A childhood memory flashed into my mind of visiting a sheep station in northern Victoria; it was my sole experience of farming to date. On that occasion, I’d been introduced by Farmer Jim to a flock of lovely looking lambs. I’d taken a particular interest in one woolly specimen, Flossy, whom I’d cradled in my arms and fed bottled milk. The following day over a Sunday roast, Farmer Jim asked, ‘So, Fiona, how does Flossy taste?’ My five-year-old sensibilities were outraged and I promptly spurned all manner of meat. From that moment, I became the bane of my mother’s life as a vegetarian convert and since then, I hadn’t had much time for farmers at all.
Guiltily, I confessed. ‘I’ve got no farming experience, so it’s hard for me to imagine what it must be like for you. I mean, I’ve heard a lot about the drought in the media, but it’s never affected me directly.’
‘So, have you spent any time in rural Australia at all?’ Stuart asked.
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I passed through quite a lot of it when I cycled around Australia three years ago.’
Stuart coughed into his soda water.
‘What, you rode a bicycle around Australia?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Yes, it was a fundraising event,’ I explained.
‘Oh, now that makes so much more sense,’ he joked. ‘Tell me more.’
I smiled. ‘Well, I’d just returned from living in Indonesia for my final year of university, when the Asian economic crisis was at its worst. Millions of people were on the poverty line, children eating just one meal a day. When I got back to Australia, I was shocked by just how much we had. A cliché, but true.’ I glanced at Stuart, wondering if I should continue. He appeared to be listening intently.
‘I just couldn’t bring myself to resume a normal life without doing something about the poverty I’d seen,’ I explained. ‘So, being young and idealistic, I literally got on my bike and cycled 17,000 kilometres around Australia.’
Stuart gave a long, low whistle.
‘I had a small team with me,’ I added. ‘A support crew. Together, we raised about $100,000 for humanitarian programs. It wasn’t much, but it went a long way in Indonesia.’ I felt my face begin to flush under Stuart’s prolonged scrutiny. ‘So all up, I probably spent the best part of seven months out in rural Australia. I’ll never forget the hospitality of country towns along the way.’ I drained the last of my champagne and twirled the crystal flute between my fingertips.
‘Well, I take my hat off to you,’ Stuart said. ‘Not many people have that sort of gumption. And I can relate to your motivation – I do a bit of consulting in Asia on agricultural issues. I’ve seen farmers in Cambodia and Laos slogging their guts out on a half-acre plot, permanently in debt to some ruthless moneylender.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘So when I hear myself complaining too much about the drought in Australia, I think about farmers in the developing world. Now that keeps me grounded, because in the end, that could’ve been me. It’s just an accident of birth that I’m an Australian farmer, not a Cambodian one.’
Stuart’s words echoed my own concerns; it was exactly the sort of sentiment that had prompted me to ride a bicycle around Australia. Throughout my life, the plight of those less fortunate had irrevocably altered my personal and professional choices. It was the reason I now worked in the non-profit sector and philanthropy, eschewing the money and glamour of corporate opportunities. But I’d never imagined I’d encounter such affinities in a farmer from country Queensland. I studied Stuart’s face with interest and momentarily, our eyes locked. The chatter all around us seemed to subside.
The moment was broken when a friend of Stuart’s loped up behind us and thumped him between the shoulderblades.
‘Kingo,’ Stuart’s voice carried a detectable note of disappointment. ‘Kingo, do you know Fiona?’ I smiled and extended my hand. Kingo returned the handshake warmly.
‘Are you doing the leadership program, Fiona?’ he asked.
‘No, but I’d like to be.’
‘It’s transformative,’ said Kingo enthusiastically. ‘If you ever end up on the program, you’ll never be the same.’
I withdrew to one side, allowing Kingo and Stuart the chance to talk alone.
