Flood country

  Flood country

  Robert Maddison

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, corporations, institutions and organisations referred to in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or business entities, is purely coincidental. Where real organisations are referred to this is done simply to add some context to the storyline without intending to infer the actual conduct of those organisations or people who work for them.

  First published in Australia in 2012

  Copyright © Robert Maddison 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-925086-48-5

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Vivid Publishing

  Fremantle, Western Australia

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

  Cataloguing-in-publication data is held at the National Library of Australia

  Cover design by: Chizel Design

  Connect with the author online:

  Facebook: Robert Maddison

  Email: floodcountry@gmail.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the hard working, but sadly increasingly overlooked rural people who are the backbone of Australia. It is also in memory of my father—a man from the ‘bush’ whose stories of his life helped inspire this work. To my mother I also say thanks for giving me just a little of her ability to write.

  Acknowledgements

  As a work of fiction, the characters, places and businesses in this story have all been created by my imagination. Of course, as you go through life, people and places leave imprints on you and so I don’t deny that many of the characters and locations in this book were inspired by various people I’ve encountered and places I’ve lived or visited. I thank them for that inspiration.

  The storyline is also drawn from my life experiences. I was born and bred in rural Australia—the ‘bush’. Professionally, I got to see how the government machine works (?) and then escaped to work with people dealing with life’s real day-to-day challenges. So while this story is based on that real life context, I’ve gilded the lily a bit, no, a lot actually, in the interests of entertaining you—I hope.

  A special thanks goes to my friends and wife for reading early drafts and being willing and kind critics. Special mention must also go to Daniella Brodsky for her wonderful insights into how to begin writing and avoid the brick walls!

  Finally, I wouldn’t want anyone reading this to use it in any way to take aim at those on the land who make a living relying on irrigation. Yes, there is very real tension between graziers and irrigators in places where water is scarce or not well managed, or both. In writing this story it was convenient to portray some irrigators as I have—in life that’s not how I have found the over-whelming majority to be.

  From the author

  Some aspects of life in rural Australia today—which I have touched on in this book when scene-setting—warrant more than a passing consideration by you the reader. One is that in many areas these communities are being decimated, largely as a consequence of governments blindly pursuing policies in the area of water ownership that are seeing more and more small farms gobbled up by bigger ones. Abandoned farms, less people, less shops, less services, less community and on it goes. This is real—not fiction.

  Another sad reality is that of suicide among farmers. The severe drought experienced from 1997 to late 2010, in Australia’s eastern states in particular, threw into stark relief the frightening and tragic incidence of farmer suicides. In his submission to the Australian Senate’s Inquiry into Suicide in 2010, respected ABC radio journalist Michael Condon captured the essence of this problem better than I could ever hope to, as follows:

  “The rate of rural suicide in Australia is amongst the highest in the developed world as farmers battle the crippling challenges and profound stresses of years of drought, failed crops, mounting debt and rural dwellers battle to slow the decaying towns and communities…

  The Land newspaper in 2005 reported that there are around 1,000 suicides a year in rural Australia, just fewer than 20 deaths a week. National farm debt has doubled in five years to A$40 billion, as farmers borrow each season to plant crops only to see them shrivel and die.

  Cattle and sheep farmers have sent valuable livestock to slaughter because they can no longer afford to buy feed or water…. Instead of seeking help many rural men retreat into the farm, become unsociable and sink further into the spiral of depression and/or mental illness.

  Isolation is a real problem—living hundreds of kilometres from a town, the daily responsibility of feeding and watering starving livestock means they think they cannot leave their property.

  Younger generations are reluctant to take on the burden of the farm or they are being excluded from decision making by the older generation, who reject any attempts at succession planning.”

  As you contemplate this story perhaps these sage words will help you appreciate that life on the land is tough, and getting tougher. And, if you feel so inclined, a donation to that wonderful charity organisation Beyond Blue would help them continue their work in attempting to combat this problem.

  The other charity worthy of your interest and support is River Smart Australia Ltd, a grass-roots focussed organisation that works with whole communities in regional areas to help them take action that will sustain our precious rivers into the future.

  All proceeds from this book I am donating to both these charities.

  Robert Maddison

  Chapter 1

  The sign on the rusted fence beside the cattle grid read ‘Sunset Downs’. Jack smiled with a combination of relief and anticipation—he’d arrived. The road dust swirled around the car and then cleared. The mailbox lay scattered in pieces by the road. That’s odd, he thought. He guided his battered and bruised Prius off the corrugated gravel road and over the grid.

  In the distance he could see a classic country farmhouse nestled among the eucalypts. Red corrugated iron roof, screened verandas, rusty windmill and a water tank sitting high on its stand. Jack wondered—was this to be the beginning of a new chapter in his life?

