CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Fiona Higgins has a background in corporate communications, Indonesian translation and non-profit management. She currently works as a philanthropy executive, advising individuals and agencies on social investment opportunities in Australia and Asia.
Love
in the age of
DROUGHT
FIONA HIGGINS
Pan Macmillan Australia
First published 2009 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Fiona Higgins 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Higgins, Fiona.
Love in the age of drought : a career girl, a cotton farmer and
an unlikely romance / Fiona Higgins.
ISBN: 978 1 4050 3909 3(pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset in 12/16 Fairfield LH Light by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2009 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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Love in the Age of Drought
Fiona Higgins
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To the memory of my father
Ian Granville Collins
(1942 – 2008)
CHAPTER 1
‘Oh, God!’I gasped, as Qantas Flight 136 banked steeply between clouds. A routine flight from Sydney to Melbourne was yet again becoming an exercise in indignity. My neck flushed an angry scarlet as perspiration soaked through the armpits of my business shirt. In an attempt to calm myself, I double-checked the whereabouts of my nearest emergency exit.
My rapid breathing attracted the attention of the tall, 30-something man sitting next to me.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, with genuine concern.
‘Yes,’ I replied bluntly, ‘I hate flying.’
The plane pitched forward and I clutched at the armrest, inadvertently grasping the stranger’s forearm.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I muttered, releasing him, ‘I didn’t mean to do that. It’s completely irrational.’ I stared unseeingly out the window, attempting to calculate the likely remaining time of our ascent.
‘That’s all right,’ the stranger replied graciously. ‘You just grab my hand whenever you need to.’ I smiled, determined to maintain my composure.
‘I’m Scott,’ he said, extending his hand to shake mine.
‘I’m Fiona,’ I replied, returning the handshake with a brief, sweaty squeeze.
‘I can’t understand your fear of flying. Me, I just fall asleep on takeoff,’ he said. ‘Then again, I’m scared of snakes. Each to their own, I suppose.’
I turned back to the window, focusing on the swirling mist beyond. From my seat in the rear row of the aircraft, every bump and shudder seemed amplified. Three rows ahead, a baby began to wail.
‘So, are you heading to Melbourne for business or pleasure?’ Scott asked, apparently undeterred by my silence.
‘Business,’ I replied. ‘It’s a conference for a leadership program funded by my organisation.’
Scott nodded with interest. ‘What kind of leadership program? Like an MBA?’ he asked.
I glanced sideways at him. ‘Well, no, it’s a fairly unusual program,’ I said. ‘Its focus is ethics.’
‘Ethics,’ he repeated. ‘You mean, like choosing between right and wrong?’
‘Mmm,’ I stalled, trying to figure out how to explain it. ‘It’s more like choosing between two rights or two wrongs. You know, when things aren’t clear-cut and you have to choose between bad and worse. How do you decide?’
Scott looked confused. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
The plane finally, mercifully, emerged into clear blue sky. The seatbelt sign flashed off, signalling that the worst of the takeoff was now over. I sighed with relief.
A flight attendant appeared and began doling out refreshments. Coffee for Scott, water for me.
‘Okay, so here’s an example,’ I said. ‘Your neighbour’s house is on fire and there’s a child trapped inside. You’ve got children of your own, but you’re the only person on the scene. By the time the fire engine arrives, it’ll be too late.’ I unscrewed the bottle top and downed a mouthful of water. ‘Do you try to rescue the child, when it means risking your life and potentially leaving your own children parentless? Or do you live with the consequences of not intervening?’
Scott sipped his coffee in silence. ‘Tough,’ he said, at last. ‘I don’t know what I’d do.’
‘Well, that’s the realm of ethics,’ I replied. ‘And this leadership program tries to help people make better ethical decisions in their lives, whatever their line of work.’
I reclined in my chair and closed my eyes. I wasn’t quite prepared for in-depth philosophical deliberations at 39,000 feet.
‘But that would be a difficult skill to learn,’ Scott persisted. ‘How successful is this program in teaching ethics?’
‘Well, that’s exactly what I’m flying to Melbourne to find out,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be meeting some of the leadership participants at their ethics conference. That should give me a sense of the program’s success.’
Forty minutes later at the airport, I exchanged business cards with Scott from Surry Hills.
‘Thanks for keeping me occupied on the flight. And sorry I wasn’t much fun,’ I sai
d, hailing a cab.
