by Heather Rose
‘You know one ridiculous thing the Chinese want in all this?’ he asked.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘They want to compete in the World Cup. They can’t find eleven players from a population of more than one billion people to beat the rest of the world at soccer. The Chinese are good at individual, repetitive sport. They can do a million perfect dives. Win a million ping-pong games. But soccer is creative. No matter how much they’ve poured into it, they’ve failed. They understand that they have to manufacture creativity. It’s never been done in China. They have had an education system that’s dampened any such inclinations. So this is part of the experiment too. Giving their people, their high-value people, the chance to raise their children a little differently, and see what comes of that. Free them from some of the Communist strictures. Not many but a few. But don’t think for a minute any of this is altruistic. China is, and will be for a very long time, a communist regime with supreme control over its citizens.’
‘That’s in the file?’ I asked. ‘About the soccer?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘And the selection process for high-value citizens. The dangerous ones who’ve sniffed the cocaine of capitalism. It’s all in there.’
‘I’m still incredulous,’ I said. ‘I mean, we’re part of the Commonwealth. We’re part of Australia. It’s never going to fly.’
‘That’s where I went,’ said Edward. ‘Surely the King will save us! But the Brits are a basket case. We both know they’ll never recover from Brexit. The King might have a fondness for us but, really, if the Australian government think it’s a good thing, then he’s not going to step in. The Queen might have been a different story. I think she was very fond of her Commonwealth—but he won’t keep that vision alive in the same way.
‘Hong Kong built a bridge too, a few years back,’ he continued. ‘From mainland China to Hong Kong. It killed the Hong Kong locals. And that was Chinese against Chinese.’
I thought of Hong Kong with its shabby high-rises, an air conditioner in every window, washing hanging from the balconies, the sea of people at every pedestrian crossing and one and a half billion people right across the bridge in China.
‘India will outstrip China in population in a few years,’ said Edward. ‘Its need for food security will become pressing. Africa, too, but that will always be a basket case. China, they see the future and they take action.’
‘Food production,’ I said. ‘Food security before India cottons on.’
‘Indeed. And if you were looking for somewhere clean, green and pristine, out of the way, easy to defend … and you might solve an almost unstoppable urge from certain elements in your country for more freedom at the same time. Dangle a fabulous carrot for good behaviour.’
‘It will never work.’
‘It’s a done deal,’ he said. ‘The flag goes down and everything goes into action once the bridge is completed. Is it any worse than the British who’ve been using their influence here since they invaded the place? Or the US and the UK dismantling the Whitlam government?’
‘Your model train farm is going to be hard to relocate,’ I said.
‘My land is on Bruny. At Simpsons Bay. I thought my slice of heaven was well preserved. But it turns out it is not. People thought I was mad relocating to Bruny. In the deal, all current Bruny landowners will be given the right to subdivide. Imagine the building industry. This is a peaceful way to inspire a boom. And we didn’t have to have a war first. Name one other way that has ever happened in the last five hundred years.’
‘Tulips?’
He smiled then. ‘Unlike the Dutch, the Chinese will ensure market stability. At least while it suits them.’
‘You don’t think economic theory has gotten in the way of pure common sense? I cannot believe for a moment Tasmanians will give up their homes to live on Bruny Island.’
‘Astrid, it is shocking. I know that. But you know better than anyone that economic theory got in the way of common sense a long time ago. Very soon twenty-five per cent of the world will be over sixty-five years of age. Tasmania will reach that sooner than most places. People are tired. They’d like to stop. The Gold Coast has always been very attractive to Tasmanians. I think you’d get a fair few moving to the warmth. You can buy a pretty nice apartment for a million dollars on the beach in Queensland and you’d have a very stylish retirement. It’s the people who don’t move away I’m more worried about. The people who take the Bruny deal. A contract with the Chinese is always opaque. This deal, all the new infrastructure they’re promising to build on Bruny … China do things on terms that will greatly benefit them down the track. They’ll compromise you. They lend you the money but you’ll never be able to pay it back. When the agreement suits them, they’ll enforce it. Like Sri Lanka with their ports. There are Chinese warships in the harbour now, because Sri Lanka couldn’t meet the repayments.’
‘These are Tasmanians. There will be outrage. Did nobody notice? We don’t go down without a fight …’
‘The Aborigines got moved to Cape Barren Island. The government got away with that.’
‘But half a million people? High-rises on Adventure Bay?’
‘Yes, and schools, medical facilities, arts centres. There’s sensitive technology that the Chinese want to ensure is no longer kept on mainland China. Too vulnerable. Safer out of the way. Tasmanian kids are assured of work in those businesses. Free university too, I believe. And the universal basic income for anyone over eighteen earning less than the minimum wage. Right now, we’re looking down the barrel of Tasmania being the Australian Detroit in five to ten years. Unemployment for people under thirty is at twenty-five per cent and growing. Growing unemployment overall. Automation is coming and smart businesses know it. Everyone from doctors to drivers can be replaced with the right programming. There isn’t enough left to cut down or dig up here to save everyone. Zinc smelting won’t do it. Nor fish farms. I think you’ll find most people could be pretty adaptable under the circumstances.’