  As he approached the farmhouse, three lean and curious dogs loped toward the car. An old tractor was sitting in the shed beside a couple of quad bikes and a ute. Everything was layered with dust. A few chickens were roaming nearby and a rooster crowed. A Hills Hoist stood beside the house; a few socks, shirts and other items fluttering in the hot, dry breeze. As he stopped the car a figure emerged from the house. He was a little taller than Jack, six-one maybe; wearing a sweat-stained blue shirt, well-worn jeans and riding boots. There wasn’t much hair left, and what remained was close-cropped and steely grey. Jack guessed he’d be in his late 60s. He looked work-hardened—Jack felt flabby and slightly out of condition in comparison. His walk was purposeful and as the garden gate squeaked open Jack was struck by the man’s piercing blue eyes.

  A strong, callused hand was extended toward him. ‘Welcome to Sunset Downs,’ he said, a smile flashing across the sun-weathered face. ‘I assume you’re that journalist fella that rang up about my little story in the paper?’

  ‘Yes; Jack Miller, Mister Thompson, pleased to meet you.’ Jack was embarrassed by his soft, weak, city-slicker hand offered in reply and tried to match Thompson’s powerful grip without grimacing. He failed.

  ‘Call me Mike,’ he replied. ‘Can I interest you in a cuppa?’

  ‘That’d be great, thanks Mike.’

  As they turned to go inside Mike teased, ‘What’s that prissy-looki
ng car you’re driving? It wouldn’t last long out here. Nowhere to plug the bugger in.’ He gave a devilish chuckle and then continued, ‘I’ve heard about these bloody hybrid things. Don’t tell me you believe all that city bullshit about global warming?’

  Jack made a mental note not to discuss climate change.

  Mike got busy in the kitchen while Jack sat at the big round dining table on the enclosed veranda. A lazy Susan with an array of condiments was the centrepiece on the gnarled old wooden table top. The wall was covered with family photos. Jack stood and started to browse. Some showed a much younger Mike with wife, three kids and a few dogs swimming in the farm dam. There were several photos of them mustering cattle on horseback and wading through sweeping fields of lush grass. Looking at one photo where all he could see was water and a few flooded trees, Jack asked, ‘Where was this one taken, Mike?’

  Mike’s head appeared over the room divider. ‘From about where you’re standing right now, Jack. I thought I’d have to build us a bloody ark during that flood.’

  Mike returned holding two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Those were better days,’ he said. ‘I lost my wife Marg to cancer four years ago and two of the kids have gone off to the big smoke, nothing for ’em to do here,’ he lamented. ‘Still got one son, Charlie, here with me. Not sure how much longer we can hang on though. This bloody drought, the government or those mongrel irrigators might just knock us off.’

  Jack produced the newspaper clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald that had brought him here, placing it on the table. The headline read, ‘Angry farmer accuses bureaucrat of corruption’.

  ‘Mike, as I said on the phone, I saw this last week and thought I’d like to do a follow-up piece, if you’re willing? I grew up in the bush, in the Riverina, and I’m a bit tired of writing for in-flight magazines about island resorts only the rich and famous can afford. It’s time for some real journalism again.’

  Mike looked Jack steadily in the eyes, assessing him. ‘Jack, I should warn you, if you want the full story you may want to up your life insurance, mate. These bastards know how to play rough, and out here you can’t go running to the cops for help. It takes ’em well over an hour—on a good day—to get out here. I can tell you what I know, but that’s painting a bullseye on your chest too. Trust me, this isn’t some little neighbourhood squabble. These boys play for keeps.’

  Jack felt a tingle up his spine, a mixture of fear and excitement—the journalist in him was on high alert from these few words uttered by Mike. ‘Let’s see what happens,’ said Jack, with more confidence than he felt, ‘and if it gets too hot for me, I’ll let you know.’

  Mike smiled knowingly. ‘Ok, finish your tea and let’s jump in the ute and I’ll show you around.’

  Just then Jack was startled by what sounded like a gunshot in the distance. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’re hanging around for a while you’d better get used to it. That’s the gun noise the stone fruit growers use to scare away the birds and flying foxes. They go off regularly at this time of year—more frequently just after dusk.’

  As they made their way outside, Jack’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked, ‘What happened to your mailbox?’

  Mike smiled. ‘Always happens whenever I speak out about the crooks in the water industry; one of those water-thieving bastards puts his bull bar through it. When you rang up I was about to rebuild it. Then I thought—there’s no point. Once they hear you’ve been here they’ll flatten it again. I’ve got some explosives in the shed for getting rid of old tree stumps so I’m thinking I might strap it to the new box when I build it to give ’em a little surprise next time.’ Mike walked off, clearly amused by this idea.

  Jack thought—is he joking or not?

  Chapter 2

  About 600—as the crow flies—kilometres away, in a well-appointed office on the ninth floor of a gleaming high-rise in Sydney’s centre of power—Macquarie Street—three men in grey suits were meeting in the office of the New South Wales Minister for Water Resources.

