The Grass Castle (32 page)

She wasn’t going to come to the public meeting, but Quentin insisted it would be good for her, that she should come along to witness the conflict around the kangaroo issue. No need for that, she’d thought at the time. She only needed to read the papers to get the lowdown on public opinion. Now she hesitates as she hears one of the costumed characters shout, ‘There’s that ecologist. Let’s get him. Murderous bastard.’ These are serious demonstrators, and she and Quentin are in the line of fire.

She turns to leave as the kangaroos stride jerkily towards them bearing placards and clenched fists, but Quentin marches forward to meet them and she’s forced to keep up. The pack of angry bodies closes around them, shouting and jeering. Abby cowers, her heart hammering hard, a quick frightened staccato rhythm. She feels heat as they press close, smells sweat and sour breath, mothballs and muskiness, senses the animal strength of their rage. She’s terrified—who wouldn’t be? Quentin is rattled too. He fends off the placards with one arm, grips Abby round the waist with the other, and elbows his way to the door, breathing fast. The kangaroos hustle around them, firing abuse:
Murderers, Butchers
. The yells mash together into a cacophony of insults. Abby ducks her head, tries to shut the noise out, cold sweat icing her skin.

When they are safe in the foyer, Quentin gives her a lopsided smile and passes a hand through his thin cropped hair. He’s as stressed as she is, that’s obvious—neither of them expected a reception like this. ‘You okay?’ he asks, breathing out slowly through flared nostrils.

‘A bit shaken,’ she admits. It’s the understatement of the year.

‘Me too,’ he says. ‘That was really something.’

Something she would rather have avoided, Abby thinks. The quiet of the library or even her office suddenly seems delightfully appealing. ‘Maybe I’m not cut out for this,’ she says.

‘Rubbish.’ Quentin frowns. ‘You can’t be put off by loonies. We have important work to do.’

He goes to fetch name tags from the registration table, leaving Abby by the door. She looks around. Thirty or forty people are gathered in groups, talking quietly. Over in the corner a chocolate-skinned man with curly black hair and a broad nose is playing didgeridoo. He has a photo of a kangaroo set up on an easel beside him, and a sign that reads:
Help save my brother
. Obviously the local Indigenous people have been recruited to the cause.

Abby has been hearing plenty about the kangaroo cull these past few weeks. It’s been a continuing prime topic in the media; a
hot issue
, Cameron would call it. Daily, his articles have appeared in the paper, often sensationalist and emotive, not based on science. She hears him being interviewed on the radio—journalists interviewing journalists, as they always do when there’s no-one else to talk to. He’s making good mileage for his newspaper, she supposes, and she has to admit some of his articles exhibit a vague attempt to remain balanced. But he still errs on the side of the activists and this bothers her. She thought he would try to be more even-handed, especially after she expressed her concern regarding his bias.

His voice evokes other sensations too. Each time she hears him on the airwaves sharp nails pierce the tight skin of her loneliness. The only way she can manage is to keep busy. Once her PhD is done, she can move on; distance and a new job might be the best cure. But even at work there has been no escape. Quentin has been calling her in to his office to discuss the cull, to voice his dismay at the ideas being aired by the public. He was chuffed when Cameron interviewed him and published a feature article on ecological perspectives. Abby wasn’t so excited; as far as she can see this has been Cameron’s sole attempt to give credence to the science.

Quentin returns with the name tags and Abby pins hers on, thinking perhaps she has dressed more casually than she ought to have today—crimson jeans and one of her long-sleeved patchwork tops cobbled together from St Vinnies cast-offs. It’s a funky look, but probably not sufficiently conservative for a scientist. Quentin has made rather more of an effort. He’s wearing an ironed shirt, a yellow tie and nicely tailored trousers. It’s a far cry from his usual garb of shorts and Hawaiian tops which he wears to offend the staid old-boy network at the university, boring old men who support only the classical sciences like physics and chemistry and maths. Quentin hates being treated like a second-class citizen. The fact he’s broken from habit today shows just how seriously he’s taking this meeting. He wants to be respected, not seen as some misfit maladjusted geek.

