Love in the Age of Drought

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together,’ I muttered to myself, alone in the bathroom after the performance.

  ‘I’m starving,’ I declared, rejoining Stuart in the foyer.

  ‘Where I live, we’d say, “I could chew the arse out of a low-flying duck”,’ laughed Stuart. ‘Not in polite circles, of course.’

  Chew the arse out of a … what? We walked a short way and into the first eatery we came across – a deserted Indian restaurant. We lingered over our meal, talking incessantly. When I checked my watch some hours later, it was already time for me to catch the last Manly ferry home.

  ‘Would you like me to come down with you to the wharf?’ Stuart asked. It was, I realised, a quintessentially rural gesture; a lady couldn’t be left to walk the streets alone. But this was metropolitan Sydney and, as much as I enjoyed Stuart’s company, I needed some space to process my thoughts.

  ‘No thanks, I’ll be fine,’ I replied. ‘But I appreciate the offer.’ I kicked at nothing in particular with the point of my high heel.

  ‘How will you get home?’ I asked.

  ‘Train,’ said Stuart. ‘I’ll just go back to Kings Cross Station. I’m staying with a friend from the ethics program. She’s letting me bunk on her lounge room floor tonight.’

  An inexplicable wave of jealousy washed over me. Who was this woman and what had he shared with her? The intensity of this emotion left me tongue-tied.

  Stuart filled the silence. ‘Thanks for the evening, it was great.’

  I nodded, eyes trained on the pavement.

  ‘Well, goodnight,’ Stuart said.

  He looked me in the eyes and then – oh please, please, please – kissed me in that most cordial of places: the no-man’s-land between lips and ear.

  ‘Thanks, Stuart,’ I said, concealing my disappointment.

  I started to walk away. Is he gay, or just the consummate gentleman? I’d covered perhaps twenty metres when I heard rapid footfalls behind me and suddenly Stuart was at my side.

  ‘I had to chase you to give you this,’ he puffed, handing me my coat. ‘And to do this …’ He pulled me towards him and kissed me in no-man’s-land again.

  ‘Thank you,’ I laughed, this time feeling quietly elated. That second kiss, while carefully planted well away from my lips, left me with no doubt at all: Stuart wasn’t gay – he was just a rural gentleman.

  I walked through the back streets of Kings Cross, trying to hail a taxi. I’d encountered all manner of other men in my dating forays; the urban artiste, the political animal, the drug-taking tradesman, the introverted IT guru, the surfie with a chip on his shoulder, the homosexual journalist who thought I could turn him to the other side. But never a rural gentleman.

  Several weeks passed and Stuart and I continued to enjoy long Sunday afternoon conversations. But as time progressed, I found myself beginning to question the viability of our developing attachment. Our blossoming friendship was, after all, conducted mostly by telephone. Stuart was a man’s man living a rural life in country Queensland, and I was a woman with no understanding of agriculture and little desire to relinquish my comfortable existence in Sydney. The more I contemplated the prospect of romance burgeoning between us, the less convinced I was of its likelihood.

  ‘It’s like this,’ I explained to my girlfriend, Genevieve, over coffee. ‘We had one great evening together, but no kiss on the lips.’

  Genevieve sighed. Since our university days, we had monitored each other’s romances with the dedication of sisters.

  ‘Gay?’ she asked knowingly.

  ‘Not likely,’ I responded. ‘He’s great to talk to on the telephone. Our conversations are actually very intimate for two people who hardly know each other.’

  Genevieve’s eyes narrowed as she sipped her macchiato.

  ‘But I’m just not sure that it’s going anywhere in particular,’ I fretted, pushing a fudge brownie around the plate.

  ‘And where exactly do you want it to go?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what I might want,’ I replied. ‘It’s never going to work. He’s a farmer, for God’s sake. From Queensland. It’s totally implausible. We’ll just end up being friends and nothing more.’

  Genevieve stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, you’re probably right, Fi,’ she concluded. ‘I can’t really see you joining the Queensland Country Women’s Association. So why don’t you just have a bit of fun with it for now?’

  Not long after my coffee with Genevieve, Stuart clarified his intentions.

