly alone, Elsie felt the relief of solitude and near silence, save for the scream of the Nashville night-city on the other side of the building. She barely believed she’d made it through her gig. She was in a severe drug come-down and Jacinta was still fuming at her after finding her that morning, coked out in her hotel room like that. She wanted to hide herself away in the shadows, even for just one smoke. Sweat evaporated from her sheened skin, and the thrumming energy of the audience encore applause still zinged in her system. Elsie was just lighting her cigarette when from the shadows a tubby young girl on the bud of womanhood approached in the backstreet gloom. She was wearing an EJ world-tour T-shirt, black cowgirl hat and silver skinny jeans, too tight for her hammy legs. Elsie slumped her shoulders a little and slid her gaze to the pavement, avoiding eye contact. A dreaded member of the general public. How on earth had she got back here? She drew deeply on her cigarette as the girl began sprouting at her.

  ‘One day I’m going to be famous,’ she said breathlessly.

  Elsie took another glance at her and knew that she wouldn’t.

  ‘And a great singer,’ the girl said. ‘Just like you.’

  It was all EJ could do to stop herself rolling her eyes. She’d heard it that many times from that many girls over the past few years. They always seemed to track her down, no matter how much security Jacinta put in their way, just to be near ‘someone famous’. She was about to go back inside, but there was something about the girl that held Elsie at the backstage door in the cold, still wearing her barely-there denim shorts and bustier singing costume. In that bitter Nashville night air something drew her towards the toxic energy of the girl. Like attracts like, Elsie thought, and so she lingered.

  ‘You’re a legend, EJ,’ the girl said, digging into her pockets. ‘You have changed my life. I wanted to thank you.’

  She opened her hand; two tablets lay on her palm. Two innocent little orbs of chemicals.

  ‘There’s this guy at school,’ the girl said, her dark over-madeup eyes looking tentatively at her. ‘He gave me somethin’ for us. He likes you and I think he might like me. He said if I got to meet ya . . . he’d . . . y’know. He and
I are friends with you on Facebook.’

  EJ looked blankly at her. You and several million others.

  The girl soldiered on. ‘Wanna share? I heard you do this stuff.’ She pulled out a can of beer from the pocket of her coat and fizzed the top, washing one of the tabs down.

  Elsie stubbed out her cigarette under the toe of her boot, her mouth twitching from side to side. How would the girl have heard she was using? Just little pick-me-ups now and then. To cope. How did the public find out this shit?

  As she looked at the tablets, Elsie felt the world slow a little. She held herself still, her in-breath held captive in the cage of her ribs. After all the miles, all the men, all the loneliness, she realised she had no one else to spend tonight with. Elsie no longer cared about the plastic-fantastic A-list parties, about the scheduled world-tour mega concerts, about managing hair and wardrobe for her cowgirl-chic-but-a-dash-of-boho image. About the avalanche of media requests for photo shoots, even if many were for dodgy male get-your-rocks-off publications. About endless mundane radio and television promotions for the new album.

  She sighed tiredly and reached out, taking the other tablet from the girl, and dry-swallowed it. She turned and knocked on the security door to get back in, but no one answered. She kicked the door with her thousand-dollar boots and swore.

  Suddenly the girl’s face turned pale and she was dropping into her arms, her lips turning blue in a nightmare scene. Taking the full weight of the kid’s body, EJ screamed for help and kicked again at the door. Her own tears fell on the girl’s foundation-laden cheeks — it was as if the girl hadn’t wanted the world to touch her skin or see her clearly.

  ‘God!’ Elsie begged as she slumped to the ground with her. ‘Don’t die.’ With horror she felt the girl’s heavy body ease into unconsciousness . . . then she felt death take her last breath. She wished she had asked her name. She wished she had never seen her. She wished she was somewhere else, on her own, safe. She wished she didn’t feel so sick. She tried to stand, pushing the body away, the world swirling. The fire door at last opened and she tumbled inside and then collapsed.

  In that weightless space devoid of physical and emotional pain Elsie drifted. She reached out her fingertips, but she had none. She was just all air and rainbow light and lightness. She smiled, but when she did, it wasn’t her body that did, it was her entire being. She could feel her father and mother with her. Her mother? She smiled, though, and said hello to them. But the words did not come as words. They came as intention. As a communicated feeling.

  ‘Elsie,’ she heard her parents’ voices.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked — if she had left her body, they must have left theirs. She realised, weirdly, there was no sadness in this knowing. Just a feeling of completeness and peace.

  ‘You must go back,’ Sarah Jones said.

  But Elsie didn’t want to go back. She wanted to drift.

  ‘You must go and use your gifts,’ her father said. ‘You must go and help others. You’ve got to heal from this and inspire others to heal. To heal the earth.’

  She smiled again at her mum and dad and turned her focus back to earth, which seemed so distant now. Elsie could only just see her body; it was now in a hospital bed. Jacinta was there, talking aggressively at a nurse, arguing they didn’t have to wait for parental consent to turn off the machine as both her parents were dead. Jacinta was saying she was custodian of her affairs now.

  Elsie wanted to tell Jacinta that she was causing great pain to herself and to others and that it wasn’t necessary. Maybe she should go back? But back to all that heaviness and loneliness? She heard Sarah again, though not as an instrument of judgement and control. This time she saw her mother as the pure essence of love.