As the pair chatted, I covertly watched Stuart Higgins. Impressively self-confident, he seemed to be a man unafraid of risk, comfortable in his own skin and unaccustomed to self-doubt. Just watching him made me smile. His irrepressible charisma made his frame seem even larger. Despite my heels, he towered over me. There was something very compelling about Stuart, but also something radically unfamiliar. I wondered briefly how he spent his Sunday mornings – a rogue thought that disconcerted me.
While Kingo and Stuart continued to talk, I moved to return to my table. Stuart called out to me, ‘Fiona, maybe we could have a dance later?’
‘I’d like that,’ I replied.
But before long, the function concluded. The lights were switched on, the music switched off, and guests began meandering towards the exits. As I headed for the door, Stuart, surrounded by friends, made his way towards me.
‘We’re going dancing downtown,’ he called. ‘Why don’t you come along?’ Something told me that Stuart’s friends would probably prefer a reunion unfettered by outsiders. But, reassured by the size of the departing group, I nodded.
We set out for a venue nearby, with Stuart striding ahead at a cracking pace. Impeded by my unwieldy heels, I dropped to the rear of the group and soon Stuart disappeared from view. As my feet began to blister, an inebriated middle-aged man sidled up to me.
‘Hi, I’m Joel,’ he slurred. ‘Why haven’t I seen you before?’
‘Because I’m not part of the program,’ I responded, edging away from him.
Joel wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Is your boyfriend on the program then?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
‘So, do you have a boyfriend?’ he persisted.
Weary of this unwanted attention, I decided to call an end to the evening.
‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ I announced to no-one in particular, wheeling about and heading away from the group.
Liberated, I removed my shoes and retraced my steps. I was confident that Stuart wouldn’t miss my absence in the company of old friends. Entering the foyer of the hotel and looking forward to the welcome relief of bed, I was dismayed to hear my name called by a genial-looking man seated on a lounge. I recognised Michael as a graduate of the program with whom I’d had an earlier exchange on the topic of Indonesia. Although it was past midnight, Michael was keen to continue the conversation. I fought fatigue as we stood in the foyer and discussed the Indonesia–Australia relationship in the wake of East Timor’s independence.
Suddenly, the foyer doors flew open and Stuart strode through them. He’s back early, I mused. Stuart approached us, greeted Michael politely and then stood to one side, waiting for the discussion to conclude. However, Michael was on a roll and several more minutes passed with me nodding mutely and Stuart loitering nearby. Eventually, Stuart’s patience wore thin. Michael was analysing Australia’s involvement in training the Indonesian military when Stuart interjected.
‘Excuse me, Fiona, can I have a word with you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, of course,’ I replied, a little stunned by his assertiveness.
‘Outside, perhaps?’ Stuart asked, gently placing his hand at my elbow. He fixed Michael with a piercing stare, at which point Michael bade us both good night, promising to continue our conversation in the morning.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Stuart said, motioning towards the retreating figure of Michael.
‘That’s fine,’ I replied, wondering what on earth might be coming next. Inexplicably, my stomach dropped, mimicking the sensation of sudden descent in an aircraft.
Stuart released my elbow and turned to face me.
‘I was walking with my friends and looked around to check where you were, but I couldn’t see you. I kept walking for a while, trying to work out where you’d g
one. Then I had the overwhelming desire to try to find you. I knew my friends wanted me to go out dancing, and everything was taking me in that direction, but it just didn’t feel right. I had to turn back to find you.’
I gazed at him, waiting.
‘I didn’t think I’d actually come across you in the foyer – that was pure luck – but when I did, I thought you should know that I’d tried to find you.’ He looked at me searchingly.
‘I find you intriguing, Fiona,’ he declared. I felt my face beginning to burn. Oh my God, what should I say?
‘Oh – right. Well … thanks.’ I cringed inwardly at this lame response. Stuart continued to stare at me.
‘Well, um, thanks again, and good night,’ I stammered.
‘Right, good night,’ replied Stuart, turning on his heel.
I climbed the stairs to my hotel room, tired and confused. What exactly was the significance of Stuart’s words? Too tired to think further on it, I collapsed into bed. It had been a big day.