  ‘Fiona, I need to tell you something,’ he announced, at the end of yet another lengthy telephone discussion. ‘I don’t want to be friends with you.’

  I paused, confused by his stern tone. Stuart cleared his throat. ‘What I mean is, I’m not interested in coming to Sydney for coffees. I don’t want to be your friend; I have enough friends already. Do you know what I mean?’

  This declaration caught me by surprise. No flowery prose or affirmation of blossoming emotion – just a confirmation of what he wasn’t interested in.

  I hesitated. ‘I think so.’

  ‘So, if you don’t object,’ he continued, ‘I’d like to fly with you to Adelaide next week.’

  This bold suggestion startled me. I’d recently shared with Stuart my concerns about an upcoming interstate visit; a Friday morning business meeting in Adelaide, followed by a weekend reunion with old friends.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ I’d explained to him, ‘but I’m an anxious flyer and I start to get nervous about two weeks before a trip.’ Stuart had evidently concluded that a personal chaperone from Sydney to Adelaide would be an ideal solution to my problem.

  ‘That’s a really kind offer,’ I replied, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea …’

  Stuart jumped into the void. ‘I won’t impinge on your time with your friends,’ he explained. ‘My aunt lives in Adelaide – I can stay with her. But we can travel down together and back again. I fly planes myself, so you might feel better if I explain what’s going on in the air.’

  I blinked with surprise. ‘You’re a pilot?’

  ‘Not of jumbo jets.’ He laughed. ‘But I’ve been flying small aircraft for six years. I’m the president of my local aero club.’

  I shook my head with the irony of it all. Murphy’s Law: the fearful flyer is dating a pilot.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re in for,’ I said. ‘I do very strange things in the air, like sweat and shake and call flight attendants to help me. You mightn’t enjoy it.’

  ‘We’ll get you right,’ Stuart laughed.

  A fortnight later, I drove to Sydney airport for our second official date. It was all very surreal: meeting a farmer from Queensland for a therapeutic flight to Adelaide. I tried to steady my nerves and recalled Genevieve’s advice: just have a bit of fun with it. But flying and fun were two concepts I’d never previously associated with one another. Stuart waved to me across the terminal, ruggedly handsome in blue jeans and a well-fitting T-shirt. Maybe this type of phobia therapy would just do the trick.

  Sadly, it didn’t. In the air, I regressed to my usual behaviour – flushing bright red, sweating and hyperventilating. But this time my standard shenanigans were interspersed with periods of calm. I listened closely to Stuart’s explanations of the relationship between airflow over the wing and lift, thermals, jet streams, wake turbulence and microbursts. Perhaps it was the effect of Stuart’s commonsense approach, or the incentive of not embarrassing myself in front of a man I wished to impress – whatever the reason, I managed better than on all previous flights.

  Arriving at Adelaide airport, Stuart and I were greeted by his aunt, Suzanne, a stunning 50-something yoga instructor with intelligent eyes. After a round of introductions, I waved them off and headed toward the taxi stand.

  ‘Don’t forget, I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow,’ Stuart called after me. During the flight, Stuart and I had agreed to meet the following morning for a bicycle ride a
round Adelaide. ‘It’s not exactly around Australia,’ he’d said, ‘but it’ll be pleasant enough.’

  Later that day, at the conclusion of my business meetings, I made my way to the home of my friends. Jane and Jason had recently relocated from Sydney to the Adelaide Hills.

  ‘Well, Fi,’ said Jane, slinging an arm around my shoulders, ‘knowing what you’re like on aeroplanes, he’s a saint for flying with you. Invite him around tomorrow night. We need an introduction to the spunky farmer.’

  The following morning, the spunky farmer arrived in his aunt’s car to collect me for our bicycle tour of Adelaide. Aunty Sue had begged and borrowed two bicycles for our use, both of which were too small. Setting off from her home in Bowden, my knees seemed to brush my ears with every rotation. We kept to bicycle tracks before deciding spontaneously to continue south to Glenelg for coffee. Unfortunately, I was wearing the wrong clothes for this expanded version of our bicycle tour, a full twenty-kilometre return trip. My loose jeans were causing me a problem, their excess material flapping dangerously close to the chain. I hitched them up feverishly, appalled by the thought of my pants being ripped off in front of an unsuspecting Stuart, riding behind me. After an interminable ten kilometres, we arrived at our seaside destination.