  ‘If you decide to return, your life will change, I promise you,’ her mother said, again not in words but in some kind of energetic force. ‘You won’t be lonely. You will be whole and happy. It’s another chance.’ Then Kelvin’s presence was there again too. A feeling. One that was also pure love.

  ‘I didn’t learn in my lifetime. But you will. You will be healthy, loved and fulfilled if you go back, I assure you. So return. There are people there, calling you.’ Her father’s words drifted as unspoken intentions. ‘It’s up to you to go back and reshape the family. Heal the land. Help others heal from their addictions. It’s your job to sing life into the soil. To sing love into the world. Go back.’

  Elsie felt the intense love of her mother and father radiating outwards and yet enveloping her. She seemed to absorb the love that was her parents and with it, she hovered again, looking back at her body. She felt more love flow. This time it wasn’t from the spirit plane. It came from the direction of earth. Then she saw them.

  The Smiths at their table in Culvert: Gwinnie was crying over the news on the television that Elsie was about to be taken off life support; Elvis was comforting her. Elsie saw them and felt an intense rush of love and a complete knowledge that they needed her. They were her tribe. Her earth people. She must go to them.

  But where was Zac? She looked, but he was nowhere to be seen. She searched for him from her bird’s-eye view of the world. Scanning Culvert, looking for the boy she now knew she loved more than anyone. Instead she found Tara with Amos beside her, sitting in the middle of the most beautiful garden, praying under the moonlight in utter stillness. She heard Tara’s voice begging her back. Saying she needed her. There was earth work to be done. The red-haired girl, surrounded by an emerald-green aura, was calling her home.

  ‘Tara,’ Elsie said.

  Fifty-five

  Tara entered the Dolls’ House from the front door, calling out a greeting to Mr Queen, who she felt still floated in the ethers. His cats, a ginger tabby and a black fluffy moggy, trotted to greet her, their bells tinkling. She picked each up and cuddled them, but despite their presence, the house felt empty. Then she realised it wasn’t the house that was empty, but her. She felt tired. And alone. Drained. Since finding out about Sarah Jones’s death, Elsie had been constantly on her mind. Where was she? Had she been told? Would her brother, Simon, call her? Tonight she vowed to Google her music company to track her down. It was time.

  Sadly, she thought of Amos, but even after months of being back in Culvert and Zac’s constant stirrings and blatant encouragement, they hadn’t made any progress. He was always lovely to her, but had never made a single move. Maybe she ought to be happy with their friendship? Although her body ached for him, there had never seemed the right moment for even a kiss or a touch. Perhaps, after the passing of years and what had happened on Goldsborough, there was now only room for friendship? Anyway, the momentum of their energy project was so great they now seemed more like business colleagues. All of them had been working around the clock on the Cleanagain co-op and the town rejuvenation project. There was a buzz between the two of them, but she noted there was a buzz between all of them, such was the speed and excitement with which everything was unfolding. But if it was time to find Elsie, it was also time for her to truly find Amos.

  She heard a knock on the door behind her. Already she knew it was Amos. She could feel him. She had conjured him up. It was time. A smile travelled to her face before she’d even turned to open the door.

  ‘You heard about Elsie’s mum?’

  Tara nodded. He delivered her a quick sympathy hug.

  A moment later he was in her kitchen, standing barefoot in blue jeans and wearing a MythBusters T-shirt that had tiny holes in it from welding flashes. The T-shirt revealed just how muscled this inventor farm boy’s arms were as he reached down to pat Mr Queen’s cats, who were brushing themselves against his legs happily.

  ‘So?’ he began, leaning back against the bench. ‘How was your day in at council?’

  ‘Oh, the staff are fantastic. Now. And funny too.’ Tara busied herself with the kettle. She felt flustered. Almost annoyed. She knew she could manifest almost anything. The man standing here in her kitchen was proof of that. So now what?
r />   ‘And?’

  ‘And they are still all really excited about what we’re proposing. We’ve got it past the old sticks in the mud, but it should all unfold officially by the next meeting, which is at the end of the month. Christine and Tammie are onto it.’

  ‘Yes!’ Amos said, pumping the air. ‘Oh, Tara! You good, good thing! You are amazing!’

  ‘Not amazing enough though, apparently,’ Tara said, her green eyes darting to him. She turned to him and leaned against the opposite bench as the kettle gurgled and clicked off behind her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Tara set down the cup she was holding. She shrugged. She too was in bare feet and a floral dress of autumn colours clung to her curvaceous body in all the right places.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You, Amos. You’re the matter.’

  ‘Me?’ He put a hand to his chest, his eyes wide.

  ‘You don’t seem to . . . I don’t know . . . be interested.’

  ‘Interested? In what?’

  ‘In me!’

  ‘In you? Oh, Tara, of course I am! You are fascinating. I could write an entire thesis . . .’

  ‘No, not like that. I mean . . . like, you know. That.’

  ‘Oh. Like that!’ He looked at her, then laughed.

  ‘Please don’t laugh.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘Laughing. Don’t you get it? I am interested in you like that. More than you could ever know. But I was looking for the cues.’

  ‘The cues?’

  ‘Yes. The cues women give to say they are interested in a man. I’m that hopeless, as you know, with women. When you came back, I decided to research the topic so I didn’t muck things up. And so far I have calculated zero cues from you.’