‘Yeah. Hi, Mrs Travers.’
‘How’s the job?’
‘It’s good. The boss is a genius. He does so many brilliant things. This is a massive operation. Which means I get to do all sorts of cool stuff.’
‘Including security.’
‘Huh, yeah. It’s okay. Bit of variety, you know. How can I help you guys?’
‘We wanted to have a chat to Wally.’
‘I’m pretty sure he’s in the office, but he doesn’t like call-ins. What with all the bloody media these days. Do you know him, like personally?’
‘Not really. I knew his father a bit.’
‘I’ll have to contact him. Can I ask what it’s about?’
Ruthie and Dimple looked across the car at each other. The unspoken question was: do we tell a lie to get access and get Scott into trouble, or tell the truth and risk being turned away?
‘Just tell him,’ Ruthie whispered.
‘We heard him on the radio saying drought was a good way of getting rid of the farmers who were battling, and we wanted to tell him, to his face, that he was wrong and he was hurting a lot of people,’ Dimple said.
‘Oh. Okay.’ Scott stopped, turned his head sideways, and looked back at them. ‘You’re being fair dinkum? You’re not taking the piss?’
‘Nope. We’re serious.’
‘Give me a minute and I’ll talk to him.’
They sat and waited while Scott walked up the road, phone to his ear.
‘Don’t like our chances,’ Dimple said, trying to guess what Scott might be saying by the bobbing of his head.
‘No.’
Scott jogged back to their car. ‘Yeah, he’ll see you. If you follow me, I’ll take you up.’
‘Great.’
‘You haven’t got any firearms in there, do you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Can’t be too careful. Lot of crazy protesters and activists about these days.’
He turned, stepped across the road, and got into his vehicle. He started it up and yelled out, ‘Follow me,’ before reversing at speed and swinging the vehicle around in the other direction.
They hung back so Scott’s dust didn’t envelope them, and took in the landscape. The road was gravel, but well maintained. The grass country was clipped up, but every fence was straight and true and without broken or sagging wires. Then the farming country started. It was black and deeply furrowed. Where there was a crop, it was administered to by giant lateral-move irrigators, and in other places by channels of flowing water. When they drove up the only rise for some distance around, they could see the sheen of water shining off dams that stretched for kilometres.
‘Like little lakes,’ Ruthie said.
The road in was long, straight, and flat, and it seemed to take an hour before a complex of silos, sheds, and houses became visible. They drove in among sheds full of shiny equipment with huge fuel tanks standing as sentries. Nearby, a silo complex with a weighbridge, endless ladders, and electrical equipment took up maybe a hectare. There seemed to be big, chromed, aerial-waving utes at every turn. Dimple and Ruthie were saying ‘Wow’ and ‘Bloody hell’ under their breath at every new extravagant construction. Scott guided them to the largest building, which sat at a distance from the main settlement. It was a house the size of several houses that stretched itself out in a lush garden, bigger than a town park. To one side was a swimming pool with a water slide and cabanas that might have been family houses in any other context. The timber fence had sculptured heads sitting on top of every post. A small dark-haired man was bent over a swathe of brightly coloured flowers, and did not look up at them.
Scott parked at a front gate, and they pulled in alongside him. As they got out, a large man came half-trotting down the squishy lawn to greet them. He was tall and heavy, but not particularly overweight. More like a recently retired footballer, Dimple thought. At his side was a large German shepherd. Scott introduced Dimple and Ruthie to Wally.
‘Scotty tells me you came all this way to tell me I’m wrong?’
‘Yes, we did.’ Ruthie was determined to say what needed to be said.
Wally took a careful look at them. ‘You’d better come in then and tell me all about it.’ He opened the gate and offered his hand to Dimple and then Ruthie as Scott returned to his security vehicle.
‘Don’t mind the general,’ he said, waving the dog away. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked as he ushered them through the gate. ‘Sorry, my wife’s away, in Italy, so it’ll be a bit rough and ready.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Ruthie said, trying not to be caught off guard by the man’s version of easy bonhomie.
As they walked across the lawn to the house, their feet sinking into the lushness, Wally said, ‘So you didn’t agree with what I said on the radio? I thought I was pretty fair.’
Two colourful flightless birds of a type that Ruthie didn’t recognise strutted across the lawn in front of them.
‘It’s good of you to see us,’ Ruthie said, making sure she wasn’t sidetracked by the birds.
‘Ah well, you’ve come such a long way, I couldn’t say no. Besides, I like to talk these things through. Hear other people’s opinions. I hate the way people on social media can’t listen to another point of view.’
He opened the door and held it for them. Ruthie stepped into a long, wide, tiled entrance area that opened into an area of couches, low tables, and soft chairs, and a large fireplace below a flue that disappeared into the high ceiling. At the table in the centre of it a young Asian woman in casual clothes, her dark hair in a ponytail, was putting down a tray of jugs and cups. She straightened and smiled at them, then turned and walked towards the doors at the other end of the room that might have led to a kitchen.
‘Take a seat,’ Wally said. ‘Susie’s put out some tea and coffee for us, and there’s cake coming.’