  We cast our bikes aside onto the grass and lazed in the morning sunshine with our drinks. Young families congregated nearby, children were kicking footballs, throwing frisbees and playing on the sand. Perspiring profusely in the unforgiving sunshine, I knew I couldn’t be looking my finest. However, this did not seem to deter Stuart, who boldly leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

  I returned his kiss tentatively, too concerned about my sweatiness, coffee breath and the family-friendly environment around us. Perhaps it was the heat of the morning, the exertion of cycling, or my self-consciousness which inhibited the impact of our first kiss. It was sweet, it was lovely, but not the moment of ecstasy I’d imagined. We pulled away from each other awkwardly. Shortly afterwards, we mounted our bicycles and retraced our path. Our journey complete, Stuart dropped me back at Jane and Jason’s, promising to return later that evening.

  I agonised over my choice of outfit for the evening.

  ‘These corduroy pants are too dowdy,’ I complained to Jane. ‘But I didn’t pack anything else.’

  Jane looked me up and down. ‘Sweetie, you’d look fine in a potato sack. But come and raid my wardrobe if you’d like.’

  We trawled through her clothes, sipping champagne and giggling like teenagers. Finally, I tried on a pair of boot-leg jeans and a close-fitted, caramel-coloured top.

  ‘He’ll like what he sees,’ said Jane.

  At 7.30 pm, Stuart arrived, bottle of wine in hand. He smelt vaguely alpine and looked very appealing in a pale blue shirt. My stomach somersaulted as he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  We spent the evening enjoying the good food and company of Jane and Jason, who pulled out all stops in their quest to impress. Jane cooked delectable, multi-course vegetarian fare, and Jason plied us with his best vino from the Barossa Valley.

  Halfway through our second bottle of shiraz, as we savoured Jane’s homemade sweet milk custard, Jason asked casually, ‘Cotton’s a very water-intensive crop. Should we really be growing it in a country as dry as Australia?’

  I stiffened slightly. Please don’t call him an environmental vandal.

  Stuart leaned back in his chair and smiled, apparently unruffled.

  ‘It’s something I struggle with. I try to use the water on my farm as efficiently as possible, but if you’re of the view that Australian agriculture shouldn’t touch our river systems at all, then we’re in for a long night.’

  Jason patted his mouth with his serviette. ‘Well, that’s not a realistic position,’ he replied. ‘Obviously we have to use some of our water for agriculture. But crops like cotton just don’t suit our landscape, do they?’

  Stuart shrugged. ‘As a matter of fact, cotton’s quite well suited to the Australian environment,’ he said. ‘It loves growing in hot, sunny climates. That’s why you don’t see much cotton growing in the tropics. Too wet most of the time.’

  Jason folded his arms. ‘But given that Australia’s water resources are so limited, isn’t cotton a very unsuitable crop?’ I studied the mantelpiece behind Jane’s head, wondering where we were headed.

  ‘It’s a common viewpoint,’ Stuart replied, ‘but in my experience, there’s no such thing as an intrinsically bad crop. It’s not what you grow that matters so much, it’s how much water you take out of the system, and what sort of financial and social returns you generate in the process.’ Stuart glanced at me, perhaps for moral support. I smiled at him with as much confidence as I could muster.

  ‘This custard dessert,’ Stuart said suddenly, turning to Jane, ‘how much milk did you use to make it?’ Jane paused, mentally calculating.

  ‘Just over a litre,’ she replied.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Stuart nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, the best Australian dairy farmers use about 500 litres of irrigation water to produce a litre of milk. That’s roughly equivalent to your daily household water usage.’

  I gazed down at the creamy mass in my bowl. I’d never thought about custard in those terms before.

  ‘But interestingly enough, dairy farming is off the environmental radar when it comes to water use,’ Stuart continued, ‘despite the fact that it actually extracts more water from the Murray–Darling Basin than most other farming, including cotton. Maybe people just like the idea of black-and-white dairy cows grazing on green pastures. They don’t usually realise that they’re irrigated pastures.’ He twirled his dessert spoon with a flourish.