I pictured the bridge and its six-lane capacity. I wanted to scream.
‘How did this happen?’ I asked. ‘We’re Tasmanians. We’re never going to surrender this island. We’re the most reluctant people in the world to embrace change …’
Edward tilted his head to one side.
‘Have you heard about the TasInvest conference?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Do you know the greatest mistake I think they made, your brother’s government?’ he asked. ‘They disregarded the arts. There wasn’t a single cultural reference. No Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra. No theatre. No films. No dance, poetry, art. It was all PowerPoints and economics. The Chinese saw this place as a cultural wasteland. And that makes you a prime target for anything like this. The Chinese know they haven’t done Hong Kong well. It was a jewel and now it’s not. It’s become tarnished and chipped under their rule. Some would say cracked. Anyone who dares to talk of independence is howled down as a heretic and bundled back to the Chinese mainland for re-education. This is a different experiment. This is a different sort of re-education. This is a toe in the water of capitalism under communism. It’s never been attempted before.’
‘I hardly believe a play or a symphony could have made the difference,’ I said.
‘Nobody with a strong culture looks like they can be bought,’ he said. ‘There’s no price high enough for people who have land and community in their blood. Haven’t we learned that from every indigenous culture that has clung to their ways and their land to the death? This government, at a state and a federal level, they’ve hammered the arts for years. They’ve eviscerated it. How the ABC have hung on is a miracle, and now, with all these hyenas circling, they’ll almost certainly be forced to privatise. And then it’s over. No national public broadcaster. The right-wing press will win. Every theatre company or film production company in this country—unless it’s making a Marvel movie—has been defunded. That’s our cultural expression, and if we don’t have that, it weaken
s everything. It’s a bit like leaching. We’re wilting with cultural anaemia. The sheer determination of artists, practitioners and administrators—that’s what’s keeping Australian culture going. But in so many cases, it’s been death. Organisations and festivals, magazines and journals and, ultimately, possibilities. This is where it’s got us. Selling this little island to prop up the rest of Australia. What next? Norfolk Island? You can bet those people would go down fighting. Fraser Island? Rottnest Island? Why not the whole of Western Australia? I mean, would anyone really notice? Easy enough to make a border across the desert. Build a wall.’
‘I think this is the worst lunch I’ve ever had,’ I said.
‘Astrid, don’t get me wrong. I’m not telling you this so we acquiesce. Do you understand that?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t understand that. So what are you suggesting? We start a revolution?’
‘Let me tell you something. A few years back I was commissioned by your brother to assess the role sea changers could play economically in Tasmania’s future.’
‘And … ?’
‘Well, this didn’t go in my report. Every person I interviewed had some kind of spiritual undertone to their move to Tasmania. I interviewed hundreds across the state. All of them felt that they had found a place that was good for their soul. They might not have used that word, but they all referred to a sort of spiritual wellbeing. This wasn’t about religion, I might add. It was something bigger than that.’
‘Any Chinese?’
‘Twelve. The rest were from everywhere else. Iceland to Argentina.’
‘Hippies?’
‘Not at all. Most are affluent, older, middle-class people wanting a quieter lifestyle.’
‘Why didn’t you put it in your report?’
‘I didn’t know how to couch that language,’ he said. ‘It seemed to be inappropriate somehow. But I think they’re emblematic of the greater Tasmanian population.’
I thought of Dan Macmillan saying that Tasmanians had already given up a lot to be here. To stay here. But did Tasmanians see more than money? Surely some of them must. Would there be a tipping point? If, say, fifty per cent of Tasmanians took the deal, made three times the value of their homes, moved to Bruny or Queensland or wherever they thought life looked good, would the other half roll over?
‘I think they’ll fight to the end,’ I said. ‘And what about Bruny landowners? What if people don’t want to develop their land? Compulsory acquisition?’
Edward smiled. ‘Remember the resident population is only six hundred people. There’s a great deal of state forest and Parks and Wildlife land on Bruny. That will be reassigned for development.’
‘How will the government force relocation to Bruny? I mean, they’re not going to get out the army, are they?’
‘It must have been considered. But clearly they’re relying on the money to make people docile, compliant, supportive of the whole thing.’
I shook my head.
‘You’re the expert. How do we fan these flames of protest?’ he asked. ‘And, most importantly, how does it happen without anyone going to jail?’
‘I’m meant to stop it?’
Edward said, ‘I would guess, over and above your loyalty to country and family, you came home because the world was wearing you down, Astrid. The conflict is endless, isn’t it? At least here no-one is going to murder your best friend and put their head on your doorstep. You don’t have to see women who haven’t had the right medical help after their genitals were cut away. You don’t meet young men who’ve been trained to be suicide bombers but mucked up and lost their arms or legs. Or had them hacked off by militia. The wars, the bombs, the rapes, the children, the sex slaves, the refugees, the families trying to rebuild a life together … all the horror in this world. It’s no wonder you’re spending as much time as you can on Bruny. You’re getting a sense of what you left, and probably you’re considering whether you’ll go back to New York at all. Because waking up here in Tasmania, you’re hoping you are a long, long way from the next terrorist attack. You are a long way from rush hour in almost any form. You rarely have to queue. You don’t have to park and ride. You can park right outside most anything you want—even Salamanca, if you get there before the tourists. Every time there’s another mass shooting in the world, we all become a little more numb. But here, in Tasmania, it’s as if we get some feeling back. The sky is beautiful at night. The light is magical. Sunrises, sunsets, the sea—it all works on you, doesn’t it? And, like me, you want to believe it can stay this way.’