  The minister, Gary Townsend—his usually well-manicured, photo-ready face clearly unhappy—slammed his fist on the table. ‘Des, who is this silly bastard, Mike Thompson? Does he really have anything on our man in the region—what’s his name—Wellsmore?’

  Sitting opposite the minister was Des Drummond, Head of the Department of Water Resources, his weary face more ashen than usual. ‘It’s possible, Gary. You know as well as I do what’s been going on up there—it was only a matter of time before someone got their hands on proof,’ he said.

  At the far end of the long, highly-polished meeting table sat Todd Marchant—a noted head kicker from the right faction of the party. He had a position of ‘advisor’ in the minister’s office. Todd’s dark eyes hardened and he stroked his long thin nose. ‘Gary, we have an election coming up this year and Johnson is not necessarily a safe electorate for us. There’s that fucking independent who’s gaining in the polls. We can’t afford to let any shit from this splatter on John Burton, the local Member. We need to make this go away, quickly and quietly.’

  Des interjected, clearly agitated, and his dislike of Todd evident. ‘That’s a political issue, Todd. Not my problem. I’m concerned about what this might mean for me and the reputation of my Department.’

  ‘Bullshit, Des. You got involved in this with your eyes wide open so get that stupid prick Wellsmore promoted out of the region asap before this goes any further.’

  ‘Gentleman, gentlemen, take it easy,’ the minister reasserted himself—glaring across the table at them both—his tanned features glowing slightly as the temperature of the conversation escalated.

  Des replied, ‘Ok, Gary. All I’m saying is that it’s not always as easy as Todd likes to think. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. Is that all for now, Minister? I have another meeting and I’m already late.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for coming in Des. Keep me posted,’ said the minister.

  As Drummond departed, a side door to the office opened and they were joined by the minister’s media advisor, Matt Brown—designer glasses, lightly gelled hair, his Blackberry a constant companion and diamond studs in both ears. Smiling he said, ‘Gary, I’ve checked. You’re in the clear. We have no records of the Department advising this office they’ve ever had concerns about Wellsmore’s probity.’

  ‘Thank God for that. We’ve had too much shit of late over our water policies,’ said the minister. Glancing at his watch he stood. ‘I have to get back to Parliament for question time. Let’s hope the bloody Greens haven’t got wind of this and table a question without notice.’ Matt followed the minister from the room.

  Left alone in the office, Todd reached for his Blackberry and hit the call button. ‘Vinnie, Todd here. We might have a little problem with this bloody farmer that’s pointed the finger at Wellsmore. We can’t let this escalate or some serious heads will roll. I need you to do some checking for me; and Vinnie, find out how we can worry or hurt Mr Thompson if we have to.’

  Chapter 3

  Mike’s ute had seen better days. Some of the springs were protruding from the seat and thick dust caked everything. There was a strong odour of diesel mixed with hay. Two of the dogs jumped on the back of the ute and Mike helped the third one up. ‘That’s old Max. He’s getting on in years but I haven’t had the heart to put him down,’ said Mike.

  They headed off away from the main road, Jack jumping out to open and close gates as they worked their way through parched paddock after parched paddock.

  Mike opened up, ‘Jack, we’ve been in drought here for bloody near ten years. It’s been too much for a few poor buggers around here, they’ve topped themselves, which is tragic for their poor families.’

  ‘We don’t hear much about that aspect of the drought in Sydney,’ replied Jack.

  ‘Nah, curiously it doesn’t get much airplay. Not sure why, maybe the government doesn’t want anyone to know how badly their policies are hurting. I’m really n
ot sure, Jack, but I can think of three blokes who’ve done it just in this region alone. It’s pretty desperate.’

  ‘That’s disgraceful, Mike, I’m going to look into that for the story. We should be doing more to help people through these times of crisis,’ said Jack, thinking—why is it we never speak about suicide in this society?

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. For about the last 20 years there’s been growing conflict in this valley between the irrigators who pump water and us graziers who once relied on natural flows and floods. Before they arrived we used to make a good living grazing our stock on the floodplains. Back then, before those stupid government bastards issued more water licences than the river could ever deliver, this country used to get a drink most years, and then a big flood would come about every five years to really freshen things up. Haven’t seen a big flood since that one in the photo back home. That was 1971.’ Mike took a deep breath and looked around, clearly remembering those better days, before continuing.

  ‘We used to have the most amazing swamps through here—teeming with waterbirds they were, and then, as the waters receded, it was perfect for feeding the cattle. It was a real win-win situation. Now the system gets sucked dry most years so it’s only a major flood that can get water out on the floodplain and give us fodder for our cattle.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is the total volume of water held under licence is more than the river has available?’

  Mike gave one of his chuckles, ‘Too right, it’s nearly twice as much. They just hope that not everyone will want their water in the same year. They sold water licences to make money and encourage agriculture, but didn’t think about what might happen in a drought when everyone wanted their water at the same time. Talk about stupid. Of course there’s always been talk that if you really wanted a water licence there were ways to get one, if you get my drift?’