‘You were no trouble at all,’ Scott replied, opening the door for me.
As I climbed into the back seat and gave him a friendly wave, I marvelled at the generosity of complete strangers on aeroplanes.
Stepping out of the cab in downtown Fitzroy, I surveyed my lodgings for the next two days. Dozens of people, graduates of the leadership program, milled about the forecourt. I recognised a few familiar faces: a senior government bureaucrat, a high-profile lawyer, an award-winning journalist. I dumped my bags and hurried towards a seminar room. The first session of the ethics conference was about to begin.
Bending over a table searching for my name tag, I noticed a rough-looking hand reach out to clasp a tag bearing a recognisable name – Stuart Higgins. I recalled this name because of a web site which I’d chanced upon several weeks earlier. The site tracked the progress of a national radio program starring Stuart Higgins, a cotton farmer from Queensland, who had donated five acres of his property to the listeners of ABC Radio National. Entitled ‘Grow Your Own’, the program offered urban audiences the opportunity to be ‘virtual farmers’ for a season. While the listeners deliberated over the best way to grow ‘their’ five acres of cotton, Stuart facilitated lively radio debates about thorny issues such as water resource management, genetic modification and the use of synthetic pesticides.
When reviewing the site, I’d been surprised by this farmer’s courage in exposing his cotton farm to the scrutiny of a nation – to people just like me, the urban chardonnay set, who had little understanding of primary production and a predisposition to critique it. Rather than shying away from polarising discussions about agricultural practices, Stuart had actively volunteered his farm as their public testing ground. The program was enjoying considerable success, with thousands of listeners voting online to pursue particular farming techniques, often in direct contradiction to Stuart’s own practices.
As the ruddy hand retrieved the tag, I turned to address the bearer.
‘Hello Stuart,’ I said, ‘I really like your web site.’ I smiled up into a tanned face. The online photo didn’t do him justice; I hadn’t realised he’d be so attractive. Couldn’t I think of a better introduction?
Stuart Higgins looked at me with an expression that asked ‘Do I know you?’ then responded, ‘oh … right. Thanks.’ We walked towards the door of the seminar room.
‘I’m Fiona,’ I said, reaching out awkwardly to shake his hand. ‘I’ve never actually heard your radio program, because it’s broadcast when I’m at work. But I’ve had a good look at your web site and it’s fantastic. I used to be a web designer,’ I explained.
Stuart seemed baffled as I rabbited on about the site’s elegant information architecture, intuitive navigation and excellent image-to-text ratios. Sensing his bewilderment, I cut myself short.
‘Well, congratulations on “Grow Your Own”, anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s a great initiative. Enjoy the conference.’
I found a seat at the rear of the room next to a complete stranger. Stuart picked his way to the front, where a pretty young woman hailed him with an effusive hug. He sat down next to her, disappearing from view as the conference commenced.
In the subsequent break between seminars, I wandered about in the unfamiliar crowd. Everyone around me seemed to know each other. I clutched a cup of percolated coffee and, feeling self-conscious, randomly introduced myself to a small group of program participants standing nearby. Among this intimidating company of professionals, I felt inadequate. Like an agnostic at a Christian convention, I was evidently an outsider, not privy to the fellowship of the wider group.
At the end of the day, it was a relief to retreat to my hotel room for a brief respite before dinner. I curled up on the bed and closed my eyes, steeling myself for the long evening ahead. It had been a torrid couple of months and I didn’t feel like socialising at a black-tie function. In just twelve weeks, I’d resigned from a play-it-safe corporate communications job, leapt into a completely new role in the philanthropic sector and broken up with my partner of four years. But even as I boldly reconfigured my world, a niggling vulnerability remained. At nearly 28 years of age, I’d had several long-term relationships and, yet again, I’d been the one to initiate the breakup. It pained me to admit it, but a pattern was emerging.
Later that evening at the graduation dinner, I tottered around the function centre on too-high heels. At just under 175 centimetres, I didn’t need the height. But somehow those extra four centimetres bolstered my confidence. Engaged in an earnest discussion with the head of a welfare agency, I was surprised to find Stuart Higgins hovering at my elbow. My conversation partner promptly excused himself and rejoined the mass of people around us, all laughing, chatting and fiercely networking.
Leaning casually against a wall, Stuart motioned towards the throng. ‘Enjoying meeting all these fascinating people, Fiona?’