I wanted to cry. How had he done that? Had he accessed my file from the UN? I hate the world sometimes. I hate how you can’t escape it and you can’t escape yourself.
‘Astrid, you’re maybe the one person on this island who can make this thing go away. But time is of the essence. I think Beck was very clever when she chose you. You have connections. Anyone who can settle conflict down must have a pretty good idea of how to start it as well.’
I wasn’t going to correct him. Let him think Becky chose me, not that I gave her an impossible choice.
‘I’ll deliver the file to you at your house on Bruny. Wear gloves. No-one is getting prosecuted over this. When’s a good time?’ he asked.
It was Friday. ‘I’m there tonight. Tomorrow night, too.’
‘Tomorrow night is good. I’ll come by at six o’clock.’
‘Edward, do you think the person who sent Becky the file also knows who blew up the bridge?’ I asked.
It was the first time I’d seen his eyes sparkle.
‘You’re rather clever, aren’t you?’ he said.
I walked out of the restaurant with Edward.
‘We are two friends,’ he said. ‘We know nothing. We just had a delicious lunch. Look happy.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
My phone was buzzing in my bag. I reached for it and saw that both Max and JC had been calling. Twelve missed calls. Texts saying: Call me.
I wondered if we were about to be swooped upon by federal agents. I wondered if something had happened to our mother in hospital. ‘Oh no,’ I said, and called Max.
‘Shall I wait?’ Edward asked.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ushering me to a bench in the public space by the fountain.
‘Ace … Ace, I’m sorry to have to do this on the phone. Are you sitting down?’ Max said.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said.
‘Where are you?’
‘In Salamanca Square. What happened? Is it Mother?’
‘No, no, no …’
‘What happened, Max?’
‘It’s … it’s Dad … He had another stroke and, Ace—he died. I’m so sorry. Just half an hour ago. We’re coming to pick you up, okay? JC is with me. We’re coming to get you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
According to the writer Douglas Adams, there are two hundred and thirty-two types of rain. Grief is the same. It comes in droplets and squalls, drizzle and downpour. I felt as if I was submerged and all noise came at me in a weird slowed-down soundwave that I couldn’t understand.
I remember Max getting out of the car. I remember finding JC breaking down out by the rhododendrons near the tennis court and holding hands with him as we walked back inside. I remember Max holding me and me holding Max. I remember being hugged by Ella and Grace.
At some point I was sitting with Stephanie and the girls at their kitchen table. Stephanie and Max were trying to discuss funeral details with me. The archbishop from St Mary’s came, but I can’t remember what was said. Frank Pringle came and went and JC poured us all whisky. Stephanie fed us chicken soup. Max came and crawled into bed with me and stayed all night.
It was on the front of the paper the next morning, a picture of Dad from his life as one of Australia’s longest-serving elected representatives. There was a picture of JC, me and Max with Dad when we were kids. From all sides of politics, Tasmanians had liked Angus Coleman. There wa
s going to be a state funeral. He wasn’t ours in this moment; he became everyone’s.
In the morning I went with Max to clean out his room at the nursing home. We didn’t need to do it so soon, but we both felt we had to. We wanted to be with whatever was left of him. We packed up his books, the photos, folded his clothes. We packed up his bathroom items. A toothbrush. A hairbrush. A comb. The soap he liked—Imperial Leather.
When we got back to JC’s with Dad’s stuff, I got a text from Dan Macmillan. It said: So sorry about your dad. I’m in town this afternoon if you’d like a lift down.
I read it a couple of times and then I replied Yes. I sent him the address. He sent back: 3 pm? I said perfect. And then I remembered that, despite everything that had happened in between, this was the night Edward was dropping the documents to the Bruny house at 6 pm. And the final road section was being delivered to the bridge. All of it came back to me in a crushing, roaring wave.
Suddenly I was hearing again. I needed to be in action.
‘Thought you might stay in town,’ JC said.
I looked at my brother standing there in his blue denim shirt and his chinos—his Saturday uniform, as he called it—and I saw him for what he was. A turncoat. A thief. A liar. A traitor. Someone who had duped me and was going to dupe Tasmania. What was his election slogan? Growing a brighter future. What a joke.
‘What?’ he said.
I gathered myself. People’s lives relied on my discretion now. He would guess Becky in a flash.
‘I’m sorry, JC. I’m distraught. I need to go hide for a day or two. I’ll be back Monday. I’ll miss Sunday lunch tomorrow. I’m sorry. I need to be alone.’
Dan came up the driveway and I was out the door with my bag before he’d stopped the car. I knew everyone’s eyes were on me and Dan and they’d all be thinking they’d missed something. But let them think what they liked.