The following morning, at the final session of the ethics conference, I scanned the room for Stuart’s face. I spotted him by the window and manoeuvred myself through the crowd. Taking a seat in a nearby row, I threw him a smile. Stuart returned it with a curt nod. Deflated, I wondered if he now regretted our late-night conversation.
As the conference concluded and the assembled group began to disperse, Stuart approached me, carrying a large duffle bag.
‘I’m off now,’ he said, motioning towards the hotel’s exit. ‘Good to meet you.’
I swallowed nervously and asked, ‘Do you ever get to Sydney, Stuart?’
‘Sometimes,’ he replied.
‘Well, if you’re ever planning a visit, let me know. Perhaps we could have a coffee and a catch-up?’ I said, feeling slightly foolish.
Stuart paused for what seemed an unbearably long period, before replying, ‘Yeah, we could.’
An uncomfortable silence followed. I began riffling through my briefcase for a business card. ‘Um … would you like my contact details?’ I asked.
Stuart shook his head. ‘I’ll find you,’ he said casually, sauntering away.
Didn’t even accept my card. That’s it then. With both my private and business numbers unlisted in the telephone directory, it would be almost impossible for Stuart Higgins to find me, even if he wanted to.
At work on Monday, I smiled at the sight of a giant multi-coloured bunch of roses delivered to my desk. ‘Someone thinks you’re nice,’ the secretary chimed. Fumbling to open the card, I caught my breath as I read the handwritten message: ‘Hope your flight home was smooth. Can I take you to dinner? Scott.’ Disappointment flooded me as I realised that the flowers were not from Stuart, but from the man on the plane. I winced, recalling how I’d grasped Scott’s forearm during my turbulent flight to Melbourne. I sank into my chair, screwed up the card, and tossed it into the bin.
CHAPTER 2
‘G’day,’ said a deep, familiar voice at the other end of the phone line. ‘Sorry to trouble you at work.’ My face flushed, but I tried to sound easygoing and relaxed. It had taken Stuart Higgins five days to track me down.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked.
‘Not in the telephone directory, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘I had to convince the ethics program staff to do something very unethical. I got them to disclose your phone number at work.’
I laughed aloud, imagining Stuart sweet-talking the receptionist.
‘Now that would have taken some persuasion.’ I paused, desperately wanting to continue the conversation. ‘I’m sorry Stuart, I’m about to go into a meeting. Can I call you back later?’
We exchanged personal telephone numbers and I promised to contact him over the weekend.
The following Sunday afternoon, I summoned the courage to dial an unfamiliar telephone prefix for a location in rural Queensland. Stuart answered promptly and over the course of an hour we ranged over all manner of topics, not shying away from those usually reserved for family or long-time friends.
‘Why’d you study religion?’ Stuart asked after I revealed my two university majors, Religious Studies and Women’s Studies. ‘Did you want to be a priest?’ I grinned at the unlikely thought.
‘No, I’ve just always been fascinated by humanity’s spiritual dimension. Religion’s been with us since we started painting on cave walls; faith plays such an important role in the human psyche. Whether you believe in a God or not, you can’t dismiss the power of religion. It’s the driver of some of the most despicable human acts, and the most beautiful.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But what about you personally? Do you believe in God?’
I paused, conscious that Stuart probably resided in a Bible belt.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘But not a God who’s constrained by a single tradition. I don’t believe in God with a beard.’
Stuart chuckled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, for a long time I was a product of my Christian upbringing,’ I replied. ‘With all that classical imagery from Sunday School, I imagined God as some cranky old man with a long white beard, constantly calculating my demerit points.’ I hesitated, attempting to gauge Stuart’s response. His silence was difficult to interpret.
‘Over the years,’ I continued, ‘partly because of my university studies, partly because of life experience, my conception of God changed. I started to detect similarities between the world’s religions. The externals can be radically different, but the key principles are often the same. Like treating others as you’d like to be treated, the power of forgiveness, the centrality of love. And all of these religious paths seem concerned with one thing: release from human suffering.’