I beamed, grateful that he had remembered my name, and decided to risk radical honesty.
‘Well, actually, it’s a bit daunting,’ I admitted. ‘Everyone knows everyone else, they’re all high-achievers, and I’m just a lowly representative of the funding body.’ Stuart arched an eyebrow.
‘Lowly? You don’t strike me as that,’ he said.
‘Well, among medical specialists and managing directors, a program officer’s not particularly high in the food chain.’
Stuart cocked his head. ‘But I’m guessing your job title doesn’t necessarily reflect the complexity of what you do.’
I smiled, surprised by this observation.
‘Maybe you’ve even got the same problem as me,’ he continued, ‘with people having perceptions about you that aren’t based on reality. I get that all the time. When people in cities hear I’m a cotton farmer, they assume I’m an environmental vandal. If I had a dollar for the number of times people have said to me, “You’re a cotton farmer, you wreck the environment”, I’d have retired. It’s like telling them I’m a real estate agent or a used car salesman. They run a mile.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Maybe program officers have the same problem.’
‘Actually, I’ve got the opposite problem,’ I replied. ‘I’m involved in the funding decisions at my organisation – you know, who gets the grant dollars – so everyone wants to be my friend. I’ve learnt that in philanthropy, there’s no such thing as a free lunch or a genuine compliment.’
Stuart laughed aloud. The sound had a deep, rich quality; it was laughter that wrapped its arms around you.
‘You mean, you spend your day fending off people trying to get at your funds?’
‘Pretty much,’ I replied, ‘and identifying the best projects to support, for the greatest community benefit. It’s harder than you’d imagine.’
‘Well, who’d have thought giving money away would have its challenges?’ He laughed, but immediately checked his smile. ‘Then again, most people think farming’s a lot easier than it really is. That’s probably true for philanthropy, too. Things are always tougher than they look.’
I sipped at my champagne and cast a surreptitious glance at Stuart. His bronzed face and hands bore testament to his work outdoors. But there was clearly far more to him than met the eye.
‘Do you think you’ll always be a farmer?’ I asked abruptly.
‘Ah …’ Stuart sighed. ‘You don’t shy away from the big questions, do you?’
I felt suddenly embarrassed by my directness. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.’
‘No worries. It’s refreshing,’ he said. ‘Well, to be honest, no. I’ve been farming for eleven years now. I don’t see myself out there forever. If I’d been born on the land, maybe it’d be different. But I’ve got no farming history in the family.’
‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t most people on the land because their parents were there before them?’
Stuart nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s the way it is for most farmers.’
I tried to visualise setting up a farm without the benefit
of an inter-generational handover. ‘Then it must have been hard for you to start up as a farmer,’ I observed. ‘How did you do it?’
Stuart smiled. ‘Do you really want to hear this?’
I nodded.
‘Well,’ he started, ‘back in 1991, I was a city boy doing an Agricultural Science degree at the University of Queensland. After graduation, I needed some on-ground experience. So with financial help from my father, I bought a busted-up old grain property out west.’ Stuart hailed a passing waitress and took a soda water from her tray.
‘My training was in animal husbandry,’ he continued, ‘so after I’d found my feet, I set up a small feedlot of twenty steers. Funnily enough, what I’d learnt at university was all theory, no practice. On the first day, one of the steers jumped its pen and bolted. My profit for the venture trotted off into the distance, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers and laughed. ‘They sure didn’t teach us feedlot security at university,’ he said.
‘Two years of trial and error later, I was running out of water for the cattle and my back was against the wall. In the middle of the biggest drought in a century, I was forced to drill for bore water. Luckily, I found more than enough to keep watering the herd. So over the next couple of years, I turned a small-time cattle operation into an irrigated cotton farm. The rest is history,’ he concluded. ‘I’ve been growing cotton for eight years now.’
‘So you love farming then,’ I said, a statement rather than a question.
An uneasy look passed across Stuart’s face. ‘Well, only when it loves me back. Farming’s pretty arbitrary. Hard work doesn’t always guarantee a return. Since I started farming, we’ve had two of the worst droughts in the region’s recorded history. So I’m keeping my options open, because there’s only so much drought one farmer can take.’ He swallowed a mouthful of soda water.
I nodded sympathetically, but felt like a fraud. I didn’t understand Stuart’s world at all.
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