They go into the lecture theatre to find seats before the growing crowd swarms in from the foyer. The auditorium is large and airy, rising from a wooden stage through multiple rows of seating to the lighting technician’s box up the back. Quentin chooses a position at the front so he can gain easy access when he’s called to give his talk. They sit quietly. Quentin flicks through a scientific paper he wants to refer to, frowning with concentration. Abby admires the fact he is never off duty. Whenever she sees him, at work or occasionally at his home when he invites a handful of students around to dinner, he has some scientific paper or textbook on the go, or something that he’s editing: a chapter for a book, a student’s thesis, a paper being reworked for submission to a journal.

While Quentin reads, people begin to file in, and Abby examines the mix. None of the faces look particularly friendly, and she wonders if everyone on earth is against culling except her and Quentin. If so, it doesn’t bode well for this meeting.

Among the entering throng, she sees Cameron slip through the doors. He flushes as he catches her eye and nods at her before ascending the stairs. Abby’s heart bangs uncomfortably. He looks confident and professional, laptop in one hand, phone in the other. The distance between them feels strange. It’s easy to ignore when she doesn’t see him, but now a pull of regret tugs deep inside her. His life has continued, of course, and she’s not in it—that was her choice. She wonders what he’s been doing, who he’s been seeing, and her thoughts twist tight into a knot. Maybe he’s found someone else while she’s been preoccupied with George. It’s none of her business anymore, but somehow this possibility hurts. She sees him sit by himself midway up the rows of seats, and she wishes she could sit with him, maybe hold his hand. To distract herself, she pulls a textbook from her bag and pretends to read.

She doesn’t have to work on deception for long. Soon a tall man in a blue suit claims the podium and introduces himself as the facilitator for the meeting. He defers to prominent members of the audience, including the Minister for the Environment who is here to open the meeting. The minister sweeps quickly through a written speech pledging government support for the humane and ecologically sustainable management of wildlife. He stares out at the audience over his glasses, business-smart in his pinstripe suit, and all that Abby hears is soulless rhetoric—there’s no heart in the words his mouth forms. This shouldn’t be surprising, but she is strangely disappointed. If the minister doesn’t believe in what he’s saying, who can?

Next the facilitator invites to the stage a small hunched woman, an elder of the Ngunnawal tribe which is known to have lived in the region since time immemorial. Favouring her right hip, the old lady labours up the stairs to the microphone. She has short soft hair, a shapeless body, full cheeks, brown lips and gentle eyes. Her voice is quiet, and she looks frail and aged and subdued, a little afraid of the microphone. She speaks with humility of her people and their bond with the land, their respect for nature and other beings, how important it is to live in harmony with all creatures and take only what is needed. Then she finishes by delivering the traditional welcome to country and shuffles back down the stairs.

Abby is moved by her presence. It seems such a weak symbolic gesture that the government trots out—this welcome to country—and yet it is so significant. Abby can’t help seeing the irony in it. The fact that this woman should thank the organisers for inviting her to speak on her people’s land is weirdly unsettling. But Abby supposes it is at least an acknowledgement of sorts that Indigenous people exist. It’s not so long ago they were considered non-people, not even securing the right to vote until 1967. That was before Abby was born, but it constitutes less than a lifetime.

The meeting turns out to be a talk-fest, only marginally under control. Whenever a scientist speaks, hecklers in the audience shout and interrupt. The facilitator tries to suppress them, but the mood of the gathering is unpleasant. Abby has never been to such a hostile meeting. She’s affronted by the lack of respect exhibited by the crowd. She understands people are emotional about the concept of culling, but why don’t they give the speakers a chance to explain themselves?

The government scientist begins by outlining the legislation governing biodiversity conservation, a boring address, peppered by endless bureau-speak. Abby is amazed that even this dry speech attracts heckling and protest. Then Quentin gets up and explains kangaroo biology in detail, focusing on the ability of kangaroos to breed continuously until they are so numerous they begin to starve. He describes the situation at the reserve where the cull is to occur. Overgrazing and habitat degradation are advanced there, he says. Other species are declining and there’s no food for kangaroos. It’s cruel to wait until they start to die.