Stuart remained silent; I pressed on regardless.
‘So, when I recognised these common themes, I started to incorporate the wisdom of other traditions into the fundamentals of my faith. And that’s where I am today. Some in the Christian church would say it’s heresy – the worst kind of relativism, a sort of patchwork spirituality. But the fact of the matter is this – I believe in an expansive God.’ I stopped and drew breath, awaiting Stuart’s reaction.
He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’m in unknown territory here, but I think I understand what you mean. The parts of other religions you’ve taken on, what’s an example?’
‘Well,’ I started, conscious of entering potentially sensitive terrain, ‘I’ve embraced the Buddhist precept of not killing any living being. It makes sense to me that we should avoid inflicting suffering wherever we can. And the way I live that out is by being a vegetarian.’
As I uttered the ‘V’ word, I imagined Stuart sitting down to enormous country meals of meat. ‘Of course, I don’t believe that everyone has to be a vegetarian,’ I added hurriedly. ‘It’s just that I look at all those polystyrene trays of beef in the supermarket and ask, “Would I be eating this if I had to kill it myself?” The answer, inevitably, is no.’
‘Good on you for sticking to what you believe in,’ replied Stuart. ‘If all consumers were as consistent as you, the world might be a different place.’
I felt relieved; Stuart didn’t think I was mad.
‘And what about you,’ I ventured. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘I think I’m what they call an agnostic,’ he said. ‘If the great mystery’s out there, it’s never tapped me on the shoulder. But as a farmer, producing something from sun, water and earth is magical. The journey from a seed to a plant to a product is miraculous.’ The energy in Stuart’s voice was palpable. ‘I’m in constant awe of the plants I grow, so I guess that if I feel God anywhere, it’s in nature.’
I smiled, relating to his reverence for the natural world.
‘And since we’ve discussed religion,’ he said cheekily, ‘can we talk about sex and politics now, please?’
These styles of discussion played out over the next two weeks, each conversation an exhilarating exchange of opinions, personal insights and confidences. We didn’t always agree
, but I enjoyed the respectful curiosity with which Stuart approached our points of difference.
At the conclusion of our second Sunday afternoon discussion, Stuart mentioned nonchalantly, ‘You know, I’ve got some radio work to do at the ABC in Sydney next week. Would you like to catch up on Wednesday night?’
Thrilled, I responded quickly. ‘Sure – how about a night at the theatre?’
I figured it was a safe option for a first date. Not too much talking required – we could always retreat to the theatre if the conversation dried up.
‘Sounds great,’ replied Stuart, ‘we don’t get much culture up here in Jandowae.’
At Kings Cross Station in Sydney the following week, I was all awkward smiles to Stuart’s easygoing offhandedness.
‘Hi,’ he said, shaking my hand firmly. Did the strength of his handshake mean he saw me as a friend, rather than a potential love interest?
‘How about a drink before the show?’ I suggested. ‘There’s a great little bar down the street, they serve fabulous caprioskas.’
‘Well, I’m not really a drinker,’ Stuart replied. ‘I usually prefer milkshakes to alcohol.’
Immediately I recalled an old television advertisement for a dairy company, in which two young farmers at a local dance outlast all the other beer-drinking men in attendance by consuming only milk. Was Stuart that sort of farmer?
‘Wholesome,’ I said. ‘Caprioskas are my favourite.’
Several drinks later, Stuart and I wandered up to the Stables Theatre for the performance that evening. The production – a satire called Black & Tran – playfully deconstructed stereotypes of Aboriginal and Vietnamese cultures. Ten minutes in, I wondered how politically conservative Stuart might be. When we laughed in the same places, I was relieved and delighted. It was good to sit close to him. As he leant back in his seat, I caught a whiff of masculine je ne sais quoi. The whole thing was mildly ridiculous – I felt like a schoolgirl, hormones raging, distracted by this muscular specimen of masculinity.
Love in the Age of Drought Page 2