Another Asian woman emerged from a room to their left. When she saw Dimple and Ruthie, she looked startled and for a moment appeared unsure where to go. Then she walked quickly in the direction of the doors the other woman had disappeared through. Ruthie noticed the woman was adjusting her clothes in a way that suggested she had dressed in a hurry.
Ruthie and Dimple sat down on the soft chairs and didn’t look at each other.
‘Tea or coffee?’ Wally sat forward on his seat, his bulk too big, his pants too tight for the delicate job. He poured their choices and passed the cups across to them. Susie arrived with an orange cake and placed it on a space on the table, sliced four pieces, and left again.
‘Please. Help yourself,’ Wally said, taking a piece of cake and sitting back. His guests silently fussed with each other for a moment and then settled on a piece each. Through glass panels they could see a courtyard of flowers, all heights and hues, centred around a fountain that shot a thick stream of water into the air, leaving behind a cool mist as it dropped back down to a moat-like base.
‘Dimple? Is that it? You knew Dad? Went to ag college with him?’
Dimple didn’t bother to think how Wally knew this. ‘Yeah. We saw each other on and off over the years.’
‘I miss him. He was my hero. I wish I’d known him better. He was always so busy, you know. So much of what you see here, on this place, he did. I’ve just extended on it.’
‘Remarkable.’ Dimple said it to stay civil, but it felt like a small betrayal.
‘You’ve got a place down near Stony Creek? Cattle and cropping?’
‘That’s it,’ said Dimple. ‘A bit lean at the moment, though.’
‘Yeah. We’re all going through that. Hope it ends soon.’
Ruthie noticed he said it without feeling. They sounded like words he’d used many times before and never once meant.
‘Scott vouched for you, by the way. It’s why I invited you in. And the fact that you knew Dad. Otherwise I would have presumed you were jo
urnalists or activists of some kind, trying to get pictures or video of something incriminating. Not that there’s anything incriminating around here, but you know how they twist things.’
‘So what you said about the drought getting rid of the weaker farmers who shouldn’t be in farming anyway, was that twisted or taken out of context?’ Ruthie asked.
‘No. That’s what I said. It might not be that nice, but it’s not wrong, is it?’
‘When it’s in the media, it is. You’re calling the people who are struggling losers. It’s like you’re rubbing it in.’ Ruthie said it as sweetly as she could — worried, despite all the goodwill, that she would lose her cool and her coherence.
‘It’s always been this way. There’s no reason to pretend otherwise.’
‘We haven’t always pointed it out in the media,’ Dimple said.
‘They asked me what I thought, and I told them. And, frankly, the people I’m talking about are losers.’
Ruthie took a quick breath and then gave a little cough to disguise it.
‘They don’t have enough capital to run their farms like businesses, so they make bad decisions. When you don’t have enough money, you make choices that you have to make, not the ones you should. So they get into trouble and make us all look bad.’
‘That’s not always the case. Plenty of people are very careful with their money and know their limitations. Some droughts just exceed all expectations,’ Dimple said. ‘Wealthy operations can withstand drought much longer.’
‘That might be true, but the world where you could have 100 cows or 1,000 sheep or 1,000 acres of cropping and call yourself a farmer is gone. Now, I don’t mind if people want to do that stuff, but they have to be able to finance it. They can’t start whingeing when things get a bit tough. They can’t go asking the government for help the minute it gets a bit dry. They can’t turn up in the media making us all look incompetent and pathetic. If it takes a bit of brutality to get rid of people like that, then that’s what we need.’
‘You’re kicking them when they’re down,’ Ruthie said.
‘All I’m doing is telling the truth.’
‘And what if the extreme circumstances — the droughts, the floods, the storms — get worse? Is that the farmers’ fault?’
‘Farmers have to be able to handle whatever is thrown at them.’
‘I think we need to be fair, to everyone,’ Dimple said.
Wally sat forward on his seat, clapped his hands lightly, and said, ‘Let me tell you the bad news. I’m right, and I’m not the only one who thinks that. The government doesn’t give a fuck about the small guys. Neither does industry or the farm-lobby groups. You know what they give a fuck about? Output. They want agriculture to produce as much as it possibly can, and the best way to do that is support the big guys. You know what that means? It means I’ll get the water allocation I want. The government, wherever possible, will turn a blind eye to my water use. And if some bureaucrat or a do-gooder protester comes along and accuses me of something, the politicians will talk meaningless bullshit until everyone gets bored with the topic and moves on to another “crisis”. Same with anything that gets in my way. There’ll be outrage on social media and maybe even a few stories on it in the mainstream. Might be a fine and a big fuss, but the pollies and lobby groups will come in behind me. They’ll run interference, create distractions, defer and defer. Eventually, it all just goes away. That’s the way the world is, and you’d better get used to it.’
Ruthie stood and clenched her hands. ‘I refuse to get used to the world you are talking about. This is a democracy — you shouldn’t have more rights than anyone else. I’m very sorry that you are happy to profit from that circumstance. I came here to remind you that there are lots of real people, good people, out there, genuinely suffering, that you are happy to dismiss with a couple of glib lines. They exist, and they matter.’ She paused, her piece said. ‘Thank you for the hospitality. Let’s go, Dimple.’