Throughout the presentations, interjections and unrest are led by the animal rights activist called Martin Tennant, the one Abby heard on the radio when the cull was first announced. Abby watches him closely, astounded by his ability to galvanise support. He has the poise and voice of an actor, and he manages to twist everything the scientists say to make them look stupid. Abby wonders how he does it. She has never encountered anyone so powerfully persuasive. He’s portly and arrogant, not particularly impressive to look at, and yet there’s something compelling about him. He uses words like weapons. Even Quentin is humiliated by him.

At afternoon tea, she follows the crowd out into the foyer and drinks coffee with Quentin, discussing the progress of the meeting. Cameron is nowhere to be seen, but eventually she spies him in the far corner of the foyer talking to Martin Tennant. She manages to catch his eye, and for a moment she detects a flash of sadness and hurt. Then he covers his feelings with a journalistic glaze and goes back to his work. Abby feels the gulf between them, and a surge of loss rises in her.

She makes another coffee and takes it to an outside bench overlooking the long stretch of manicured lawn that surrounds the venue—obviously there’s still water for showpiece public places, even though the rest of the city is under restrictions. Settling herself on the bench she leans back and draws in fresh air, letting the tension of the meeting ease from her. Cameron is right. When they discussed this topic at the pub he said it was about values, not kangaroos, and now she can see the truth of it: activist versus ecologist, city versus country, kangaroos versus plants and reptiles.

She wonders how such divided attitudes have evolved in society. Australians define themselves as outdoorsy, sporty, easygoing and friendly. But perhaps there is no real national psyche. As they’ve become increasingly urbanised, people have adopted city philosophies—they have lost connection with the land.

Closing her eyes and stretching her arms along the back of the bench seat, she feels the faint tingle of winter sun on her skin. It’s soft red on her eyelids, gentle on her cheeks, soothing. A sigh sifts through her. It’s so good to be out of that auditorium and away from the conflicting tangle of emotions and opinions. She decides to stay outside for the rest of the afternoon and avoid the remainder of the proceedings. She can meet Quentin afterwards and get a lift home.

Then a voice disturbs her reverie. ‘Can I sit with you?’

She opens her eyes to see the kind, sagging features of the Ngunnawal elder who gave the welcome to country. She is standing nearby, waiting patiently.

‘Sure.’ Abby shifts along the bench to make space. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

The old woman limps to the seat and bends slowly to sit down. ‘Interesting afternoon,’ she says quietly, gazing across the lawn. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Abby says. ‘It doesn’t seem any sort of agreement will be possible, does it?’

‘No.’ The woman grunts then laughs softly. ‘People can’t agree on anything these days. Everyone’s too busy talking. Got their own views on things. What do
you
think?’

Abby hesitates then decides she must state where her learning lies. ‘I think there are too many kangaroos.’

‘Same as the government, eh?’

‘I’m a scientist, and that’s what the landscape is telling me.’ Even to Abby this sounds pompous, but the old woman smiles.

‘You talking to country too now, eh? You hear the land speaking?’

Abby flushes. ‘Not the same way it speaks to you.’

The old woman folds her arms across her belly and regards Abby thoughtfully. ‘Some white people can hear the land, but not too many of ’em.’ She shakes her head. ‘There sure are more kangaroos than there used to be. But it’s bad news to kill ’em all. Should only kill what’s needed for food. Not to throw in a pit to rot. It’s a waste.’

‘They say they need to get rid of four or five hundred,’ Abby says. ‘That’s a lot of dead kangaroos.’

‘Sure is. But you kill ’em and they come back again in a few years. Breed up, more babies. What do you do then? Keep fixing it whitefella way?’ She lifts her fingers in the shape of a gun and points out across the lawn. ‘Boom, boom.’ Then she looks back to Abby.

‘I don’t like shooting either,’ Abby says. ‘But I can’t see any other way.’

‘No,’ the woman says. ‘Whitefellas never can.’

They sit for a while, breathing the afternoon air, sunlight bright on the grass, the shadows starting to lean towards the east.

‘I know someone who’d like to meet you,’ Abby says. ‘She used to live on a property up in the mountains before that country became part of a park. She grew up there. She wants to know what happened to the people who lived there before her family came. Your people, I guess.’