  ‘But surely you don’t want us to stop drinking milk?’ asked Jane in mock horror.

  Stuart laughed. ‘No, I’m a big milk drinker myself. My point is that most agricultural industries use a lot of water, in different ways. But for some reason, certain commodities are singled out for greater scrutiny than others.’

  ‘But from what I’ve heard, Stuart,’ I ventured, feeling like a traitor, ‘more water’s been allocated to farming than Australia’s environment can actually sustain.’

  ‘You’re right, Fi,’ he replied, to my relief. ‘And where that’s happened, it’s a real problem that needs to be addressed. Governments are only now waking up to the over-allocation of water licences they practically threw at farmers 40 years ago. Problem is, they’ll have to find some way of recalling those licences, without causing major social upheaval. It’ll be a tough task – entire rural communities and economies depend on their ability to extract water.’

  Stuart paused, rolling up his sleeves and pushing them above his elbows. ‘But in the meantime, the drought’s doing a pretty good job of regulating farmers’ use of water.’

  ‘So how bad is the drought where you are?’ asked Jason, topping up our wine glasses.

  ‘Well, since I started farming, we’ve had two of the worst droughts in the region’s history,’ Stuart replied. ‘And this year, we’ve only had half our average rainfall.’

  ‘How does your business handle that?’ asked Jane.

  Stuart shrugged. ‘If the water’s not there, I can’t grow the crops – full stop.’ He pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘That’s something I wish people in cities understood about irrigators. There’s a perception that we keep sucking too much water out of the system, even in drought. But if the water’s not there, how can we? And in my case, I’m self-regulating.’

  ‘Self-regulating? How so?’ asked Jason, obviously sceptical.

  ‘Well, I’ve got an irrigation bore on my farm and a licence that allows me to pump 400 million litres of water a year from it,’ Stuart explained, ‘but last season, I chose to pump only half of my allocation.’

  ‘But why would you do that?’ I asked, confused. ‘I mean, if you’re permitted to pump much more?’

  Stuart drained his glass of mineral water. ‘Because I know the underground aquifer is dropping,’ he replied,
‘and it’d be irresponsible to extract too much water from it. Governments can force farmers to cut back on their water allocation, but bureaucrats tend to lag a few years behind reality. I know what’s happening to the health of the aquifer right now, so I’ve taken the initiative to self-regulate, before the government tells me to.’

  Stuart scraped up the last of his custard and pushed his dessert bowl to one side. ‘Because of this self-imposed cutback, I was hammered by drought last year. If I keep up the same approach this season, I’ll only have enough water to plant twenty per cent of my farm. Which means a break-even year, or worse. Whether it’s cotton in my fields, or some other crop, there’s only a finite amount of water. The challenge for me is – how long can I last between drinks?’

  Jason nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. An uneasy silence fell over the table.

  ‘So, what’s your shirt made out of, Jason?’ Stuart asked. Jason glanced down at his navy blue T-shirt.

  ‘Cotton,’ he replied, reddening slightly.

  ‘Is it 100 per cent cotton?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Jason.

  ‘Where’s this going, Farmer Stu?’ asked Jane, winking at me.

  ‘Well, to grow that 100 per cent cotton T-shirt on my farm, it takes about 1000 litres of water.’ He grinned at Jason. ‘So there’s 500 litres in your dessert bowl, mate, and 1000 litres on your back.’

  Jason grunted and shifted in his seat.

  ‘We all make choices, producers and consumers,’ Stuart continued. ‘And as a producer, I do everything in my power to manage finite water resources effectively. I don’t make any of my management decisions lightly.’ Stuart’s face was earnest; I was gripped by his conviction.

  ‘Maybe we should all be choosing to wear hemp instead of cotton,’ I suggested.

  ‘Sure, everyone thinks hemp’s the easy solution,’ he replied. ‘And actually, I have a licence to grow it on my farm. But the market’s in its infancy in Australia and the last thing a farmer feels like doing in drought is gambling on something new. The adoption of hemp as a world fibre is trapped in what I call the “lively dinner conversation phase”. We get as far as what we’re doing right now – talking about it.’ He turned and fixed me with intense hazel eyes. Momentarily my concentration wavered.