Wally slapped his large thighs and stood up. ‘We’ll just have to agree to disagree, I guess. Nice to meet you, though, and have a chance to talk things through.’
Dimple stood slowly and said, ‘Oh, fuck off, you self-serving shit. You’ve created a bloody kingdom here by stealing from your neighbours and your community, and you think that’s your right.’
Ruthie watched Wally clench a fist and take step towards Dimple. Dimple did not move. Don’t let your courage fail you now, she thought.
Wally unclenched his hand and forced himself into the refuge of disdain. ‘It’s business, mate. That’s all. If you can’t handle that, it’s your problem.’
Dimple reached a hand out to Ruthie, and they turned and walked to the door. They’d almost reached it when Wally said, ‘Listen. My grandfather bought this place from the guys who first settled it — the people who got rid of the blackfellas who lived along this river. They did what they had to do: fought them, shot them, and shared their diseases. Sounds bad, but if they didn’t, they probably would have starved.’
Dimple and Ruthie stopped with their backs to him, and waited for a punchline.
‘So you see, everyone does what they have to. You take advantage of the circumstances you find yourself in. And we do it because we already know about drought and flood and fire out here. We didn’t need climate-change boffins to warn us about it. We do it because if we don’t, we won’t survive. It’s business. Simple as that. You’re too naïve to see it. Which is why you and your type will disappear. The only players are big players.’
Dimple and Ruthie kept walking, not stopping or talking, until they were in the car and Dimple had it started. He backed back too quickly, over-revving the engine and swinging the steering wheel. When they were finally over the ramp, Dimple said, ‘Fuck. What was that?’
‘I thought he was going to punch you.’
‘I basically called him a thief in his own house.’
‘I was proud of you.’
‘He would have hurt me.’
‘Not for long.’
He began to laugh loudly and joyfully, hitting the door hard with an open hand. ‘That’s not what you’re supposed to say! You’re supposed to say something caring, or point out what a fuckwit he was.’
Ruthie was giggling. ‘He was big.’
Then they were laughing uncontrollably.
‘Your face when he said, “That’s the way the world is and you’d better get used to it.” Oh, man. So good. I thought you were going to slap him.’
‘What about you? He’s doing the “Nice to meet you” thing, thinking he’s got us whipped, and you pipe up and tell him to eff off.’
Their faces were red, their eyes watering, and Dimple was having trouble keeping the car on the road.
Eventually, the laughing subsided in whimpers and wiping of faces. They were quiet and grinning for a while, and then Ruthie said, ‘Do you think he was right about the water? He would get what he wanted?’
‘Dunno. Probably just big talk.’
‘The Aboriginal stuff was awful.’
‘I know. “Shot them, fought them, shared their diseases.” I mean, wow.’
Ruthie was oblivious to the scenery. It had become a zoetrope whizzing beside her. It was the past that was suddenly real. ‘I guess that happened in our area, too?’
‘Maybe, but you wouldn’t know, would you? There are no records. Nothing. It’s like they never really lived there.’
‘We don’t talk about that, do we?’
‘Nope. No one does. Apparently there was a war, and we won the war. To the victor, the spoils.’
‘Is that the way people think?’
‘I don’t know. Hard to pretend we’re innocent.’
‘So we’re next in line to lose the war?’
‘Maybe.’
She was holding onto the handle of the door, gripping it tightly.
‘You know the weird thing?’ she said. ‘I’ve never thought about it. I just sort of accepted that they drifted away. White people arrived, the Indigenous locals were wandering around not doing much, there was a bit of fighting, and then the common cold wiped the blackfellas out. I’ve never asked one question about it. I knew some of them must have got shot, had to have been, but I never thought about the economic consequences of all that.’
‘I don’t think I had either, really. Maybe tried not to.’
Alongside them, the country was dark and bare. Even the river looked parched.
Ruthie looked out the window and breathed deeply. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you, and I should have.’
Dimple didn’t look. He nodded his head.
‘I got the results back on the biopsy. It’s a tumour, and it’s malignant.’
The tyres seemed suddenly loud. He thought for a moment he might let go of the steering wheel and let the car take them out into whatever world it wanted to take them to. ‘I kind of guessed.’
‘I apologise. It was unfair of me. But at least the tumour is small.’ She let the words out, clipped and official, as if she had been ordered to say them — ‘the tumour’ suddenly an entity like an insistent cousin or a difficult neighbour.
‘Did you talk to the doctor?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ He sat up and leant towards her. ‘Shit, Ruthie. What are you thinking?’
‘I will, but not until I get home.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake. You can’t put this off.’
‘I just need a couple of days.’
‘At least ring the doctor and organise the dates and times for your treatment. This isn’t the sort of thing to stuff around with.’
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.’ She wasn’t annoyed, merely protective.
‘You’re acting like one. I think we should pull over and call your doctor. What if you need to be admitted immediately?’
‘Forty-eight hours will not shorten or lengthen my life. It will make no difference except in my head, where I need it.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I just do.’
Small Mercies Page 5